Page 165 of The Storm

Sure.

Friends usually can’t stop thinking about kissing each other all the time, so that’s fine.

Friends definitely catalog accidental touches like they’re gathering evidence. That’s what being friendly is; everybody knows that.

Friends remember the exact sound of someone else’s laugh.

I have a good memory. It’s not my fault.

Friends also replay conversations at night when they can’t sleep.

It’s like counting sheep. Only not at all.

Friends spend entire dinners trying their hardest not to look at each other’s mouths.

Friends don’t stop remembering what it felt like being inside that other friend.

I scrub my palm over my face.

Yup.

Friendship.

It’s easy.

Except the part where, ever since I uttered the word, the only thing I’ve been able to think about is how desperately I want to ruin that friendship.

FIFTY-ONE

INDY

“I’m havinga thing in a few weeks,” Callum announces as he throws himself onto the couch where I’ve settled in with my laptop. “I need stuff.”

I involuntarily glance toward the kitchen, where Nick is busy with dinner. It’s been a few weeks since that night in his apartment, and we’ve firmly settled on neutral ground. It’s somewhat awkward and painfully polite and so lacking in anything that can be branded emotions. Of any kind.

I know I should be relieved.

I hate it.

It sets my teeth on edge.

This bland version of us feels wrong in a way I can’t explain to anybody because Nick is the only one who would understand.

It’s a whole different kind of loneliness. Like standing in the middle of a crowded room, and having that one person you were sure would always find you look right through you.

I just don’t think I really know how to be friends with him.

“Indy?” Callum waves his hand in front of my face.

I shake my head. “Sorry.” I put the laptop down and look at him. “A thing? Can you be slightly more specific, maybe? What do you mean when you say ‘a thing’?”

“A party,” Callum says.

I nod. “Right. That’s still not specific enough, though. Party as in ‘order me a few pizzas and a couple of six-packs for the boys, Indy.’ Or party like a nine-course gourmet meal in La Voile? Or a party as in strippers and a kilo of cocaine? Because I can go in any of these directions with how little information you’ve provided.”

Callum stares at me. “There’ll be kids there.”

“So a kilo won’t be enough, you think? Two?”