Best Friends Forever_A Marriage Pact Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Good girl,” she says proudly, patting my head before she heads to the door.

  And then, finally, I’m alone again. I’ve got the TV turned on the DIY channel, which I think is probably safe. I can never be sure with the other channels who’s going to suddenly have a little interlude about celebrity gossip, but here, all I find is home renovations and more gardens.

  I think maybe I’ll start a garden when I get back home. Spend more time outside. Away from screens and the internet. Away from other people’s opinions being constantly shoved in my face. I’ve never really tried to grow anything, but how hard could it be? Plants grow on their own without any help all the time. And a garden would be nice. Maybe I’d even get some butterfly visitors. I bet Mariah would like that if I could get her out for a while.

  I’ve only seen the first five minutes of My Nightmare Renovation when there’s a knock at the door. I frown, wondering if Rosa forgot her key, but then that doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t really need a key to get back in when we both know I’m not going anywhere.

  So who’s at my door?

  A teeny, tiny, minuscule part of me hopes it’s Ian. But I quickly stamp that thought out. I can’t see him again. Especially not now. I know I’m going to have to share the plane with him later tonight, but that’s then. I still have time to prepare for that. He can’t just be ambushing me right now, can he?

  The knock comes again and I can’t ignore it anymore. My curiosity is killing me. So I get up, try to drag my fingers through the tangled mess that is my hair, and rub my hands over my face to get rid of any errant tears or streaks of makeup. I’m definitely not looking my best, but I don’t look bad for a girl who’s just had her heart broken.

  I look out the peephole first, and my heart skips for a moment when I see a tall, muscular guy on the other side, but it’s not Ian. I don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed to be honest. I don’t know him, but he does look vaguely familiar and he’s standing on the other side of the door with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, looking kind of nervous. I put the latch on the door before I open it the inch or so that allows.

  “Can I help you?”

  He jumps at the sound of my voice and smiles. “Hi. You don’t know me, but my name’s Serge. I’m Ian’s best friend and former bandmate—”

  I’m already closing the door by the time he gets to that point of the sentence, but he shoves his hand in the crack and I don’t have the heart to crush his fingers, though I probably should.

  “Please, I just want five minutes of your time, I promise.” He’s not moving his hand, so I can’t close the door. I could just walk away, but that’s not going to stop him from saying what he’s going to say.

  “I’ll talk to you through the door, I don’t care.”

  I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine,” I say, pulling the door open as much as the safety latch allows. He immediately looks more relaxed.

  “Look, I know what happened, but I’m absolutely positive Ian had nothing to do with the stuff you found in his bag.”

  I don’t say anything, but my unimpressed look must say it all for me because he just barrels forward without really pausing.

  “I know, I know. It’s hard to believe and it doesn’t make any sense how it got there. But I know Ian. We’ve been through a lot of shit together and if he fucked up like that, he’d tell me. He gave me his word that stuff didn’t belong to him, and I believe him. He’s been sober for five years. You don’t throw that away when everything’s going good for you. And I’ve spent time with him this morning. He doesn’t show any signs of using again. And after the night he’s had, I think that’s more a testament to his commitment to sobriety than anything else. He’s a mess, but it’s not because he’s using again; it’s because he’s torn up about what happened between you two.”

  I purse my lips, trying to hear everything he’s saying without actually listening to it. Because I know it’s dangerous to start to believe what an addict tells you. I know where that road goes. Questioning yourself, your judgment, your own memories. I can’t do that.

  “Please, just think about this. Don’t just throw away whatever it is you guys have. It clearly means a lot to Ian—I’ve never seen him like this over a woman—and I hope that it means something special to you too. Isn’t that worth fighting for? Or at least hearing his side of things?”

  There’s a lump in my throat, but I refuse to cry. I nod and say, “It does mean something to me, but I can’t watch another person close to me go through that. You don’t understand.”

  “I probably don’t,” he admits. “I’ve only ever really seen the other side of things. I don’t know what people go through when their loved ones are out getting wasted and they’re waiting for a call to give them the news they’re dreading. But I’ve learned that anything worth having isn’t easy to come by. It’s not without challenges and trials.”

  I’m holding onto the door like it’s a life raft and I don’t know what to think. Serge sighs and shakes his head.

  “Just think about it, will you? Talk to Ian, keep an open mind and an open heart. If you still don’t believe him, fine. But give him a chance. He’s earned it.”

  There’s still really nothing for me to say. I’m not going to agree to talk to Ian just to get this guy away from my door. I’m not going to say something I don’t mean just because he makes a good case. I know better than to make rash decisions like that. And truthfully, I don’t trust my heart to be smart about things at all, so I just shut it down and keep my mouth shut.

  He looks at his watch. “My five minutes are up. I hope you’ll think about what I said.” And before I can respond at all, he’s heading back down the hall, away from the room.

