I messed up. Enormously. I don’t even have a good excuse for it besides the fact that my emotions got the better of me. And I don’t know what to make of that—caring about this case is making me bad at my job, making me less likely to help Ella, not more.
I push my hair back and rest my hand behind my head on my pillow.
No matter how I rationalize it, this case feels personal. And yes, part of that is because of Des, but part of it isn’t. I know Tiny thinks I have a crush. I don’t. A crush is a fluttery thing rife with quickening heartbeats and stolen glances. It’s something to celebrate when you accidentally brush kneecaps under a table and does no more damage to your heart when it fizzles out than a dramatic groan.
But what does it mean when you want to be better for someone? When you want to share your thoughts and trudge through difficult conversations. What does it mean when you share her hurts and want her to share your joys?
Shit.
I once again look at my text conversation with Ella that has abruptly stopped, feeling the tightness in my chest increase. I might have broken this. For good. And I know that texting her now is the worst of moves. One hand overplayed is all it takes to destroy something as fragile as a new friendship.
Friendship. Is that what Ella and I have? Is she my friend? I rub my hands over my face, knowing I have a problem here and not wanting to look at it.
I sigh at the stack of books on my bedside table and my old-man cat tucked into my arm. I have everything I need to be happy. And yet . . . today blows.
Fine with all the things I can’t control . . . just trying to stuff them in a box and shove them to the back of my mind because I think I’ll be more fine with them there.
