Page 47 of Fiona's Fury

Panic floods my veins like black ink. I want so terribly to tell Fiona that I love her, but I know she wouldn’t be able to hear those words. “Fiona…a wise woman once told me that putting her trust in men is what got her into trouble. Well there is a place in this world for putting your trust in another, when your priorities are straight and your motivations are in line. Not for your parents or anyone but yourself. When you decide that I’m what’s best for you, you let me know. I’ll be waitin.” As the words leave me, I feel the blood rush to my head.

Either I just blew it, or something resonated with her a tiny, tiny bit. After several seconds of dead air, I can’t be certain which.

“Bo,” she says in her real voice, almost breathlessly, “I should go. Bye.” And she hangs up before I can get in another word.

Chapter 23

Fiona

Holly’s knock startles me out of my thoughts. “Come in,” I tell her.

“You about ready to go?” she asks, coming over to sit beside me on the bed.

“Sure. As ready as I’ll ever be to go out for a dumb comedy.” God…I sound like a joykill even to myself.

“I told you it got really good reviews. Come on…up with you,” Holly says, standing and pulling me up by my armpits like a bratty toddler. “You look fabulous.”

I glance at the mirror on our way out and snicker to myself. What’s the point in dressing sexy when I’m doomed to be forever single? Because…that’s what girlfriends are for.

“So do you,” I toss back, playing along.

And she does, with her long, black hair in its full kinky glory…dangling down the back of a bright orange mini-dress. We always go out on weekend nights when Levi’s out of town, or otherwise swamped in; it’s tradition. After our movie, we detour for a couple glasses of wine before home.

“At least you laughed a few times,” Holly says, prodding me into conversation.

“I told you I liked it. You were right…it was good and I did need to go out. I’m glad you talked me into it tonight.” I tell her what she wants to hear, even though I’d rather be at home brooding…which is the worst thing for me. It’s so good that Holly doesn’t let me get away with that crap.

“So…I hate to ask, but how did the call with Quade go tonight?”

“It’s okay…he never called, so I decided to just leave it,” I reply.

“But I heard you talking to someone when I walked by your door, right before we left,” she explains.

“Oh, it wasn’t Quade,” I reply, then swirl my wine and stare at it mesmerized…as though it’s more interesting than our conversation.

“Fiona…” Now she’s on to me. “Did you call Bo?”

The very sound of his name makes me start shaking. Suddenly my wine looks like it’s trying to survive an earthquake, so I set it down.

“You did, didn’t you?!”

I can’t hide anything from this woman. “I did,” I reply, nodding.

“And? Come on Fifi, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to talk to Bo? You know, whatever happened in that hotel room…it’s not going to go away just because you won’t acknowledge it. I think you should keep your lines of communication open. You know you can use my phone every night. I don’t even want that thing near me after work hours.”

The tragic thing is, Holly’s exactly right and I know it. My memories won’t go away, although I have hopes of them dramatically fading after the passing of a few more months. Or years. Or decades.

“Oh Holly…the sound of his voice.” That seems to be all I can manage without choking up. I stare at my lap for a second to collect myself, then grab my glass and toss the rest of it down.

“I’m getting us a bottle,” Holly says, “and we’re heading for the hot tub.”

A bottle of wine could be trouble for me tonight, but a jet bath sounds divine. Ten minutes later we’re home, filling the tub, riesling bottle in an ice bucket, glasses perched on the marble rim. We pour our glasses and lie back on opposite sides, scooting up against the jets and letting them massage our backs.

“Talk,” Holly says at last. “I don’t know who this quiet lady is who’s been tiptoeing around my house the past week, but I wanna hear about this guy.”

I put my head back and moan.

“Come on…tell me everything,” she prods.

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