Page 103 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
I start to sweat like a farm animal and almost throw up.
After splashing water on my face and giving myself a pep talk in the bathroom, I take a seat at my desk. I log on to the site and try to keep my hands steady as I type in the password.
My heart thumps so hard it’s physically painful.
The page takes a hundred years to load. Then the type is so small I have to zoom in and scroll around, searching in a panic for anything resembling the word positive.
It takes a few terrifying minutes, but finally it’s confirmed: I’m negative for everything.
Instead of giving in to the urge to burst into tears, I treat myself to an entire pint of pistachio gelato from the charming little gelateria down the block, then call Danielle, who’s been leaving me increasingly hysterical phone messages. When she picks up, she bypasses a greeting and goes straight into guilt mode.
“I can’t believe you haven’t called me back in two weeks!”
“I know. I’m a terrible friend. But life has decided I’m great for target practice, and I’ve been busy dodging bullets.”
“Your dad. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Jenner told you?”
“He did. Also about your shop, your hot stepbrother, your weird stepmother, and the two dress-wearing dogs who eat at the table. I’ve been pestering him constantly for updates. Your life has more plot twists than the subtitled Korean melodramas I watch.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re the first one to hear this: Brad followed me to Italy.”
The shriek on the other end of the line is as pleasant as an ice pick jammed in my ear. “What?”
“And he’s still here.”
“No!”
“Yep.”
“What does that rat want?”
“Redemption, I suppose.” I sigh, exhausted by the thought of him. “He begged me to forgive him. He still wants to get married.”
Danielle exhales, and it sounds like she’s breathing fire. “That dick. The nerve! Have you hired the hitman yet?”
“I don’t know any hitmen. Not every Italian is in the mafia.”
“But every Italian probably knows someone in the mafia, right? Or someone who knows someone who knows someone.”
“You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”
“Oh right,” she says after a pause. “You can’t tell me. Plausible deniability. That’s smart.”
“There’s no hitman, Danielle.”
“Sure there isn’t.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Do you think the line is tapped?”
“No, but I do think you should take up writing mystery novels. That imagination of yours is being wasted. How are Brian and the kids?”
Her voice brightens. “Everyone’s good. The kids are back to school soon, which is lucky because I’m one mood change away from a meltdown. I don’t remember us being so dramatic at that age.”
Danielle has three daughters. She married her high school sweetheart, moved to the Midwest, and started producing babies before she was twenty, beating all the divorce statistics about marrying young.
At least one of us is lucky in love.
“We were too busy being dorky to be dramatic. Remember my hairstyle?”
