Page 109 of My Sweetest Agony

IVY

The moment I open the front door, Marlo pushes through it, carrying a grocery bag in one hand and raising a bottle of wine in the other. “I brought wine, chocolate, and cheese. This sounded urgent.”

I roll my eyes as she moves straight toward the kitchen with her haul. My hand tightens on the knob, and though I have every intent to close the door, my eyes lock on the street—the empty street.

It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways so he could go to his meeting, and I came home alone, but I’m twitchy.

Restless.

Unable to stop waiting for the rumble of his motorcycle’s engine that will announce his presence.

Get your shit together…

I force myself to tear my eyes off the street, close the door, and follow Marlo into the kitchen, where she’s already pulled out a box of crackers, three different types of cheese, and a container of truffles.

Standing at the end of the counter, I drum my fingers on it, drawing Marlo’s sharp gaze.

She spreads her hands wide over what she brought. “All the essentials.”

Any night before Drew died, I would have been thrilled with her bringing our typical snacks and settling in for a night of crappy TV or a cheesy movie, but tonight, the tension I’ve been holding in my body, along with everything I have to tell her, makes the thought of eating anything twist my stomach.

Still, I force a smile.

She tugs open the drawer under her and pulls out the wine opener, twisting it into the pinot noir as she glances at me. “Now, spill. You were very mysterious on the phone.”

For a reason.

A very good one.

With thick, almost black hair…

Blue eyes the color of the Caribbean that darken to an almost navy…

Calloused hands that can create such beauty and pleasure…

A beautiful mind so tortured by his guilt…

And a heart strained under the weight of secrets…

I chew on my bottom lip as Marlo struggles with the cork. Her brow furrows in frustration, her teeth clenched as she tugs on it. Rolling my eyes, I snatch it from her, pop it off, and hand it back to her.

“Thanks”—she narrows her gaze on me—“but you still haven’t answered my question. All you said was, ‘We need to talk. Come after work.’ So here I am. After work.” She spreads her hands again. “Prepared to listen.”

“And not judge.”

Her brows fly up. “Okay…and not judge.”

She says it tentatively, like she isn’t sure she should be making that agreement, but even if she can’t commit to keeping her judgment out of this conversation, I can’t not tell her.

Not when she’s the only person I really trust to give it to me straight.

Yet, I already dread her possible response.

Because deep down, I know all of this is…

Really.

Really.