Enemy's Secret

Did what just happened not happen? Did he really say it?

He's walking away when I stop him. "Landon - wait."

He pauses, with a look like he could still smile. "Yeah?"

"Say it again."

His brow creases with incomprehension.

"The L word," I say, feeling my cheeks heating up.

God, I feel like a teenage girl, doing 'Does He Like Me' quizzes in J14.

He squints, with the beginnings of a smirk, but now I know it's all for show. "Not sure I know that one."

"Say it!" I demand.

A full smirk. "Say what?"

"Landon!"

He chuckles. "Fine." Heads off. He's almost out of sight when, with a wave, he calls over his shoulder, "Love you!"

It travels all through me, his 'love you'. Warms me. Keeps me smiling all the way back to the couch.

There, I laze amidst the lint (mental note: finally get around to cleaning this thing), even wash the single dish I've used since I got back. Then, I change a handful of times before I find a pair of black velvet sweats that are grungy but not too grungy. I'm not about to dress up for a best friend who stabbed me in the back.

Until, finally, I can't put it off anymore. I text her.

Can you come over?

- Sure. Now? she replies immediately.

Now, I reply, going back to sink on the couch and scowl at nothing in particular except what's about to happen.

There. It's done.

Ding-dang-dong-ding, the doorbell goes, far too soon.

I sit there until it's donged itself out. Until I can think of absolutely nothing else keeping me on this sink-seated couch other than fear.

Even if it does make sense. Pompom's my best friend. What if this ends it all?

I rise, steeling myself.

Whatever happens today, whatever I find out, I have to know the truth.

"Hey," she says, standing there, her pink glossed mouth moving with what could be an attempt at a smile.

I glare at her flatly, my eyes doing an impressed once-over of her.

Who dares to get all spruced up - pink gloss, winged liner - when they're coming to their best friend to beg forgiveness? If she is even here for that.

"Hey," I say, stepping aside so she can come in.

"It's OK," she says, not moving. She's wearing her polka-dot wash blue jeans and tight tie-dye crop top. Definitely not 'I'm sorry' wear. "If you don't want..." She trails off, then bursts out, "I'm so sorry, Ky."

I stare at her for a long minute, then, finally, ask, "Why?"

Why she basically stabbed a knife into my back, not why she's sorry. We both know why she's sorry. What she did.

As for me, looking at her, even with the new sheen of tears in her green eyes, I feel zero sympathy. Her sleek straightened red hair and well-rested look isn't helping. Not that I expected her to show up looking like a domestic abuse insomniac, but still. "I just don't understand it."

I open the door further and gesture her inside. We go to the kitchen together.

"I wanted to tell you," Pamela admits, twining a strand of hair round her finger, round and round and round as she stands in the middle of the room looking lost, "but my job was on the line..." Sad chuckle. "Now I lost it anyway, of course. I knew it was a bad idea accepting that bribe to hand over the idea, but it was a bad year. My dad needed that big operation and I needed the money to help him. Colin was so persuasive and I thought..." She shakes her head. "Thought I could keep it under wraps. But the guilt kept eating away at me. And when my dad found out a few days ago, he demanded I come forward. So, I did."

"But why didn't you come to me, is what I can't understand," I say, wanting to shake her. 'So, I did' - does she have any fucking clue what her 'so, I did' is going to cost me? "Don't you realize - "

"I wasn't thinking straight," Pamela confesses, whipping the hair back. "I'd just lived with it for so long, I just wanted it off my chest. Blurt it out. I didn't think it through. I just reacted. I was afraid that if I didn't come forward, I'd keep making excuses."

What she's saying makes sense, would make sense, except -

"I'm the lawyer on the case," I snarl. "You didn't think - "

"No," she says miserably, an up-down of her shoulders. "I didn't."

Her gaze searches mine. "But Goldtree, they didn't actually..."

"They did," I confirm with a swift nod. "I'm off the case."

"Oh," is all she says, sagging against the kitchen counter behind her. "Shit."

"Yeah, basically." I let out a laugh, though there's no mirth in it. "The firm's having its annual review this week, too."

Pamela's mouth forms a horrified 'O' in comprehension. "Kyra, I never thought - "