“There is no story,” Mac says, taking the focus of attention from me. Eyes and ears swivel her way. They stare at her. And then they stare a little more, until she feels compelled to elaborate. “I met Jake when I was eleven, and he’s been my best friend ever since. And that is all any of you ever need to know.”
Her statement is brilliant. It’s simple, succinct, and resolute, and despite the husky, sleep tone to her voice, it dares any person in the room to question her. Mac has managed to sum up our entire relationship in a single sentence. My arms are folded and my fingers dig into my biceps. It’s all that stops me from walking over, collecting her from the chair, and carrying her straight out the door.
Questions burst forth, peppering the room like gunfire.
“But I don’t get—”
“You’re always fighting—”
“You told us you didn’t know each—”
“How did you—”
“Why did you pretend—”
The only three who remain silent are Casey, Travis, and Jared … for obvious reasons.
“Everyone shut up!” I boom, my voice loud enough to bounce off the walls. Shock stirs the air and eyebrows rise. I never raise my voice. “Mac is tired, and you’re all badgering her. If you want to know more than that …” I mash my lips together, pausing, thinking, before I speak. “We had a falling out when we were younger and it took some time for us to move past it. That’s all.”
Jared’s expression is pained. “The falling out is my fault.”
“And mine,” Travis adds.
Eyes whip wildly about the room. Now everyone is wondering what Jared and Travis had to do with any of it.
“What was the falling out about?”
The question comes from Evie. Her voice is soft and wounded. We’ve hurt our friends by keeping our past a secret, but some things are best left in the past. And far too painful to rehash.
My eyes find Mac across the room. Her eyes are beginning to fill. She works so hard at keeping her emotions in check, yet it’s clear how much the past still haunts her because a singular tear brims over and rolls down her cheek as she stares back at me. The hurt on her face is visible to the entire room. A surge of protectiveness wells up. “A private matter,” I answer gruffly.
Mac stands. “Excuse me,” she mutters to the room. She carries her stiff body away, only stopping to collect her handbag from the table by the front door. She opens it swiftly and exits in the blink of an eye.
I give chase, catching her in the hallway of the building. “Mac!”
She pauses as I jog toward her, but she doesn’t turn. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she whispers. The low, defeated tone in her voice is like nothing I’ve heard before. It sends dread snaking down my spine.
I take hold of her arm, turning her to face me. “What do you mean?”
Mac shakes her head. “Marriage. Babies. The white picket fence. You deserve it all. But I don’t think I can do it, Jake. I’m sorry.”
My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say. What to think. “Of course you can.” I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “We were meant to be. This was how it was always supposed to happen. Us. Together. Why can’t you see that?”
“I don’t know why. It’s like every time I think about our future, my mind clams up and blocks me from seeing anything at all.”
My jaw tightens and my eyes lift to the ceiling as I blink at the sharp pain of her words. When I recover enough to look at her without yelling my frustration, I offer her an easy excuse. “You’re just tired.”
Mac doesn’t take it like I hoped she would. “It’s not that. It’s not just now. It’s always been that way. I’ve never been able to see it.”
I take a step toward her and tuck a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face upward until she’s looking at me. “Never?”
She closes her eyes as if my face is too much to bear. “Ever since the accident, it’s just been a fog.”
“Ever since I pushed you away.”
“Yes.”
Her affirmation is a soft whisper, and yet it packs enough meaning to hit like a tonne of bricks. Tears drip down her face as I take her shoulders in my hands and press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes too. We’ve tried so hard to make this work, but Mac has been like sand slipping right through my fingers. And now all the sand is gone, and my hands are left empty.
My eyes prickle with heat, and I tighten my jaw against the crippling wave of pain. “I’ll always love you, Mackenzie Valentine.”
“I’ll always love you too, Jake Romero.”
The silence stretches taut until I feel ready to break apart. “You need to go,” I utter hoarsely.
Mac flinches.
I don’t say anymore. I can’t.
She draws away. Her soft footsteps are soundless as she walks down the hallway toward the exit. Yet I hear them. They’re a heavy echo inside of my heart.
When I finally open my eyes, she’s gone.
MAC
I take a seat at the outdoor café table. It’s noon and a beautiful day. Lush, leafy green trees line the full length of the busy street and flutter in the light breeze. The sun is out, bright and hot. People wander past the shop fronts, chattering, takeout coffee cups in hand and cute dogs on leashes. Christmas is only four weeks away and the atmosphere is festive. I want to appreciate it, but I feel like dog shit mashed into the bottom of someone’s shoe.
My heart and my stomach are competing for the title of who can make me feel the worst. It’s currently a tie.
I set my phone on the table. It lights up with a message.
Mitch: Where are you?
But it’s not the message (which I ignore) that captures my attention. It’s the background image that lights up along with it. Jake’s face and mine are close to the screen. We’re drunk and laughing uncontrollably while he gives the camera the finger.
You win this round, heart, I mutter to the offending organ when it squeezes so hard I lose my breath. Not to be outmanoeuvred, my stomach rolls over in a long, queasy thump. It feels as though I’m dying, my traitorous body attacking me from the inside out.
I haven’t had time to Google in the four days we’ve been home from tour, but I’m thinking Lyme Disease or Dengue Fever. I’m utterly exhausted. My body is fighting whatever it is, but I’m losing the battle.
A waiter passes by with two coffees in hand. The delicious aroma reaches my nose and I heave. Usually the scent wakens me.
I take a deep breath. Realisation is a slow awareness in my thoughts, like I’m underwater and pushing my way to the surface. The answer touches at the corner of my mind. I recoil with horror and shove it away.
Thankfully, my dining partner arrives to distract me. I half-stand in my seat and the small motion leaves me dizzy.
“Sit, sit,” he admonishes, waving a hand as if to shoo me back down.
I’m grateful for the small mercy and sink back in my seat. He leans across, all clean-shaven jaw, spicy aftershave and sharp suit, and kisses me on the cheek. Drawing away, he smiles, tugs off his jacket, and drapes it across the back of his seat before he sits opposite me.
“It’s good to see you, Mac.” He studies my face with care. “Though I’ve seen you looking better.”
My outward appearance is clearly failing to hide my imminent death. “Thanks a bunch.”