Page 170 of We Can't Be Friends

I semi-laugh. “What?” Moisture coating my eyelids with each blink.

“Now you’re not going to believe the words that'll come with time—healing isn’t linear, especially grief—but I want you to give it your best effort of meaning them.”

“Okay. . .”

“I.”

I repeat each word till he forms a complete sentence.

“I didn’t kill my brother.”

“I. . . I. . .I didn’t kill my brother.”

“Good girl, Dais.” Cal wipes another tear from my cheek. “We’ll keep working through this till you believe it.”

Who is this man, and what did I do to deserve him?

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Better.”

“I’ll take it. Come on, let’s go home and make snacks and watchSurvivor.” Cal takes Tucker’s leash in one hand, mine in the other, leading ushome. “And you are going to tell me about being a figure skater.”

50

CHLOE

How am I supposed to be reading about a fictional cowboy when a 6’3” blond Adonis is getting out of the shower feet from where I’m lying?

I was already giggling and kicking my feet at the cowboy giving his nanny a mustache ride when the bathroom door opened, steam billowing out. My jaw fell open as Cal emerged, a white terry cloth towel hanging low on his hips. His thigh tattoo peeking out with each step toward the bed.

His right thigh has two. A crest is on the upper part, but just above his knee is a quote from his favorite book, Wurthington Heights, “Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.”

He’s standing over me and runs a hand through his hair. A few water droplets sprinkle onto me.

“Chloe, what are you doing here?”

“I came in here to ask you a question, but you were in the shower, so I decided to lay in your bed and read till you got out.” That sounds completely logical.

“I should start locking my door, huh?”

“Warned ya.”

Cal stalks back into the bathroom, leaving the door open. “What’s up?”

“Uh. . .” Why am I suddenly nervous to bring up to Cal when he went down on me in the kitchen? “Remember when you, uh, went—”Seriously, Chloe?

“Down on you in the kitchen? Yeah. I do.” His tone issharp.

“After. The texts from Seth. You know I’m not speaking to him, right?”

He peeps his head around the frame.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been trying to give you space—” Outside of those thirty-six hours last week, we’ve barely spoken. We returned to passively living with each other, and I hate it. I miss him.

“By laying in my bed?”

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