Page 42 of Severed Rivalry
Owing a favor to someone as creative and dastardly as her is foolish.
And I’m kind of foolish.
Sariah
Cian: I told Ayla about you. The answer to your question, as I told her, is forest ranger or park ranger. No eight-year-old boy in Colorado dreams of business. We all dream about hiking and camping.
Cian: Call it Peter Pan syndrome. I’m okay with that. This adulting is for the birds.
Cian: Also, good morning, Angel. I hope today gives you all the pockets in traffic and all the green lights. Miss you.
Swoon.
Cian Murphy is the man women read about in books or watch play out in Hallmark movies. He’s perfect. Except for his father, that is. Then again, I couldn’t choose mine. Renée didn’t choose hers. Cian isn’t responsible for his either. Sigh. It would be so much easier to hold him at arm’s length if he weren’t so darn perfect.
Me: Good morning, Ci. I can see you as either of those. Even still. You’re right about adulting. Why did we wish to grow up again?
Cian: I swear it’s an MLM scheme. The upline sells us on the freedom but lies about the taxes.
Me: And dinner. Every. Single. Night.
Cian: Has anyone told you today how smart you are?
Me: Smartass.
Cian: Your ass is nice. I have to admit.
Me: You sound like you’re feeling better.
Cian: I am. My face doesn’t show it. The upcoming surgeries don’t indicate it. But in my mind, I know I am. And that’s what’s most important.
Surgeries. Plural. Damn.
Me: You going to tell me about it?
Cian: I will, Angel. But you have to promise me you won’t run.
I don’t have to promise him shit.
Cian: What did your research unearth?
I walk through the halls and down the stairs. “Be right back,” I say to no one in particular.
Me: Best I can tell, two are dead. Four are in “custody” but that’s not like jail since they have immunity, but they’re no longer in the state. The rest of their band—who knows how many—will be expected to start over out of state, not reinfuse this operation, so they’re gone. Ish.
Cian: So that promise?
I hate confrontation. I like being the girl who blends in. That Homer Simpson gif where he backs into the hedge row? That’s my life. And I’m good with it. But I also won’t have this conversation over text.
I press go on my phone icon.
“Hello?”
“Ci? How are you?” My voice is quiet but earnest.
“I’m over resting. I can’t lie in bed anymore. Doctors insist I don’t overdo it. I had coffee this morning, against protocol, and I’d do it again.” There’s exhaustion in his voice and a whistling on some of theSs, as if there isn’t supposed to be wind in those words.
It reminds me of when Renée lost her two front teeth.
