Page 5 of Friends With Benedicts

“You found time for Marnie,” he noted.

I sighed again. Marnie and I dated off and on in high school—more off than on, and more fighting than loving—and when I came back from Zambia, she was here, nursing in San Antonio in oncology. And that was probably the glue that held us together—she understood. She was familiar to me, to my family. Safe. Comfortable. When my mother got sick, Marnie was here, not only caring for Mom, but caring for me. When we moved to Houston, she came with us, Abuela too. For once, things with me and her and I were good, steady, probably because we were both focused on Mom and not each other. Next thing I knew, we were at the courthouse getting married.

I didn’t know why we always drifted back together. There had always been a spark between us, but it wasn’t warm, wasn’t inviting. It was devouring. It would consume us until nothing was left but ashes and disappointment. But still, I loved her. More than ever, in the beginning of our marriage.

But she’d ended up betting on the wrong horse.

Marnie knew I didn’t want kids—everyone did. Abuela had had ovarian cancer and ended up needing a hysterectomy when Mom was little. Mom’s first fight with breast cancer when I was seventeen was hard enough … the second time almost killed her. I’d spent too much time holding her hand, watching her wither away, not knowing if she’d live to see another Christmas, another birthday, another sunrise.

And I carried the gene that had a fifty-fifty shot at passing that fate on to a child.

I couldn’t stomach it. Not after watching what Mom went through, and certainly not after almost losing her again a few years ago.

“Marnie was good to us when we needed her most,” I finally said. “She nursed Mom, bathed her, changed her lines, comforted her. Comforted me.” I swallowed hard. “But we weren’t meant for each other, and deep down, we both knew it. She wanted to be meant for me, but I … I couldn’t love her like she needed, and I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I didn’t realize I was taking advantage, and I’ll never be able to make that up to her, not after everything I put her through.”

“She’s still a dick,” he said, laughing when I threw a tortilla at his face. “I mean it. God, she was insufferable in high school. Mean as fuck, manipulative as the devil, and pretty enough to see from a mile away that she was trouble. I can’t imagine her bedside manner is anything short of Nurse Ratched.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He eyed me.

“Come on—we all grew up, Marnie included. We were all dicks in high school.”

“Sure, but she was an extra big dick.”

“I’d like to think people didn’t judge me on the shit I did when I was sixteen.”

“You hope Presley’s the same.”

“That’s different.”

“You sure about that? If your logic holds, Presley’s nothing like she was back then.”

“You forget I knew her as an adult.”

“Knew in the Biblical sense, maybe.”

I went to grab another tortilla to frisbee at him, but he clapped the lid on the warmer and left his hammer of a hand on top.

“She’s different, sure,” I said. “We grew up. But she’s the same too. I don’t know—I can’t explain it. But seeing her was like stepping back in time. The feeling was so strong.”

“What feeling?”

“Like I was young again. Before I figured out the world would chew me up and swallow me. I was a teenager again, falling for a girl I couldn’t have.”

“Things haven’t changed all that much, I see.”

“Pretty sure I can have Presley.”

He shrugged at his plate. “Not for good. You’re leaving. Again.”

My stomach sank. “That part we can’t seem to shake. But lucky for us, we’re real good at a summer fling—providing she’s interested. When it comes to us, you learn quick you’ve gotta take what you can get and leave the rest.”

“Seems like your life motto.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothin’. Just that you’re a runner.”

My face flattened. “I dropped everything to stay with Mom. I take care of my shit, Wyatt.”

“Sure. And then you run off. Don’t get so defensive—this town was always too small for you. Makes you itchy. I just don’t know what you’re looking for, that’s all.”

Rather than argue—he wasn’t wrong—I said, “Me neither. But I’ll let you know when I find it.”

Seemingly satisfied, he changed the subject. “I ran into Poppy Blum at the KwickyMart, and she said they’re trying to get a thing together for Presley. Some kind of surprise party.”

“When?”

“Who knows? She talked so fast, I think I caught about a third of what she said.”

An idea dawned on me with my smile. “Text her and tell her it’s tonight. Give her my number—I’ll set it all up.”

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