Page 50 of Daring You

“It’s really not necess—” Too late. Her surprisingly strong arms are around me, and despite the bulk of my coat, she’s got a good, boa constrictor grip.

Thankfully, she doesn’t hold it for long. She squeezes for about the length it takes for me to soften and submit to her concern, before she lets go.

“One thing I hated when my best friend, Paige, died,” she says, “is the amount of people saying ‘I’m here for you if you need me.’ The sentiment was there, obviously, but it was so clear that people didn’t know what to say after that. And they have no idea what an empty promise it is. Did they think I was going to call them up and say ‘I need you here for me?’ No. I felt alone, adrift, and was afraid to call anyone, because I didn’t want to depress them or make them more uncomfortable than they already were.”

My car’s pulling up outside, but I look back at Carter. She’s hitting notes in my memory like a conductor drawing out the crescendo in his orchestra.

“My one remaining friend, Sophie, she was different,” Carter says. “Every morning, she’d send me a text and say I’m downstairs with two cups of coffee. Come visit whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait for a few hours. If you don’t come, that’s okay, too. But I’ll be here tomorrow. And the next day. I’ll wait for however long you need.”

Carter’s eyes are shining, this time with bittersweet tears.

“So, this is what I’m going to say to you,” Carter continues. “Tomorrow, I’m going to have lunch around your office for an hour or two. You can take a break, come meet me if you want.”

“I might be busy—”

“If you can’t, that’s okay, too, Astor.” Carter smiles. “I’ll wait for however long you need.”

My lips are moving, but I don’t know what to say. No one has ever given me this kind of offer before, of patience. A willingness to accept my personality for what it is, but be available anyway.

“Thank you, Carter,” I say, and mean it. I head to the clear glass door to exit.

“You’re welcome.”

I pause at the threshold, my hand on the glass, pushing the door open and letting in an ice-driven wind, but I say to her through the chill, “My mom.”

Carter’s brows rise, probably jarred by the fact that I’m creaking open the door to my soul, just a little. “Yeah?”

“When it comes up in conversation, that she’s dead…I’m so tired of making other people feel okay that they haven’t lost theirs.”

Carter’s lips part with a gentle smile. “You never have to do that with me. Tell me all of it. Every painful, sad, grief-stricken detail, and I won’t ever make you feel bad for it.”

I give a closed mouth, tentative smile back. I wave goodbye, and turn and shove my beanie on my head before she can see any tracks of water down my face.

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