Page 81 of Gilt

“Oh.” I want something to hold on to. I need something to hold on to. I should be used to grasping at straws and holding on to whatever shred of happiness reality tosses my way. I don’t know how to find my footing with this. Becca definitely wasn’t with any guys here. It doesn’t prove Hans’ story, but it supports it.

“Was the boy nice?” Marion asks.

For a moment, I forget the lie I fed her, but even when I process what she’s asking me, I can’t stop myself from telling her the truth.

“No.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I see Becca in my dreams. It’s her face. When she laughs, it’s her voice. She glances at me with a stranger’s blue eyes, but she doesn’t see me. She walks past me and through an unmarked door. When I follow behind her the room is dark and empty. I sit down and cry. There are a million questions I want to ask her, but even in the dream, I know she’s gone and that I’ll never receive the answers I want.

Before, not knowing bugged me; now it hurts. Each second in the dark room seems longer than the last and the sadness takes over until the sobs roll powerfully through my body. Then there’s a hand on my shoulder. I blink against the tears, trying to see in the darkness, certain Becca has come back for me, but as my vision returns, it’s Josie’s face that greets me.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, her voice groggy with her own dreams. “You were crying in your sleep.”

I swipe a few tears lingering on my eyelids. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Josie scoots lower in the bed until we’re face to face. I’m not sure what to tell her. I still don’t know how what I’ve learned about Becca will affect my memory of her, but I want to keep the information to myself. Josie shouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of looking at one of her best friends differently. After all, the living can make amends, but the dead can never change.

“I was dreaming about Becca,” I admit to her. “I don’t remember much else.”

“Was it hard to be in Palm Springs without her?” Josie asks. It’s an obvious question and one she’s nearly asked me a dozen times. I’ve known her long enough that I can tell when she’s chickening out on addressing a topic.

I gulp against the sharp stab of ache her question produces. If she only knew how much Palm Springs had changed everything. “Yeah. It was weird.”

“Is that why you left?”

Whatever has been holding her back from drilling me this summer is obviously no longer an issue. I can’t expect to avoid questions when I up and run away in the middle of the night and land on my best friend’s doorstep. It’s a tad bit comforting to know that she’s still here and willing to force the uncomfortable topics. But I don’t want to talk about what happened in Palm Springs.

“I think I missed home,” I say instead.

“Does home have an adorable dimple when he smirks?” Josie guesses and just like that the mood lightens, shifting subtly like the sky outside her window that’s slowly changing from inky black to the purplish hues of dawn.

“Yes.” It’s one truth I don’t have to hide. It’s not as if I can camouflage my feelings for him. “Jameson isn’t the only thing I missed about Vegas, but he’s definitely top three.”

She clucks her tongue in reproach. “I’d put him higher than that.”

“Are you checking out my boyfriend?” I smack her shoulder playfully.

“Girl, you can’t miss that ass.”

“No, you cannot.”

Josie can brag about my boyfriend all day long. The thought of being jealous where she’s concerned is so ridiculous, I nearly laugh. Not only do I know he’s not her type, but I also trust her with my life. That means I definitely trust her with my boyfriend.

“Does he look that good naked?” she asks in a hushed voice like her mom might be standing with her ear pressed to her bedroom door eavesdropping.

I bite my lip suddenly feeling a little self-aware even as my mind flashes to memories of his chest and arms, of his legs and everywhere else. “I haven’t exactly seen him naked.”

“I cannot believe you aren’t tapping that,” she squeals. “There’s picky and then there’s prude.”

“And nothing in between,” I note dryly. Trust Josie to stick to the black-and-white ends of the sex spectrum. “We’ve screwed around and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen most of him.”

“Details?” She insists, clutching her pillow like she’s settling in for a bedtime story.

I give her the laundry list of what we have done together, which might be short but I still think it’s impressive. When I finish, she feigns wiping drool from her mouth. “So you’re going to have sex with him, right?”

“I guess,” I hedge.