One
Anabel
Dusk is slowly, gently falling over the city of Rome as I walk through the cobblestoned streets with my best friend at my side. I take a lick of my gelato, the strawberry-lime flavour bursting over my tongue as I sneak a sideways glance at Cole. As always, my heart does what can only be described as a kick-flip in my chest.
Why?
Because I’m in love with my best friend. And I don’t think he has any idea.
But I’m going to tell him. I think. Probably.
Cole glances over at me, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I look away, taking in the gorgeous lavender and pink hues of the clouds in the sky, the way the golden light seems to touch everything. After a few more steps and another delicious lick, I steal another peek at the man who’s come to mean everything to me. He’s tall, standing just over six feet, with a quietly athletic build. He looks lean, but I’ve seen him with his shirt off, and his abs are to die for. He has this dark, curly hair that neverquite behaves the way he wants it to, with a curled lock always falling forward onto his forehead. His eyes are a soft brown colour, warm and earnest. When he smiles, he has these dimples that make my organs liquefy, and when he blushes, my knees weaken.
I’m also mildly obsessed with his hands. He has large palms with long, skilled fingers. He’s been playing the piano since he was five years old, and I’d be lying if I said that I’ve never thought about what those fingers would feel like inside me. On my clit. Plucking my nipples.
My face heats again, and I take another lick of gelato, trying to cool myself off.
Cole and I have been friends since our freshman year of university. For seven years, he’s been my closest confidant, my cheerleader, my shoulder to lean on, and the person who hands down brings me the most joy. And for the first few years of our friendship, that’s all it was. Friendship. We each dated other people, and were there for each other when those relationships crashed and burned.
But then, about eighteen months ago, something started to shift. I can’t fully explain it. But I started to see Cole…differently. I started noticing things, like those fingers, that dimple, the deep timbre of his laugh, how good he smells.
Okay, fine. I had a crush.
I realized it was more than that when he started dating someone new, and I threw up. Like, literally hurled my guts up because the idea of him with someone who wasn’t me was that upsetting to me.
It was the acting performance of my life to pretend I was sad when they broke up three months later.
So. Yeah. I’m secretly in love with my best friend. The one I’m on vacation in Rome with. The one I’m sharing an adjoining hotel room with.
I sigh, anchoring myself in the here and now to try and ignore the way my nerves are jangling as we wander back to our hotel, full from dinner.
The restaurant was perfect—tiny, candlelit, tucked into a narrow alley where the scents of garlic and basil clung to the warm evening air. I watched Cole eat, the way his lips parted just slightly as he took each bite of his creamy pasta, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. The way his eyes fluttered shut for a second, like he was savouring not just the food, but the moment, and the entire time, I was savouring him.
Now, walking back to the hotel, he lets out a low, dramatic groan.
“Oh my god,” he laughs, pressing a hand to his perfectly flat abdomen. “I think I actually overdid it.”
“You? Overdo it?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “Mr. ‘I’ll just have one more arancini’?”
His fingers brush against mine as we walk, just for a second, but it’s enough to send a jolt up my arm and make butterflies flap in my stomach. “In my defense,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “those were exceptional arancini.”
I hum, fighting a smile. “Mmm. The best you’ve ever had?”
His eyes flick to mine. “Absolutely.” His gaze lingers on mine, something flickering in his eyes that I don’t know how to process.
Every once in a while, I catch Cole looking at me…differently. He looks at me with what I think is wishful hunger, and it makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wants me too, and we’re both too shy and unwilling to risk our amazing friendship to be honest.
Or, maybe it’s all just wishful thinking on my part. I don’t know. I do know that I haven’t dated anyone in the eighteen months since I realized I had feelings for my best friend. AndCole’s been single for almost a year, seemingly uninterested in dating.
The foolish, hopeful part of my brain (or is it my heart?) tells me it’s because he wants me, too.
The realistic, self-protective part of me says it’s because he’s been busy with work after his promotion at the library and he just hasn’t had time to get back out there.
“Man, that was the best cacio e pepe I’ve ever had,” he says, rubbing his stomach again.
I swallow, my fingers tightening around the gelato cup. “You say that about everything,” I tease, nudging him again, mostly just so that I have an excuse to touch him. “The best pizza, the best wine, the best—”
“View,” he finishes, stopping suddenly. We’re at the edge of a small piazza, the fountain in the center glowing under the streetlights that have just flicked on. His shoulder brushes mine as he turns to face me, and I don’t step away.
