Page 54 of The Good Girl

I turn back to Conan, who’s looking at me curiously.

“There’s a homeless guy outside.”

“God save me from women who want to save the world,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll come with you when you drop off the food.”

“It’s okay?—”

“I’ll come with you. I’m sure the guy will appreciate it, but desperate people can make choices they wouldn’t normally make. Let’s not put him in a situation where he’s tempted, or you in one where your good deed goes sideways.”

I roll my eyes at the cynic but know better than to argue.

“And FYI, I’m not trying to save the world. I’m just a nice person. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nice people get eaten alive in this world. Why’d you sneak away?”

I shake my head at his change of subject and ask a question of my own. “Why didyousneak away?”

“I needed a moment to just…” His words trail off.

“Breathe.” I finish for him.

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard trying to be strong for everyone else. I get it. I don’t know you, so I don’t have a pony invested in this game. Wait, I don’t think that’s how the analogy goes, but… oh well, you get what I’m saying.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Okay, what I’m trying to say is, if you need someone to talk to, I’m your gal.”

I pull out my phone and look at him. “Give me your number.”

“What?”

“Your cell phone number?” I say slowly. “Did chemo kill your brain cells, too?”

He huffs before giving me his number. I send him a text and wait for his phone to ping before putting mine away.

He lets out a breath. “Everyone treats me differently now. They don’t see my size, or my cut, or my angry glare that only a few months ago would send people running. All they see is cancer.”

“Show me the angry glare.”

He pauses for a moment before scowling at me.

“Meh, needs a little work.” He opens his mouth before closing it again.

“So your hair is a little thin and you have dark circles under your eyes, who cares? I’m sure you’re still terrifying to small children and pearl clutching Karen’s.”

“Do you always say what you think?”

At home I bit my tongue so hard, I’m sure I have scars. Of course, I always made up for it when I was out of the house.

“Pretty much.” I lean forward and lower my voice. “You’re entitled to feel however you want, Conan. That’s your right. But the way I see it, you’ve got two options right now: you can be all sad and give up, or you can fight back. And you don’t strike me asthe kinda guy who would just roll over and welcome death when you’ve got so much to live for.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Good, and I’m serious—if you need someone to talk to, I’m a good listener. I mean, I’ll probably interrupt you like a million times and throw out my opinions like glitter, but I’ll listen to every word you say and won’t repeat it. You can be pissed with me. You can be sad and scared. You can be whatever you can’t be around your family.”

“Why?”

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