Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

I nodded knowingly instead.

“Cheers, bitch!” Wren changed the subject, clinking her glass with mine and pasting on a smile. “To us. Because we’re fabulous.”

“Cheers,” I replied with a smile.

We both sipped our wine, and I enjoyed the cool liquid sliding down my throat. Wren regarded me in much the same way I had done to her.

“You look good, honey. On the outside, at least. Tan. Skin looks better than ever. Your arms will rival Michelle Obama’s. Your outfit is, of course, to die for. Yes, on the outside you look wonderful, as usual. You almost look as if you’ve moved on from the mess Jay made back stateside. But I know you a little too well to believe what I see on the surface.”

I had to clench my fist not holding my glass in order to keep my lips pursed, open enough only to drink. Wren had said his name. She had said he was here. And she’d said it like it wasn’t earth shattering, heart breaking.

I wanted to grab her by her skinny shoulders and shake the information out of her. The mere mention of his name had turned me feral, desperate, ravenous for more information.

But this was my friend. One of my very best friends. Who I loved dearly. Who I hadn’t seen in months. So I locked my shit down.

Barely.

Her hand reached over to squeeze mine, all flippancy leaving her face. Wren did a very good job at appearing vain and shallow to those who only wanted to see that, or moreover, to those she wanted to see that. But she was exceptionally deep. Felt a lot. Felt too much, which was why she’d self-medicated with a life of excess for so long. Most of the trust fund babies in L.A. had very little emotional intelligence or empathy because they had the luxury of not having to develop it through any kind of struggle. Wren had her own struggles, her own past, and knowing that made her all the more impressive.

“How are you? Really?” she asked, her eyes scanning my face.

My fist was still clenched. As much as I wanted to ask about him, demand to know what he was doing here, why he wasn’t right here, I also needed to talk. I’d left the country without telling anyone what happened. I’d avoided any and all phone calls, sent texts full of lies and remained tight lipped with anyone at work who had tried to ask about my personal life. I’d spoken carefully about myself, diverting with questions, and luckily, the set was so busy there wasn’t much time for small talk.

I was a volcano, simmering, smoking for months, and my friend’s kind face, gentle voice and mere presence was the cause for eruption. Everything had been about Jay for so long. His presence in my life. His darkness casting a shadow over everything. My need for him. My love for him. His absence.

I hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even paused to think about me. Wren was giving me that. Forcing it on me, the conversation about me before him.

“I feel guilty,” I whispered. “For hurting this much. For being this broken without him. Beyond the fact that I should be able to tell myself—and believe myself when I say it—that my worth, my entirety of self, is not made or ruined by a man. That I am in control of my happiness, that my life, full of all other kinds of love and abundance, should be enough.”

I paused, biting my lip and looking out the window for a spell.

I looked back at Wren. “But I can’t. I can’t think that because it’s utter bullshit. No matter how long it’s been without him, despite how briefly he was even in my life, he awakened parts of me, then he scooped them up and took them when he left. I hate myself for mourning in such a self-indulgent way. There are women who have lost children. Who have been given terminal diagnoses, who have survived attacks—women who are dealing with real things that ruin their lives. Not a fucking breakup.”

“Stop,” Wren hissed. Her eyes were alight with anger that was not at all common on her face. “You do not get to belittle your pain or your heartbreak because other people in the world are suffering. You do not get to beat yourself up over the fact that you loved so deeply. That you took a chance on something. The bravest thing you can do isn’t just to let someone love you but to let yourself love them right back with all that you are. And you’re a fucking lot, babe.”

She stared at me, making sure the words punctured, giving me ample time to take a large gulp of my wine.

“Of course you feel like your world is a wasteland,” she continued. “Not because you made this man your world, but because you intertwined his with yours. He had roots in you, just like you had yours in him. Ripping something away like that is going to leave empty spaces that will never regrow again because you’re never going to feel that again. Even if things happen the way I want them to—which is him crawling on his hands and knees, begging for your forgiveness, specifically with a diamond ring.” She shrugged. “I’m open to other forms of apology, of course.”