The Best Friend Zone

I walk to the sink and wash my hands.

“I know. That’s why I said wait up. Thanks for putting the hinges on, though. Hanging them won’t take long at all.” Nodding at the cutting board on the counter, I ask, “What’s for supper?”

“Chicken stir-fry. The meat just needs to marinate for an hour or so. Plenty of garlic and ginger!”

I inhale, and my nostrils are pleased.

“Smells damn good,” I tell her.

“Let’s hope it tastes good too. Are you a stir-fry fan, Quinn?”

I shrug. “Is that kale shit in it?”

She pushes a giggle back with her hand. “No, you’re safe tonight, but there is bok choy.”

“Bok what?”

I wipe my hands with a paper towel.

“It’s kinda like celery and green onion had a baby. You’ll like it.”

“I’m trusting you,” I say, pointing two fingers at my eyes and then at her. I wad up the paper towel and throw it in the trash can. “I’ll start on the doors while you wrap up the grub.”

She hits me with that sunshine smile again.

“I’m almost done. I just have to get the chicken in the fridge, then I’ll help with the doors.”

True to her word, she holds the doors while I use the drill to screw the hinges to the cupboards. All while trying like hell not to let my eyes crawl up her legs the entire time.

She tells me the silk ropes and mirrors are ordered, and they should show up in the next forty-eight hours.

I’ll rent the floor sander tomorrow and then give the floor a good varnishing. Can’t risk her tripping over roughed up spots and hurting herself.

She balks at that idea at first, but agrees before mentioning she’s also ordered a small sound system that’ll be arriving soon.

I’m happy she’s so excited for her space.

Dirty thoughts aside, I’m legit excited for her.

We’ve just hung the last door and we’re admiring our handiwork—the entire kitchen looks picture-perfect—when her phone rings on the center island.

I watch her walk over, look at it, and freeze in her tracks. The ringtone continues to blare.

“Aren’t you gonna answer that?” I ask, suddenly damn curious what’s wrong.

She whips her head back and forth from me to the phone and gives me a horrified look.

“It’s Jean-Paul. He’s been texting all day.”

Hot, jealous rage hits my veins like a storm.

“And you haven’t answered?” I ask, fishing for more.

“No.” She flips around and leans against the island as the phone stops ringing, this dread in her eyes. Her voicemail pings a few seconds later.

“Talk to me, Peach,” I demand, stepping up to her, hating the sadness in her eyes.

“I love dancing, Quinn, I really do. It’s been my whole life. But I know I can’t do it forever…I’ll be too old soon, or who knows, maybe my knee will never be strong enough to handle the rigors. That’s why the director job would be perfect. A dream come true. I’d be teaching, directing, planning—all the things I love just as much, if not more, than dancing itself. Everything I think I could do forever.”

I wait, and when she doesn’t say more, I drop the inevitable.

“But?”

Her shoulders roll with a heavy sigh. She looks at me with a wry smile.

“How’d you know there’s a but?”

“There always is,” I growl. “Tell me, darlin’. What’s holding you back?”

“I don’t want my old life.” Her eyes pinch shut. “It’s, well…it’s not a fun life. I have no freedom there.”

I recall what Dean said about her ma smothering her.

“Your folks? Your mom?” I ask.

“And Jean-Paul. I hate the man I’d be working with. My title would be Creative Dance Director, but I won’t have any artistic freedom. He’ll still be calling the shots and expecting me to execute everything. I’ll be put in the same sad box I’ve always been in.” She throws her arms in the air. “And when I refuse to marry him—”

“Marry who?” I blurt out, wondering what the hell I missed.

“Jean-Paul,” she says, her voice just a whisper.

I can’t fucking help it.

I can’t stop the jealousy curdling my face.

“Bullshit. You’re telling me you’re gonna go marry that fucking—”

“No. I’d never marry him, not after what he did, and that’s the problem.” She runs a nervous hand through her hair while shaking her head. “We dated for years. It was always assumed we’d tie the knot eventually. Lord knows Mother wanted it. But we were never engaged, and then he cheated on me with that bitch, Madeline, and she knocked me down, hurt my knee and—”

“Hold up. The whore he cheated with caused your injury?” Anger, not at her, but for her tears through me like a bolt.

I know Dean hinted at it before, but I wanted to think he was wrong. Hearing it from Tory’s mouth confirms how big a clusterfuck she really lived.

Then her phone starts ringing again.

I swear on my mother’s grave, I could break a window with that thing.