A Lot Like Perfect

“What gives, man?” he demanded.

Marchande scowled and crossed his arms. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play it like that. Why are you being such a jerk? Normally I can’t get a word in edgewise when there are females around.” And this was the one time he’d hoped for that.

“Laisse tomber,” he shot back and rushed on, scarcely giving Isaiah enough time to rifle through his French vocabulary to recall the phrase meant drop it. “It’s not like I’m dating either of them.”

Point taken. This was where it got tricky. Isaiah couldn’t come right out and say that he’d organized this thing as a way to put Aria in Marchande’s path, but neither could he let the opportunity pass to test the waters. “It’s not like either of them are off limits though. They’re both nice women.”

“One of them is,” he countered darkly. “The other one is a pain in my rear. She should watch her mouth.”

Cassidy, Isaiah assumed. At least the subject was now opened for questions. “Did you have some kind of argument?”

Marchande’s expression got blacker. “That would imply there was a back and forth of some type. So I’m going with no. She slings blanket statements around like what she says is carved on stone tablets given to us mere mortals from the Almighty.”

This was the angriest he’d seen Marchande in some time. It was a little impressive to watch how his friend bristled as he made chopping motions with his hands.

“So forget her,” Isaiah suggested mildly. “Spend some time talking to Aria. She’s a great woman. You’ll like her.”

“Yeah.” Marchande mused that over for a minute, sliding a hand along his ridiculous man bun as if even one strand of hair had dared escape from the sleek knot at his crown. “That’s a great idea. The more obvious I can make it that I’m freezing out that woman, the better.”

That woman? This outing was swiftly turning into a disaster.

“Uh…that’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Isaiah called out after his friend who had already started moving toward the theatre, rubbing his hands together as if he had just devised a very diabolical plan that involved using one woman to teach the other a lesson.

Aria did not deserve to be put in the middle of this grudge match that had sprung up between their friends. Beleaguered, he loped after Marchande, nearly knocking the popcorn bucket from the hand of a middle-aged woman who had unwittingly stepped in his path.

“Sorry,” he threw over his shoulder as he skirted her to draw up even with Marchande, who had paused in the doorway of the theatre. “Why don’t you hold up a sec and listen to me?”

“You’re done,” Tristan said, his attention already on the seated movie-goers, presumably scanning them in search of their companions. He must have spotted them since he took off up the carpeted steps.

Shades of Syria, or rather the aftermath. What Marchande had really meant was that he didn’t want to listen to Isaiah, not anymore, and this was his way of softening the blow. Isaiah had tried to reach out, multiple times, and had gotten shot down. Tristan had a lot of guilt over what had happened in al-Sadidiq. They all did. But Isaiah wanted to help everyone get better and that’s where they parted ways—no one else cared about that. They all acted like it had never happened, burying the destruction of the wrong village under a mound of government paperwork, like that would change facts.

Seventy-five people would never draw breath into their lungs again and it wasn’t fair that he still could. He didn’t deserve to have functional respiration, and it didn’t take a fancy psychology degree to figure out that might have something to do with his panic attacks.

Or why he couldn’t fix any of his teammates. If he couldn’t glue himself back together, why should anyone else trust him with their healing process?

Somehow he managed to sit through the movie, but once the lights in the theatre came up, he couldn’t have named one plot point, an actor in the movie or even the title. The icing on the cake came as the four of them spread out for the long walk back to the car and he found himself walking next to Aria, who would have been on Tristan’s radar by now if Isaiah had done his job right.

“That was fun,” she said, her voice laced with so much sarcasm that he almost laughed.

At least he didn’t have to pretend with her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that Tristan and Cassidy hated each other so much or I wouldn’t have suggested this.”

“It’s okay. News to me too.” She shrugged. “And I’m sorry it ended up not working out for you to spend time with Cassidy.”

He lifted a brow. “That wasn’t a goal for today.”

It wasn’t a goal for any day. Had he not already nipped that idea in the bud with her? He could hardly focus on his prediction when everything else was such a mess. Healing and nurturing his soul wasn’t on the agenda, especially not since he’d failed at doing that for everyone else.

“Well, it should have been.” Aria flipped a hand in the direction of her friend, who was standing near the SUV, arms crossed as she stared at the sky in an obvious attempt to avoid a conversation with Tristan, who had already climbed into the passenger seat, then slammed the door with more force than a hurricane. “Tristan tried to talk to me a couple of times during the movie and Cassidy shushed him with uncomplimentary comments about his manners. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous that he sat next to me.”

Yeah, that seemed unlikely. “We’ll try again another time. With another plan. And no Cassidy.”

“Well that defeats the whole purpose of our deal. You get nothing out of this if she’s going to keep acting like a third grader. I’ll talk to her,” Aria promised with a secret smile as they approached the SUV. “Pinky swear.”

Isaiah got in the car. There was nothing else to say at this point.

Nine