Fake It List

Twenty Five

For only the second time in her life, Reysha stood outside someone's front door, way too early in the morning, unsure if she should let herself in. She had a key. It was a you're-welcome-any-time-don't-even-knock key. She'd never used it before because there'd been no reason. Now felt like a valid reason.

Stacey hadn't returned her text the night before, so maybe she needed some space. Stacey never needed space. Without being overbearing, she was as "in your face" as a friend could get. They'd been spending more time out of work together than at work for the better part of three years. If they were fighting, they'd smooth things over and things would be fine. Shifting from one foot to the other without letting either foot actually leave the ground, she chewed the inside of her lip.

Unless you've finally maxed out her patience. Unlike chocolate, caffeine, or batteries, there was such a thing as too much where Reysha was concerned.

It's going to be time for you to go to work if you don't knock one day soon. Just go in. She knocked with her free hand, keeping her fingers curled into her palm when she lowered her arm. Seconds that felt like minutes passed without response. She knocked again, curled her fingers deeper, and wished she'd remembered to put Pepper Potts in her pocket. Yes, she'd named her squishy cat from Chris. No one had to know.

The door swung open, and Stacey appeared, looking less than impressed. Her hair was knotted into a messy bun more on the side of her head than the top. She wore an oversize hoodie and loose flannel pants and a scowl.

Reysha didn't cover her shock with any amount of grace. "I don't think I've ever seen you without makeup."

Stacey yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. "Well, if that was your goal, showing up at the crack of dawn is the way to do it." Her squinty gaze focused on the bag in Reysha's hand. "What's that?"

Reysha gave her best 'I'm sorry I'm high maintenance' smile. "Double chocolate fudge doughnuts. From Baked."

Stacey stepped back. "Permission to enter, granted." Once she'd shut the door to the tiny bungalow home, she grabbed the bag. "Gimme."

Laughing, Reysha followed her into the kitchen. The bungalow used to belong to Stacey's grandmother, but she'd inherited it after her grandmother's passing several years earlier. It was part of her decision to settle in Chicago despite opportunities to work at bigger stations.

While Stacey started coffee, Reysha glanced around the kitchen. Dishes from the night before, and probably the night before that, were stacked on the counter. Old newspapers sat on the small round table. In the window over the table, a once-leafy plant drooped.

Reysha went to the sink, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and turned on the water. She poured a small amount on the plant, waiting for it to drain into the tray below, listening to the sounds of Stacey grinding beans and shuffling around.

Her skin felt too tight. She hated fighting. Hated conflict. Especially when she was the source.

"Thanks. If I ever have kids, they're going to be in trouble if you don't visit more often," Stacey said, jutting her chin in the plant's direction when Reysha set the glass on the counter.

Taking a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs with courage, she faced her friend. "Tell me what to do to make us okay. I'm sorry I was a spaz at the gym last night. I'm sorry I left, that I overreacted. I'm sorry I'm high maintenance, fussy, and all the other adjectives you could probably label me with. But along with the negative ones, like finicky or anal, I want you to know you can also add loyal, loving, trustworthy, and reliable."