Her date, her cake, the man I love.
I’ve spent half my life memorizing every single thing about this man. Making him the center of my life. Pretending I’m the center of his. And it’s not enough.
It’s never been enough.
Itcan’tbe enough.
“Ames.” Robbie’s tone holds a rare warning note that means I’ve crossed a line.
I know I have. I heard myself.
Butfuck.
It’s not the date I care about—well, notsomuch. It’s the clock ticking. The timer counting down to the day Robbie chooses Lissa and not me, forever and ever amen.
I dart a look at Robbie’s face. He’s hurt and trying to hide it, and I mentally kick myself.
I’d doanythingto keep Robbie safe and happy. Slaughter armies. Move mountains. Drain oceans. You name it.
Anything, apparently, except trying to be happy for him. Anything except getting over him.
I inhale and exhale as I plate the mushrooms, drizzling them with a balsamic reduction that took three days to make.
“I’m sorry, Rob,” I say finally. “I’m being an ass. I love you. And Lissa’s been nothing but nice to me.”
This is, unfortunately, true. My sworn enemy doesn’t seem to realize we’re enemies, which is galling. She gaveme a cashmere sweater at Christmas that’s so soft I worry it’ll fall apart when I wear it. Robbie must’ve told her I have a thing for otters, and now she sends me one or two otter memes a week. She once thanked me for helping Rob become the amazing man he is. I sometimes even suspect she’s figured out my feelings for him are… pathetically un-platonic… but she’s never said a word.
Just in case you had any remaining doubt about who’s the asshole here.
I set the plate and a fork next to Robbie as a lame peace offering. “Taste this mushroom ragout and tell me if it belongs on the menu?”
He hops off the counter just as his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sets it facedown.
“Lissa?” I ask.
Robbie shrugs noncommittally and picks up the fork.
Part of me wants to think he’s ignoring her for me. Part of me worries that he thinks he can’t talk to her in front of me anymore without pissing me off… and he might be right.
“So, remember the rules—” I begin.
“Don’t say I like them if I don’t,” Robbie recites. “Give my honest, unbiased opinion.” He stabs a mushroom. “I solemnly swear I will rate this dish like we’re not even friends and this is just a random mushroom ragout I found on the street.” His eyes glint with humor.
I laugh and swat his arm. “That tracks, since I’d never be friends with someone who ate mushrooms off the street, anyway, dumbass.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, we’re just us again. A pair of bros. Two souls in harmony. Sharing food like we’ve done a thousand times.
Then he puts the mushroom in his mouth and chews, and I catch myself noticing the way his throat works as he swallows. A deep, happy groan emerges from his mouth, and I wonder if he makes that noise when he?—
“Holy shit.” He opens his eyes, and I deep dive into the soft, spring green I associate with happiness. “You’re gonna put every other restaurant in Vermont out of business. These are amazing, Ames.”
I feel myself blush.
Robbie’s praise is outrageous. Over-the-top. But when he says shit like this, I know he truly means it, and I feel myself blooming like a goddamn flower in the sun.
I have an amazing, supportive family. I have a ton of friends. And I don’t have a confidence problem—in fact, if you listen to my shit-talking brothers, it’s precisely the opposite.
I can’t say exactly why Robbie’s praise hits different. Why his support means so much. But it’s my favorite thing. I don’t know how to live without it. I don’t want to have to give this up.
