“Well, I’d better get going. See you on Tuesday,” she said abruptly, attempting to put an end to any further conversation.

“I’ll be sure to work on my tea preparation skills before then,” I said lamely. Corin gave me a strange look and arched an eyebrow.

“And I’ll work on ways to blow smoke up your ass in order to appease your need for validation,” she quipped, and I laughed. Corin looked startled. Maybe she wasn’t trying to be funny. But I couldn’t help it. After a strained moment she was smiling again and then quickly covered her mouth as though embarrassed to be found enjoying herself.

“You do that,” I snorted, grinning at her like a fool.

Corin gave me a thumbs-up with an exaggerated wink. And then I was laughing even harder. She stopped trying to cover her mouth and laughed with me unabashedly.

We were laughing together.

Laughing over nothing and everything.

It felt fantastic.

I ran my hand over the sore spot on my chest and noticed Corin watching me with questions in her eyes, our mirth fading until it disappeared. The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

“Why do you touch your chest like that?” she asked bluntly after a time.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to mind her own business. But she wasn’t asking to be nosy. She simply had a question she wanted an answer for.

So I pulled down the collar of my shirt to reveal the bandage. “It’s my ICD incision,” I explained.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, her eyes glued to something she couldn’t see. The thing that was meant to keep me alive.

“It’s sore from the surgery but it’s not too bad. But I’ve heard it hurts when—” I stopped abruptly. I’m not sure why.

“When it shocks your heart?” Corin filled in, and I was surprised she knew what it did.

I nodded, smoothing my shirt back over the bandage.

Corin was gnawing on her lip again, which was starting to look raw. Her brows were furrowed and she looked deep in thought. She started rubbing at her chest again, something I had noticed her doing during the group. Her dark eyes were clouded and worried. Her breathing was shallow and she looked pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked, wondering if she was having another panic attack. I took her by the arm and pulled her toward a bench and had to forcibly make her sit. She resisted my help and tried to pull away from me, but I kept my fingers locked around her upper arm, worried that if I let go she’d fall over.

“I’m fine,” Corin wheezed, and I didn’t believe her for a minute. She was still rubbing at her chest.

“Take a deep breath. Tell me what hurts.” I knew firsthand the danger of ignoring the signs your body was trying to give you. If she was in this support group, then she had something seriously wrong with her.

She waved away my questions. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” she told me tersely, and I was reminded of that first time I had tried to help her. She had responded in much the same way. I was sensing a pattern here.

I was getting ready to suggest that she go to the hospital to get checked out when she stood up suddenly, all signs of her earlier discomfort gone.

“I have to go. Bye,” Corin said too loudly.

“Wait—”

She was gone before I could say anything else.

Chapter 5

Beckett

The apartment smelled like burned cheese and garlic.

“You’re home late,” Sierra said as I walked in and dropped my keys in the dish on the table just inside the door.

“There was a lot going on at the office,” I told her, which was a total lie. Lately I had been making more and more excuses to stay late at the office. Even if it was one of the last places I wanted to be, it was better than being home. With Sierra and her cold hostility.

I had been trying to make an effort to be more patient and understanding with Sierra. When I found myself getting annoyed with her, I’d remind myself that she was adjusting to a changed life as well. That we were in a transition period.

But the constant mental pep talk didn’t hold up very well when my girlfriend insisted on having her friends over to drink tequila late into the night when I had to get up early for work the next morning. Or insisting we eat Indian food for dinner when I had told her, more than once, that I had to cut a lot of overly spicy foods from my diet.

We fought all the time. Over small things. Unimportant things. Things that suddenly seemed to matter a lot.

So sitting in my tiny cubicle and staring at my computer screen was a hell of a lot more appealing than listening to Sierra complain about how I never go out anymore and how pissed she was that we couldn’t go hiking like she wanted to.

“I made myself some lasagna. I wasn’t sure when you were getting home so I didn’t make enough for two. But you can check,” Sierra remarked offhandedly, loading her plate with food.

“That’s nice of you,” I said blandly, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water, watching her as she cut into the very burned lasagna and feeling a little like gagging.

I hated lasagna.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sierra demanded, picking up on my tone. She whirled around to face me.

She was still dressed in her work clothes. And I could admit that I still found her attractive. Too bad her looks no longer overshadowed the less appealing parts of her.

“Nothing,” I muttered, not wanting an argument. I was tired. I had a headache. I just wanted to eat something and go to bed. Alone.

“Obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t have said it.” If I was trying to avoid a fight, it was obvious Sierra was gunning for one.

I stared at her long and hard and tried to remember what it felt like to love her.

And I came up empty.

There was nothing there. Not anymore. We were strangers. This was not a relationship that either of us wanted or deserved.

Sierra ripped open the cabinet, pulled down a plate, and slopped a pile of lasagna onto the plate, shoving it in my direction.

“Here. Eat it. Though I’m sure you won’t like it. After all, nothing compares to your mother’s cooking,” she spat out. The venom in her voice drew me aback.

What was her problem with my mom?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, confused.

Sierra rolled her eyes. “Does it even matter?”

“Do you have a problem with my mother’s cooking?” I really didn’t understand what the hell Mom had to do with anything.

“No, I don’t have a problem with your mother’s cooking. Just how what I make is never good enough.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. Before tonight Sierra had never bothered to cook unless it involved a microwave. I wasn’t sure when I would have had the chance to critique or compare her food-prepping skills.

“I hate lasagna.”

“Since when?” she scoffed, her eyes narrowed.

“Since always.”

The whole world knew I hated lasagna. But Sierra didn’t. Or if she did, it hadn’t mattered.

And right then, that stupid fucking lasagna said everything I couldn’t about our relationship. That after almost two years, she had no idea what foods I hated. That she had never bothered to know.

Or even worse, she totally disregarded it.

I thought I had loved her once.

But I knew now that what I had once felt had nothing to do with love. It was attraction, sure. A sexual chemistry that had made it easy to overlook the less palatable sides of her personality.