“So the main thing we’re ruling out is love,” I say. “We’re not writing each other romantic sonnets or making declarations about how we complete each other. We’re basically houseplants existing in the same space.”
Ian tilts his head to the side. “Houseplants that have sex?” His teasing smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something slightly more serious. “Wait, I don’t want to presume. If you feel better having separate bedrooms, I understand the need for privacy.”
I snort into my cappuccino. “Please. One of the chief advantages of this arrangement is having a permanent butt-warmer.”
“Now who’s the romantic?” He grins and runs a finger around the rim of his mug. I glance away, not wanting to get too lost in thought about what else he can do with that finger.
“So what happens if someone falls in love?” I say the words fast, like I’m swallowing a spoonful of medicine instead of spitting out the question that’s been nagging at me.
Ian looks startled, like I’ve asked what happens if I grow reindeer antlers and a bulbous red nose. “That’s not—possible.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Not for me.”
“Right.” Here’s where I’m supposed to say the same thing, right? I take a deep breath. “I suppose if I make up my mind at the outset?—”
“You can resist falling in love with me?” He grins like it’s the most absurd thing imaginable that someone would fall for him without meaning to do it. “You were immune to my charms in college, so I don’t think there’s too much risk of you falling now.”
“Right.”
It makes sense. Everything about this makes sense, if I focus on the cerebral instead of the emotional.
“Sure,” I say, forcing the words out. “I can keep love out of the equation.”
I wonder if he can tell I’m not convinced. I’m trying, but part of me isn’t buying it. I open my mouth to ask again, “What happens if we fail?” but something in Ian’s expression tells me he’s not in a place to consider failure. Not that kind, anyway.
I close my mouth and spin my coffee mug on the table. If he’s determined to make this work, I can do the same.
We’re quiet for a few beats. The air around us hums with coffee shop chatter and whatever the hell has been buzzing between us for the last week. That never existed before, not in all our caffeine-fueled study sessions, but I can’t put my finger on what caused the shift. I pretend I’m scanning the room, indulging in a session of people-watching like we used to. But I’m really thinking about Ian. About the reason behind the other big shift.
His eyes are locked on me when I turn back to him. “Are we going to talk about it?” I ask.
I see his throat move as he swallows. “About what?”
“About why you seem so hell-bent on eliminating love from your life.”
He clears his throat. “Haven’t we already covered this?”
“It’s about Shane,” I say. “And your parents.”
He nods, looking uncertain. “Losing him—knowing my parents’ volatile marriage had something to do with that?—”
“Your parents’ ugly divorce didn’t kill Shane,” I said. “A lot of people with Down Syndrome have cardiac abnormalities. It happens.”
Ian’s face has gone hard, and his jaw is tight with emotion. So much for my old friend’s claim he’s shut down his feelings completely, but at least now I know for sure this is why he wants to.
“Shane died of a broken heart,” he says stiffly. “No one will ever convince me otherwise.”
My eyes well with moisture. Maybe it’s memories of Shane or the agonized crack in Ian’s voice. As a tear slips down my cheek, I watch his face crumple.
“Don’t cry,” he pleads as he pushes the napkin dispenser across the table. It takes me a moment to realize what it’s for. “Please, Sarah, don’t cry.”
“I’m fine.” I mop at my face with a napkin, determined to hold it together. The desperation in his eyes, the tremble in his voice—this is what he’s worked so hard to shut down. This is why he’s ruled out the possibility of love or anything else that might hurt.
“Ian, you can’t blame Shane’s death on your parents’ split,” I tell him once I’ve composed myself. “I know he took it hard, but?—”
“You were there, Sarah,” he says. “You saw how it affected him. He was never the same after those last big fights between them. After they sat him down and told him they were splitting up.”
“You can’t blame your parents,” I say softly.
He looks surprised. “I don’t,” he says. “I truly don’t. I blame love.”
