Page 41 of The Killer Card

I take it, muttering out, “Gracias,” before I take a long sip. When I try to hand it back, she holds up a hand. “Keep it.” She lifts a second cup from the ground next to her. “I got two. Well, I got three, but Nelly and Clara don’t really do coffee when hungover.”

Fighting the urge to ask what’s in her cup this morning to stave off the hangover, I ask, “Should I start the bacon and French toast now?” Poppy’s hangover breakfast of choice makes even my stomach roll, but Naomi shakes her head.

“No, they’ll sleep a few hours more at least.” She glances my way briefly. “You look well.”

I blink, turning to face the lake again. “You do too… I mean, you always look great, but you look better than—”

“Stop,” she mutters and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

I sigh heavily, bringing the coffee to my lips. Was it always this hard just to exist around her? It’s not like I’m trying to flirt with her anymore, I’ve moved on from shooting my shot. She saw to that thoroughly. But our friends are getting married in four days, can we not just… Get along?

Swallowing, I pull at my collar, suddenly a little too hot. “It’s beautiful here. Quite the venue for a pre-nuptial getaway—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Naomi huffs, rolling her eyes toward me. “What are you doing?”

“What—”

“I said you could sit,” she bites out. “I didn’t say we had to make small talk.”

My jaw clicks. “So, what, we just sit here in silence?”

“Yes.”

The quiet beats on like a drum, off rhythm thanks to the rustle of leaves and the chitter of wildlife. My knee starts to bounce, my fingers fidget. My skin itches like my soul will burst out of it.

“Yeah, I can’t fucking do that.” I turn to face her. She doesn’t look at me, but maybe that’s for the better. “We have days stuck in this cabin together, Naomi. We have to be able to talk at the very least. Are you really going to ruin Poppy’s week to keep up this petty shit between us—”

“Excuse me—”

“Get the fuck over yourself,” I snap, setting down my finished coffee. She stares up at me with wide eyes when I stand. “Our bullshit isn’t worth their happiness. Have you even thought of me once in the last two years?”

“I—”

“I’m over whatever the fuck this was.” The lie is bitter on my tongue. I gesture between us. “Can you cross over the bridge and join me? Por favor, for Poppy?”

She’s still just staring at me, and I turn away, dragging my hands through my hair to lace my fingers behind my head.

“Fuck, why are we so bad at just being friends?”

Silence falls heavy between us again and I brace my hands on the porch banister, staring out at the landscape, trying not to bite straight through my tongue.

There’s a creak of wood when she rises from the chair and for a second, I think she’s going to leave. But then her periwinkle sweater appears in my periphery, her curls pulled up into a messy bun atop her head.

She doesn’t look at me when she admits, “You’re right. I’ve always been awful at just being your friend…”

I glance her way, pretty sure Hell just froze over. Naomi admitting she was wrong? This woman, never once in all the years I’ve known her, has ever taken credit for anything that could be considered a shot against her character. She lives in denial. She is the queen of ignoring her own red flags. Now she’s standing here admitting that she was the problem? What dimension did I wake up in?

Naomi closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. Then she turns to me, holding out her hand. “Friends. For this week, anyway. Then we can go back to not to not thinking about each other. Deal?”

Goddammit, I want to tell her that a week is not enough. I want to take her into my arms and kiss her fucking senseless, kiss her the way I used to when she allowed herself to be mine even for a few hours. I don’t want to be Naomi’s friend, but if being her friend- even for a short while- is all she’s willing to give me….

I take firm hold of Naomi’s hand. The softness of her hand is familiar, the strength of her grip enticing. I take the moment to assess her more closely, checking for clarity in her ice blue eyes, noting the way her hand remains steady in mine, firm. Resisting the urge to glance at her coffee cup, I force a smile, nodding once.

“Friends.”

✽✽✽

Coño de la madre, how fucking hard is it to write some shitty fucking wedding toast? Okay, so I’ve never been the most eloquent guy in the world, and sure, every word I write is going to pale in comparison to whatever Rowan spouts out- probably off the cuff. But I have to write something. I still have to give a speech.