The last time I was in Dylan’s living room, I had been too angry to notice its tasteful, understated décor. Sitting on the stylish L-shaped sofa, I took in the color scheme.
“The blue and orange palette you’ve chosen really works, by the way,” I couldn’t help observing as I took in the aesthetic in the soft glow of the lamps Dylan switched on.
His lips twitched. “Ever the artist,” he said fondly. “But I’m afraid I can’t take credit for this. Bert got an interior decorator in to do everything.”
I nodded and, despite my melancholy mood from my shock at Carl’s betrayal, realized that I wasn’t angry at the thought of my old friend. For the last week, I’d refused to answer his sorry texts over the fact that he’d told Dylan about Fern. I thought I’d text him tomorrow and say all was forgotten and forgiven. Life was too short to hold a grudge against my oldest friend. After all, good people were in short supply these days. The memory of glimpsing Carl through the restaurant’s window, kissing that woman, sent disgust through me.
Dylan asked, “If you want to talk about anything, Cherry, I’m here for you.” His dark eyes wound over my face with concern, and I felt touched by his earnestness. “Can I get you a drink, tea, coffee, or something stronger?”
My lips twitched at the thought of how many coffees and other things he’d brought to my door over the week. But the sincere worry stamped across his face about my well-being had me answering equally truthfully, “I could really do with a glass of wine, please.”
“Coming right up.” Easing himself out of the low sofa, he went to the kitchen.
As I heard the opening of cupboard doors and the clink of glasses, I took off my heels. I wore a mint green midi dress, so it was long enough that I was able to curl myself up on the sofa without showing too much leg. I leaned back into the comfy gray couch, closing my eyes and letting myself relax.