The Jezebel - Dylan Allen Page 0,39

came.” That was all.

The rest of the time, we reminisced, I read her passages from her favorite book, Love in the Time of Cholera and we cried together when Florentino left after Fermina spurned him.

When I finished the book, she’d grabbed my hand with more strength than I’d felt from her since I arrived. d. Her eyes were clear and grave. “Don’t waste any more time wondering what if. You’ll regret it. And it will make the end of your life, whether you see it coming or if it happens in an instant, feel like a death sentence instead of a transition. You were my last regret. Make up with Matty, don’t let her be yours.”

She died that evening and I cried bitterly. Thinking back to it, I feel ashamed that her husband had to find space in his own grief to comfort me.

Shakespeare said that love is an ever-fixed mark that looks upon a tempest and isn’t moved. And it’s proven true. After all this time and all the muddy water that’s passed under our bridge, I still love Matty.

Even if she doesn’t feel the same, I want her to know that I didn’t just come here for Jack.

She’s leaning over the rails, staring out at the majestic panorama of beach, ocean and sky. I watch her for a moment. In so many ways, she’s unchanged. High, sculpted cheekbones, full lips, a regal nose and braids piled high on her head like a crown make a striking profile. Her dark brown skin gleams in the moonlight. Her yellow sundress is too big, and even though she’s the same size as she was in college, she looks frailer.

I feel sick at the thought she might be sick, with something that will kill her, like it killed Jack. I shake off the melodrama and shake myself. I know what’s wrong. It’s the same thing that’s eating me alive. She just doesn’t have the budget for make-up and facials that stave off the signs of the internal rot that comes with making your soul a vessel corrosive secret.

I take a cautious step outside and wait to see if she reacts before I take another. After three creeping steps like that, Matty’s head drops and she groans.

“Why are you being so weird? It’s a balcony not a minefield.”

“Are you sure? I feel like if I put one foot wrong, you’ll blow up and not speak to me for ten years.”

“I don’t know where you could have gotten that ridiculous notion from,” she sing-songs and my nerves are instantly soothed. Feeling a little more balanced, and like myself, I dive in headfirst.

“I should have called you after we fought,” I blurt.

“You couldn’t have, I blocked your number,” she says with a sheepish grimace.

We sigh in unison and look at each other for a long moment. The crashing waves and the strains of music fill the silence that falls between us.

Her expression mirrors everything I’m feeling.

Apology.

Love.

Hope.

“I’m sorry about what I said on the boat, I didn’t mean it. I just had too much to drink.” She finally breaks the quiet.

“Drunk man talk di truth,” I mimic my mother’s lyrical Jamaican accent. She always suppresses it in public and even at home. But when we were younger, before she became the Tina Wilde, she used to speak almost exclusively in her Patois when she scolded us.

“It’s not true. It never has been. You know that. We’ve been mad at each other and we’ve got stuff to work out, but the only thing I feel for you is love. I just didn’t know how to bridge the gap.”

There’s so much advice and common wisdom about what to do when romantic relationships hit road bumps. But you know what’s just as devastating? When a real friendship ends for reasons that make it impossible to repair.

“If I’d been a guy you’d fought with would you have blocked my number?” I ask her, curious more than anything.

“Probably not,” she admits and cringes at her admission.

“Why do we work harder for the men who hurt us than for each other?” I ask in consternation at the truth of it.

“Because a great dick is hard to find,” she deadpans.

I snort a laugh and she gives me a grudging smile. Sharing a laugh with my other best friend, puts a small seal on the crack that the loss of Jack created.

It hurts like hell to know we’ll never laugh together again.

“Unless of course, you happen to stumble across one on a shuttle,” she

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