Page 68 of What Remains

“I would say I’ll behave,” she begins, breaking the quiet, “but as already established, we both know I won’t.” She lets her smile sit long enough to imprint in my memory, then programs in her name before sending herself a text from my phone.

“I need a profile photo of you. Your GM initials in this little circle while we text”—I point to what I’m talking about as if she’s clueless—“makes me think of General Motors.”

She laughs, and it’s light and sweet. Fucking perfect.

“Interesting parallel, considering I currently look like I was in a car wreck. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait for that photo.”

“You couldn’t look bad if you tried.” That’s one of those things I don’t regret saying, unlike the L word downstairs.

I have no problem telling her she’s beautiful. Friends tell each other that stuff all the time. But the way she smiles after what I said? That’s a potential problem.

“You ever think about changing your last name from Montgomery to your dad’s?” I deflect as she hands me back my phone and goes for her own.

“Pierson isn’t even really Dad’s last name, remember? He changed it when coming to the US. And besides, why bother now?” She lifts one shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. “I plan to take my husband’s last name, so then I’d have to change it again. That’s just too much work.”

A stabbing pain hits me beneath my ribs. It’s stupid and irrational. And also, absolutely not my business who she’ll marry one day. I know Wyatt will make sure the guy is solid and safe, so no need to worry.

“Got a husband picked out, do you?” I switch to joking, because it’s easier than navigating my feelings.

“You know what I mean,” she teases as a notification pops up on my screen.

Not sure I do.

“Texting me when we’re three feet away from each other?”

I read the original message she sent to herself from me.

It’s me. Your bestie.

Like I’d ever use that word. But reading that is a good reminder that we’re just friends.

Gwen: Do you think hedgehogs hug?

Gwen:

Gwen: Those bristles and tiiiiiny little hands. Gotta be hard.

I crack a smile. “You’re so fuckin’ random, I swear.”

But you know what, maybe this is how we survive what happened? Just roll with the humor so we don’t sink back into the deep abyss of hell we narrowly escaped. I consider how to reply, torn between a joke or something serious, and wind up skating somewhere on that fine line in between like always.

I think if you really love someone, hedgehog or not, you’re willing to risk getting poked.

I can’t look up at her, because she might read my eyes the way she’s about to read into what I said without actually saying it. Thankfully, she keeps the jokes going, giving us both a reprieve from anything heavy.

Gwen: Poked, huh? Poked isn’t always a bad thing.

Still risky for any species. Lots of consequences can be a result of getting poked . . .

Gwen: You millennials and your use of the dots.

They’re called ellipses.

And we need to stop. “Time to pick out a laptop.” I pocket my phone before shit gets even more awkward. It’s one thing to text-joke when we’re not in the same room, but she’s close enough I can haul her into my arms and tickle her instead. And that’s too damn tempting of an idea.

She sighs. “Fine. I may have been distracting myself from reality. You know, that I need to replace Jerry.”

“Tom is your main PC, right?” I scrub the smile from my mouth with the back of my hand. This woman, I swear. No one would ever guess how dangerous those hands and that mind of hers can be with nothing more than a computer and a Wi-Fi connection.