I should be grateful, really. He let me down easy. He didn’t mock me or make it weird. He just…friend-zoned me with the precision of a surgeon.
By Thursday, I’ve developed a routine. Wake up, shower, avoid looking at my phone in case Drew texted something friendly and devastating, go to class, pretend to eat, go to the gym, come home, stare at the ceiling, and try not to think about Saturday’s performance.
The charity event sits in my calendar like a ticking time bomb, counting down to inevitable destruction. In two days, I’ll be in a glass box wearing nothing but a thong, running paint-covered hands over Drew’s body while pretending it doesn’t mean anything. Because it doesn’t. Not to him.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Arthur says during our afternoon weight room session.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and ran over it again.” He racks his dumbbells and fixes me with a knowing stare. “Spill.”
“It’s nothing.”
Tyrell appears on my other side, having finished his set. “Bullshit. You’ve been moping all week. What happened?”
I consider lying. Consider deflecting with humor or changing the subject. But Arthur and Tyrell have been my rocks since freshman year, and right now, I need someone to understand.
Clearing my throat, I force the words out. “So, the thing with Drew and me? It’s fake. The whole relationship is fake.”
“Wait, what?” Tyrell’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You and Drew aren’t dating?”
“We’re pretending. To fool the Ice Queen. It was supposed to be simple. Fake it until spring break, then have an amicable split.”
Arthur crosses his arms, studying me with that analytical look he gets when he’s breaking down game footage. “But something changed.”
It’s not a question, and that’s what breaks me. “I told him I had feelings for him. Real ones. At Home Depot, of all fucking places.” I laugh, but it sounds more like I’m choking. “And he called me his ‘bestest friend.’ Like I’m the fox to his hound.”
“Ouch,” Tyrell winces. “That’s rough, man.”
“It’s fine.” I grab the barbell for my next set, channeling everything into the movement. “I knew it was a long shot. Drew’s not—he doesn’t do relationships. Not real ones. And I’m not exactly his usual type.”
“His usual type being what, exactly?” Arthur asks.
“Not me.” I push through another rep, muscles burning. “Not the straight football player who’s still figuring out his sexuality. Not the guy who’s never been with another man.”
“Have you considered,” Tyrell says slowly, “that maybe Drew’s scared?”
I almost drop the weight. “Drew? Scared? Have you met the guy?”
“Everyone’s scared of something.” Arthur spots me as I struggle through the last rep. “Maybe his fear is wanting something real for once.”
I want to believe that. God, I want to believe that Drew’s rejection was self-protection, not genuine disinterest. But I was there. I saw his face when he laughed off my confession. There was no hidden longing, no suppressed emotion. Just Drew being Drew, unaware that he’d just shattered something inside me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, racking the bar. “We have this charity thing on Saturday. I just need to get through that, and then…I don’t know. Figure out how to be his friend without wanting more.”
“That’s a tall order,” Tyrell says.
“Yeah, well.” I grab my water bottle. “I don’t have a choice.”
The afternoon bleeds into night, and I perfect the art of existing in Drew’s orbit without letting him see how much it hurts. We text about the performance—logistics, timing, what colors to use. He sends me memes, and I respond with emojis. Every interaction is a small death, a reminder of what I want and can’t have.
Ryan suggests I skip the event. “Your mental health is more important than charity,” he argues.
“I can’t bail on him. On the cancer ward.” I shake my head. “Besides, backing out now would make things weird.”
“Things are already weird.”
“Weirder, then.”
