Chapter 19 Bastian
BASTIAN
in·fu·sion (/in?fyo?oZH?n/): noun
The moment we’re half a block clear of Eliana’s building, Zeke starts in. “Ah.”
“Shut up,” I say immediately. I already know where he’s going and I want no part of it.
“Ahh.”
“Zeke.”
“Ahhhhhh.”
“I swear to God, for the love of all that is holy in this world, I will put a fist through your face if you keep making that infuriating fucking—”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, it all makes so much sense now!”
I keep my eyes forward, maintain my jogging pace and say nothing. The sidewalk stretches ahead. It is regretfully devoid of any Zeke-sized storm drains that might allow me to shove my best friend into the sewage-filled bowels of the city where he belongs.
Pity.
“The infamous Eliana Hunter,” Zeke continues. “It’s a privilege to finally meet the woman whose name alone makes that vein in your forehead do the twitchy thing.”
“My forehead doesn’t twitch.”
“It’s twitching right now, buddy.”
I increase our pace. I’m hoping cardiovascular distress might shut him up. It doesn’t.
“She’s cute,” he says. “Spicy. Very your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Sure you don’t. That’s why every woman you’ve dated in the last five years has been some variation of ‘competent brunette with a sharp tongue and emotional unavailability issues.’”
“That’s not—”
“Again with the twitching. Jeez, bud. You’re gonna give yourself a coronary like that.”
I sigh and bite my tongue. I know from long and exhaustive personal experience that arguing will only encourage him.
“Her friend seems nice,” Zeke says, switching tactics. “Yasmin. Pretty name.”
“Don’t.”
“Am I not allowed to make conversation about a lovely woman I just met?”
“Don’t use Yasmin as a way to get information about Eliana.”
“Who says I need information? You just confirmed everything by nearly having an aneurysm when you saw her in those sweatpants.” He grins at me sideways. “Tell me, is that what she wore on your little oyster date?”
“On my— Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Who snitched?”
Zeke is looking more and more like the cat that caught several canaries. I couldn’t slap that grin off his face if I tried, though I am very tempted to give it my fullest effort anyway.
“Dante texted me,” he explains with a wink. “Said you showed up with some foxy date and actually smiled for once. He was concerned you’d had a stroke. Must’ve seen the twitching forehead vein.”
Fucking Dante. Fucking Zeke. Fucking everyone in my life who acts like me experiencing a single moment of non-misery is a medical emergency.
“It wasn’t a date. We’d just closed a major investor meeting. She performed well. It was a professional celebration.”
“‘Professional.’ Right. That’s why you drove her home after.”
I stop so abruptly that Zeke overshoots by three steps and has to circle back. “How could you possibly know that?” I demand.
“I didn’t. But you just confirmed it.” The smile melts off his face. “Basti. Brother. What are you doing?”
That’s a good goddamn question. I’ve been asking it of myself over and over again. But no matter how many times I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling and repeating it under my breath, I keep coming to the same inevitable conclusion.
“I don’t know,” I admit in a quiet rasp. “I genuinely have no fucking idea what I’m doing with her.”
“Well, figure it out,” Zeke scolds. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re either going to fuck this girl or fuck her over, and neither option ends well for either of you.”
“Thank you for that brilliant analysis.” I start running again, faster this time. “Your insight is noted and disregarded.”
“I’m serious, Bash. You can’t keep doing this thing where you get close to someone and then—”
“Then what?” I snap. “Then realize I’m not built for it? Then remember what happened the last time I let someone depend on me?”
“Sage’s accident wasn’t your fault.”
I grimace. “I was the one who was fucking driving, man.”
“Wrong.” He shakes his head. “Black ice was driving. You were just behind the wheel when physics took over.”
We’ve had this argument a hundred times. It never gets easier. The scar tissue around that particular wound might be thick, but Zeke knows exactly where to press to make it ache.
“Look,” he continues, because Zeke has never met a moment of tension he didn’t want to fucking yap through. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time to stop punishing yourself. Maybe this girl—”
“This girl is my employee,” I snarl. “She works for me. I pay her. End of story.”
“Right. That’s why you were watching her like she was the last glass of water in the desert.”
“I wasn’t—”
“And why you know where she lives.”
“That’s not—”
“And why you’re currently running fast enough to qualify for the Olympics because you don’t want to talk about your feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings!” I practically roar it, and a woman walking her corgi gives us a startled look and a wide berth.
“I have a business to run, a brother to take care of, and a massive project that needs my complete focus. Eliana Hunter is a line item on a spreadsheet. A very expensive line item who happens to be exceptionally good at her job.”
Zeke goes quiet for a few strides, and I think maybe, finally, he’ll drop it. But then:
“You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You think caring about someone means you’re responsible for them.” He shakes his head. “Newsflash, brother: Sometimes, people just want to be with you. Not be saved by you. Not be controlled by you. Just be with you.”
A torrent of white-hot rage rips through me, and before I can stop myself, nasty words are pouring out of my mouth. “Yeah? How’d that work out for Sage? For our mother? Hell, how’s it working for you with your ongoing string of Tinder disasters?”
Zeke’s face goes carefully blank, and I know I’ve crossed a line.
But I can’t take it back. Because if I apologize, if I soften even a fraction, I might have to examine why the sight of Eliana Hunter in those ridiculous sweatpants made my chest feel like it was caving in.
We finish the last mile in silence.