Page 9 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
The statement doesn’t sit right. Not after the way he left things. Not after years upon years of silence.
“Actually, you don’t know me anymore,” I bite out, harsher than intended but not undeserved.
His face falls, and the urge to apologize crashes over me like a tidal wave. If it were anyone else, I would. I don’t chastise others or make them uncomfortable, even to my own detriment. It’snot who I am. But with Ben, I was never able to wear that mask, or maybe he just always saw through it. Either way, he’s the kryptonite to myNo Worries!persona. At least he used to be. For the sake of this perilous journey to Iceland together, I can only hope that’s no longer the case.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Ben turns his head and stares off in the direction of his childhood home down the street. “I guess I’ve said what I came here to say, so I should get going.”
I don’t respond, choosing instead to study his profile as a warm breeze ruffles the ends of his hair. Different from before, his face is weathered with maturity, yet strikingly similar in a way that still calls to me. There’s the slim, faded scar on the upper-left side of his forehead, from middle school when he and my brothers were roughhousing in the lake too close to the dock. I remember my father stitching him up at the kitchen counter while I watched from the entranceway. Then there’s the ever-so-slight bend to the bridge of his nose, earned sophomore year when he took an elbow to the face during a particularly heated soccer game against our cross-county rivals. Eyes drifting farther down, I study the Cupid’s bow arch of the pouty lips I can almost still feel pressed against mine…
At my silence, Ben returns his attention to me and says, “At least let me walk you to the door.”
I nod, aware that we both know why he’s doing it and grateful he’s polite enough not to bring up my nyctophobia. Making our way around the side of the house, Ben stays close enough behind me that I feel the heat of his body at my back—a blessing and a curse.
Once I’m safely deposited on the porch with the front doorcracked open and light spilling out from the foyer, I turn to Ben as he says, “I guess I’ll see you at the airport Monday.”
It sounds more like a question than a statement, so I nod my confirmation. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Good.” One corner of his mouth quirks into an uncertain grin. “I guess good night then.”
He turns to leave, and I watch the familiar gait of his long strides as he jostles down the porch steps and driveway, pausing at the end to turn back to me once more. “Oh, and Mona,” he calls out, “happy birthday.”
Chapter 4
By ten o’clock Monday morning, I’m tearing through my tiny apartment, tossing clothing into scattered piles atop the living room furniture, throwing open kitchen cabinets and drawers to search for something,anything, I must be forgetting, and stomping through my bedroom, scooping the entirety of my makeup products off my small, mirrored vanity with one swipe of my forearm. As I make my way back to the living room, awkwardly clutching an assortment of items between my arms and chest like the person at the grocery store who foolishly insisted they didn’t need a cart, Jacklyn’s bedroom door swings open.
Dumping my makeup products onto the coffee table with a clatter—perhaps not my best decision as my mascara rolls off the table’s edge and disappears underneath the couch—I start to apologize for the noise. Assuming Jacklyn would be at the office, I haven’t attempted to quell the soundtrack of my chaos in the slightest.
Before I get a word out, I see she’s not alone, and I snap my jaw shut and prepare for the familiar scene that’s about to play out in front of me for the umpteenth time.
Padding barefoot across the hardwood in nothing but an oversize V-neck tee that covers her thighs and (hopefully) underwear, Jacklyn clasps the hand of a statuesque woman in a miniskirt and thigh-high boots. The could-be model trails behind Jacklyn at a snail’s pace, and I internally sigh when I hear her ask in a breathy whisper, “Are you sure you don’t have time for breakfast?”
Oh dear.
“Sorry,” my best friend replies with a sorrowful smile as they reach the front door. “I have to get to work.”
That’s a lie.
“But you’ll call, right?” the woman presses.
She’s not going to call.
I’m always so sympathetic to these poor saps when left to witness this situation. To be fair to Jacklyn, I know she’s always up-front about not wanting any type of commitment with her hookups before they tumble into her bed. What I don’t know is what kind of magical wizardry she performs between the sheets to leave these people always begging for more. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen, and myNo Worries!self can’t handle the disappointment on their sad little faces as they go.
One time, years ago, I felt so awful for a distraught tattooed man named Jax that I offered to whip up some pancakes for him. Sitting at our kitchen table, he droned on and on, questioning when he would know for certain he’d found true love. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his sexcapades with Jacklyn wasn’tit, so instead I heaped another spoonful of butter on his stack and poured the maple syrup on thick, nodding along sympathetically as he questioned his entire outlook on life and love.
Jacklyn made me swear on our friendship that wouldneverhappen again.
So now I pretend to be invisible as Jacklyn purposely doesn’t answer her date’s question—she’s not a liar, she’s justevasive. Gathering her hair over one shoulder, Jacklyn steps close and backs the leggy brunette against the wall, kissing her slow and deep until even I feel a flush inmycheeks. When the woman appears on the verge of sliding down the wall and forming a puddle on our floor, Jacklyn pulls back and smiles. Then she yanks the door open and says, “Thanks for last night.”
Quite the dismissal.
As soon as her date exits our apartment, Jacklyn spins to acknowledge my presence, and I roll my eyes so hard I get a sharp pain through my forehead.
Biting her kiss-swollen lower lip, she shrugs a bare shoulder. “What?” She saunters over to our green velvet sofa and plops down with no regard for my haphazard clothing piles.
“You know what. She seemed nice. And she’s certainly hot enough for you. Maybe even hotter than you. Why won’t you see her again?”
My friend’s hazy blue eyes sharpen. “First off, she isnothotter than me. That’s impossible. Secondly, she was fine. Very talented in the bedroom, actually. It’s almost a shame I won’t see her again.”