  I close the door and take the latch off so Rosa can get in later. Then I go back into the living room and try to sit on the couch, but my head is spinning, my mind racing, and I can’t sit still. So I stand and go to the window, but it’s such a pretty day outside—blue skies, puffy white clouds, sunshine and birds singing—that I quickly close the curtains with a frown and turn away. I’m not in the mood for a pretty day. Especially not after the visit from Serge.

  So then I’m pacing back and forth, just replaying the conversation over and over again in my head. Obviously, Ian’s best friend is going to take his side. Obviously, he’s going to have his back. Obviously, he’s going to plead his case for him. But I wonder if Ian knows his friend came to talk to me. I wonder if he put him up to it or if he’d be mad knowing.

  I don’t even know that it matters one way or the other, but I would like to know if I’m being manipulated in some way.

  It’s not terribly long before Rosa’s back with the Chinese food. She puts it on the table and starts to unpack, but I can’t even look at it. What little appetite I had before is totally gone now. There’s no room for hunger in me, not when every spare cell is consumed with thoughts of Ian and whether or not I’m making a colossal, gigantic mistake not believing him.

  Rosa tries to talk to me, but it doesn’t take her very long to realize that she should just leave me alone. I don’t actually say as much, but I’m thankful when she finally gets the hint and leaves me alone to my thoughts again.

  I just don’t know what to think. I found that stuff in his bag. Who else would be putting things in his bag other than him? But he did look legitimately surprised when I showed it to him. He didn’t look guilty like someone who’d just been caught. He looked confused, and that seemed promising. But what other explanation could there be for what I found?

  I want to believe that Ian wasn’t using drugs. In my heart, I feel that he’s telling the truth. Because I want to believe that I’d notice if he were acting different. I want to believe that he doesn’t have any reason to use when he’s with me and happy. But I know that’s not how these things work. I know anything can set off an addict and send them spiraling out of control again, and it hurts to think that he could be going through that and dealing with it when I
didn’t know a thing about it until it was too late.

  And, I hug myself at the realization, we’ve been having a lot of sex. Quite a lot of it unprotected at this stage. I’m on the pill, we’ve both been tested, so it seemed fine. Except… if he’s using needles, who knows what he could have exposed me to?

  I don’t want to think the worst of Ian, but I can’t be naive either. Twice Eric convinced us all he was clean. Twice, our entire family was sure he’d kicked the habit. The second time especially. We were all hopeful the first time, but when he had to go into rehab again, we knew to be wary. But his progress was promising. The staff had so much faith in him. And when he died, as far as we knew, he’d been clean for months.

  I just can’t bear to go through that kind of agony again.

  Of course, being without Ian is a different kind of agony. I’m stuck in this limbo of uncertainty, not knowing if I can trust him or believe anything he’s ever told me. That’s the worst part about this disease of addiction. It makes you question everything. Because addicts are master manipulators, they’re fantastic liars, and they’re so damn convincing. It’s hard to ever trust yourself, especially when love is involved.

  But when I really think about it and really focus on the details, I know I can see the places where we overlooked Eric’s struggles. Where we told ourselves he just needed time to adjust and it would be fine. We ignored the problems, hoping for the best, having faith in the system, and it let us down.

  If I look at my time with Ian with the same microscopic scrutiny, I don’t see the same things. I can’t actually think of a time when something Ian said or did made me wonder. I can’t pick out a moment when I thought he might be lying to me. He’s been nothing but honest and forthright with me about everything from the very beginning. And I have no real reason not to trust him. Just prejudice.

  I sink down into the couch, head in my hands. Should I really give him a chance to tell his side of things? Is that really a smart decision? I don’t know how smart it is, but I do think it’s fair. Ian’s past mistakes are just that: past. What he did before shouldn’t be held against him any more than the fact that I introduced Eric to the people that got him into drugs. It is being held against me, though. Almost every piece about our split has referenced Eric, speculating whether I was the one to drive him to drugs, and drive Ian out of sobriety.

  So, if I want to say it’s not fair for them to treat me like that, it’s no better for me to treat Ian the way I have. If nothing else, all our time together means I owe him a chance. I owe it to him to at least hear him out.

  Blowing out a heavy breath, I stand and wonder if this is really what I’m going to do. Am I really going to open myself up to him again? To let him have a chance to sway me? To convince me that he’s really clean? What if he’s not? What if he dies suddenly?

  There’s always going to be that chance though. He could get hit by a car this afternoon. And if that happened and I never talked it out with him, would I really feel good about that decision?

  Hell no. I have to see him again.

  Before I leave, I grab a spring roll, my appetite suddenly returning. I eat it on the way to his room while telling myself that I’m not going to back out before I get there.

  And then I’m standing in front of his room, my nerves jangling, my heart racing, my hands sweaty as I lift one to knock. A deep breath, and I bring my knuckles down on the door softly. It’s almost so soft I think he might not have heard it. I can still turn around and leave and pretend this didn’t happen. But then the knob’s turning and the door opens a crack.

  My heart stops. The whole world stops as Ian and I just look at each other for a long moment. He looks at me like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing, but I’m just happy to see him. Serge was right. He doesn’t look like he’s been on a bender. He just looks like he had the same kind of rough night I did.

