“She’s not wrong,” Chance pointed out, earning himself a glare from me.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, obviously. Which is why I’m telling you that you fucked up. Badly. Like, textbook ‘How to Ruin a Perfectly Good Thing in Ten Seconds’ level fucked up.”
“I didn’t fuck up,” I insisted, even as a voice in the back of my head called me a liar. “I was honest. I’ve always been honest about not believing in love. She knew that going in.”
“There’s a difference between theoretical skepticism and telling your friends that what you have with someone is ‘just a good time,’” Morgan said. “That’s like telling someone you’re on a diet and then having them catch you behind a dumpster deep-throating a Big Mac.”
Kris snorted. “Graphic, but accurate.”
“You know what? I don’t need this.” I stood, pacing across the living room. “I don’t need you three idiots analyzing my life. She wants someone who believes in fairy tales? Fine. Goodluck finding that in Manhattan. Most men here think ‘emotional intimacy’ is remembering your Starbucks order the morning after.”
“Come on, man,” Chance said, his perpetually calm demeanor starting to fray around the edges. “This isn’t about fairy tales. It’s about basic human connection.”
“What would you know about it?” I challenged.
“I’ve been married for years,” he reminded me mildly. “To a woman I love more than anything. And yes, I said the L-word. Try not to have an aneurysm.”
“Good for you,” I muttered. “Want a fucking medal?”
Kris let out a low whistle. “Wow. You are deep in denial right now. Like, submerged-at-the-bottom-of-the-Mariana-Trench deep.”
“I’m not in denial, I’m being realistic. Love, at most, is a chemical reaction designed to ensure the continuation of the species. It’s not real, it’s just biology. Attachment. Lust. Comfort. Whatever. People dress it up, but it all comes down to the same thing,” I insisted, refilling my glass.
“If that’s true,” Morgan said, watching me carefully, “then why are you this upset that she left?”
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again, the scotch bitter on my tongue.
“I’m not upset,” I lied. “I’m annoyed. Anica’s my wedding planner.”
“Bullshit,” Kris said bluntly. “You’re devastated. I haven’t seen you this rattled since your grandmother had that health scare last year.”
“Fuck off, Kris.”
“He’s right,” Chance added. “Look at yourself, man. You’re pacing. You’re drinking scotch before noon. You can’t even say her name without looking like someone punched you in the gut.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cal,” Morgan said, setting down his phone and leaning forward. “It’s us. You don’t have to pretend.”
Something inside me cracked, just a little. “Fine. I like her. A lot. She’s smart and funny and doesn’t take my shit, and yes, the sex was mind-blowing. But that doesn’t mean?—”
“That you love her?” Chance finished for me. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a hell of a lot like love.”
“It’s not. It’s... attraction. Compatibility. Chemistry. Whatever you want to call it. But it’s not love, because love doesn’t?—”
“Exist. Yeah, we got it the first fifty times,” Kris interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that while you drink yourself stupid at ten in the morning over a woman who walked out less than fifteen minutes ago.”
I wanted to argue, to defend myself, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I sank back into the armchair, my drink forgotten in my hand.
“What am I supposed to do? Call her and say, ‘Sorry I don’t believe in the thing you apparently need me to believe in’? Lie to her?”
“How about,” Chance suggested gently, “you start by asking yourself why you’re so damn terrified of even considering the possibility that love might be real?”
“I’m not terrified. I’m rational.”
“Rational,” Morgan repeated skeptically. “Is that why you’re clutching that glass like it’s a life preserver and you’re drowning?”
