Page 286 of What We Bury

“Okay—something’s wrong.” She peers into my face. “What is it?”

There it is. The question I’ve been outrunning all day.

“It’s Eli.” His name comes out like a splinter. “We’re in a bad place. The worst place. He said some things, and then he just . . . walked away. I haven’t heard from him since.”

She reaches for my hand. “Oh, Sage.Eli?He seemed like a steady one.”

“Yeah. I thought that too.” I breathe through the ache. “I don’t want to get into it. I really don’t. Can we just—not, for a minute?”

“Of course.” She squeezes my fingers. “But for the record? When a man’s that locked down and heruns,it’s almost never about the person he ran from. Tyler taught me that one the hard way. I’m not the problem. Neither are you.”

The parallel settles between us—two women on a bed full of shredded tissues, nursing two different man-shaped wounds.

“And your secret’s been safe since the day I found out,” she adds, softer. “It’ll stay safe. The school, Tyler, anyone. I haven’t even told my mother, and I tell my mothereverything.” A flicker of the old mischief. “Although it has physically pained me not to tell Tyler the real reason you never wanted basic Brock is that you upgraded to a five-pack.”

I huff a laugh.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, sobering, “the way they dote on you—maybe that’s exactly what you need right now. Even with one of them off being a colossal idiot.”

“Maybe.” I look down at the tissue she’s reduced to confetti. “They’re weirdos. But they’re my weirdos. And they’re the safest people I’ve ever met”—the word snags, because four days ago I’d have said it without carving Eli out of the sentence—“most of them, anyway.”

She takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m still scared for you. Tyler and his friends?—”

“I know. But you don’t have to be.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’ll be okay. My guys will make sure I’m okay.”

She leans forward, expression thoughtful. “I have more questions.”

“Of course you do. Go ahead.”

“Okay. Rapid fire—how does it even work? Do they also sleep with each other? Do they take turns? Is there a schedule? Do you have a favorite? You have a favorite, don’t you. It’s the giant one, isn’t it?—?”

“Amy—”

“Is it the pretty one? The one with the dark curls? Because if it is, I respect that choice, but I have to say, you’re wrong and the answer is the big guy. There’s just something about the idea of a girthy dick that really gets me?—”

I tip over onto the bed, giggling as she continues to pelt questions at me.

I spend the next twenty minutes answering approximately one-third of them while deflecting the rest, and by the end of it she’s laughing and I’m laughing and the tissues are forgotten and the Tyler crisis has been temporarily displaced by the far more entertaining crisis of my love life. It’s the most normal I’ve felt in days, and I hold onto this precious feeling.

When she finally runs out of steam, I tell her to go take a shower and freshen up. She looks like she needs it, and she doesn’t argue.

“I’m gonna make you some tea and then I’m going to order food,” I say, steering her toward the bathroom. “Any preferences?”

“Thai? I could devour a giant bowl of Drunken Noodles.”

“Thai it is.”

“Thanks, Sage,” she says, giving me a small smile. “It’s been good talking to you again. I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” I give her a quick hug before I slide off the bed and head back into the living room. A minute later, I hear the shower start.

I go to the kitchen.

Milo is standing at the counter, phone already in his hand, all the humor gone from his face.

“I heard enough,” he says.

SEVENTY-EIGHT