  “Can I come in?”

  He steps back from the door without a word and I step just beyond it, not going any further into the room.

  Serge stands from the seating area. “I’ll give you two some space,” he says, squeezing past me to leave the room entirely. And now we’re all alone together and Ian is looking at me with those eyes that make me melt, with this hurt, broken, helpless expression that makes him look like an abused puppy. But I can’t let my heart get ahead of me.

  “Your friend came to talk to me,” I say, folding my arms and indicating my head toward the door Serge just left through.

  Ian sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  That’s some relief at least. I didn’t want to believe that he’d coerce his friend to come to me on his behalf, but I wouldn’t put it past someone in his position. But I can tell he means it and he’s actually kind of annoyed at the news, so I’m encouraged.

  “It’s okay. He convinced me I should at least come talk to you. And I gave it some thought and he’s right. I owe you that much. You’ve never lied to me or led me on before, and I know I’m probably reacting more to things that happened with Eric than what actually happened with us, so…”

  “Chelsea, I swear to you it wasn’t mine. I haven’t touched the stuff in five years and I don’t ever plan to again. I told you on that bench on the beach that if I fucked this up, it wouldn’t be because of drugs and I meant it.”

  My throat tightens painfully and tears well up in my eyes. I probably shouldn’t, but I believe him. I really do.

  “I don’t understand then…”

  “Me neither,” he says quickly. “Serge thinks it might have been hotel staff, or a roadie, maybe? Someone just looking to stash something quick so they didn’t get caught.”

  I frown, still hugging myself. “That seems too random. Too neat.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” He gives me a little smile, testing the waters, and I can’t hold the tears back anymore. They just spill over even though the worst of the storm has passed. Maybe it’s relief, maybe it’s that, and the worry, the fear, the uncertainty and confusion. Whatever it is, they’re all welling up inside me and the tears fall in fat drops onto my shirt.

  Ian takes a step toward me, his hands reaching out for me, but he stops, and that makes me ache inside even more. I can’t help myself. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his shoulder. His arms go around me slowly, like he’s worried he’ll scare me away or break me or something, but then he’s got me and he’s holding me tight, shushing me as he rubs his hand up and down my spine.

  “Shh, it’s all right. I’m right here. I promise you. I’m not going anywhere. This is the Ian that’s here to stay.”

  That’s enough for me to drop my arms and cling onto him. “Please,” I whisper.

  He holds me even tighter and I feel his lips on the top of my head. “Always.”

  After a while, I manage to pull myself together and we head to the couches facing each other.

  “I think this was personal,” I finally say. “If someone planted that stuff in your bag, they wanted me to find it. They wanted to split us up. And with the tour and the timing… It can’t be random. I don’t buy it.”

  For a moment, I think Ian’s going to tell me I’ve lost my mind, that I’m just jumping into conspiracy theories, but he doesn’t say anything at all and that’s almost weirder. He’s just looking at me with this kind of… surprise and I don’t know what it’s about.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head, forcing a smile. “I’m just really fucking happy you’re on my side again. I’m lost without you, Chelsea. Before everything that happened, I was going to tell you…” He shakes his head again, looking out the window behind him instead of at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’ll just think I’m saying it now to manipulate you or something. I don’t want to sully it with that.” I frown and lean forward, my elbows on my knees.

  “Ian, please?”

  He looks up at me, his dark
eyes locking to mine, staring into the deepest depths of my soul with that fiery intensity that I’ve come to love so much.

  “Fine, but you dragged it out of me. Remember that.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I say, offering a three-finger salute. He smirks, then shakes his head.

  “I’m crazy about you, Chelsea. Like, over the moon, head over heels, madly passionately crazy about you. I can’t imagine not waking up to you next to me—well, I can now, and I can tell you that it’s fucking miserable and I never want to do it again.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, eyes narrowed, heart racing like a greyhound.

  “I love you. I love you so much it hurts not to tell you. So whatever you think about me, whether you believe me or not or think I’m trying to con you, just know that. I love you, Chelsea Garten. You’ve ruined me for everyone else.”

  I’m speechless for a long moment, trying to parse that when he groans.

  “See? I knew it wasn’t the right time to—”

  “I love you too,” I say, jumping over the coffee table to pounce on him and kiss him.

  He pulls back in shock, searching my eyes. “Really?”

  “Of course, you dork. Why do you think I’m here?”

  Then he kisses me like he’s on his dying breath. He kisses me like he’s off to the gallows and he needs to give me something to remember him by. But it’s not Ian who’s going off to the chopping block. It’s whoever set him up.

  Finally, we break apart, but he doesn’t let me out of his arms. And to be honest, I don’t try very hard to get out of them. I missed this, and I’m not eager to give it up again.

  “So, who do you think did it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Rosa really hates that we’re together.”

  It’s true, but after this morning, I think she’s probably just as sad about our split as she was mad about our hooking up. She was probably already daydreaming about all the cutesy couple appearances we could do in the future after the tour. Rosa’s nothing if not good at finding an angle.