Robbie’s hands on me.
His fierce protection wrapped in gentleness, all for me.
His absolute certainty that I am the perfect center of the universe, and that he’ll use every last ounce of his strength to make the planets revolve around me as they should.
For years, I’ve let myself believe that Robbie and I being together wasn’t just possible but inevitable. That buried somewhere beneath his giant heart and all that muscle, an ember of romantic love for me has been waiting for a good draft of air to burst into flame. That the women he dated were passing flings. That the growl in his voice when he talked about my hookups was jealousy. That despite me reminding him a dozen times that “not all gay men have crushes on the straight men in their lives, Rob,” he’d somehow realize, at the exact right moment, that he and I were the exception.
But standing here with Robbie’s hands on my shoulders, staring into his concerned eyes, I let the awful truth sink in, all the way to my marrow.
Loving him the way I do isn’t brave or noble. It’s wrong.
You hear stories all the time about how if you just hang on long enough, work hard enough, if your faith is true enough, and blah blah, you’ll carry the day. So I built myself a pyre of love and threw myself on it. When the smoke made me choke, I considered it proof of my affection. When the flames burned me, I called it devotion.
But nothing about this senseless sacrifice is romantic. It’s willful self-destruction, pure and simple. And if I’ve been hoping Robbie’s going to come and rescue me, that he’ll finallychoose me, then I’m fucked because he can’t.
Robbie’s getting married in August.
It’s not some maybe-probably-someday thing anymore—he’sset a date. And somehow, that fact makes it unignorably real in a way even seeing his ring on Lissa’s finger didn’t.
So in that moment, I do what I should have done years ago.
I make myself let go of the fantasy.
It hurts. Physically hurts. My heart’s a fist that’s been clenched tight so long, it’s calcified and atrophied and forgotten how to open. I have to pry myself loose bit by bit, and it still rips off little pieces of me in the process. My eyes sting, and I have to grip the counter tight, hoping he won’t see.
“You’re right, Rob,” I finally manage to whisper. “That’s not the kind of relationship I want.”
What I need to do next hits me so suddenly, I know my subconscious has realized it all along: I need to “break up” with Erick so he and Carlos can stop sneaking around. I need to set boundaries in my heart where Robbie isconcerned, no matter how weird and wrong that feels. I need to date without holding back and find someone who thinksIam as perfect as I’ve always thought Robbie is.
“That’s my Ames.” Robbie pulls me into a quick hug and steps away, clueless about this sea change. Then he picks up the fork and steals another mushroom.
Not your Ames.Not anymore.
“I deserve someone who’s all in,” I whisper. “Someone who puts me first.”
“Mmm.” His ass gives a delighted little wiggle as he chews. Then he points his fork at me and says seriously, “Damn straight, you do.”
“Just like you deserve to have wedding cake that won’t make you break out in hives.”
Robbie swallows, winces. “That’s… different.”
“Sure. Because inmycase, you’d prefer I stopped doing things you think are ultimately going to hurt me, and inyourcase… Oh, wait, no, it’s not different at all. But hey, if you’re cool with it, that’s your call.” I throw up a hand and let it fall. “I’ll stop giving you a hard time.”
“No, I don’t want you to stop,” he says with a frown. “You give the hardest time to the people you love best. Your love languages are giving shit and cooking.”
I laugh. The man has no clue just how right he is… and he never will. I can’t protect him from everything, but I can protect him from that, at least.
“Best friends, right?” he says.
I bump my arm into his. “Obvs.” I clear my throat. “Although I’m a very popular boy, IthinkI can pencil you in for August fourteenth.”
He bumps me back. “You better. Fucker.”
“I have some ideas about your bachelor trip, though.Hear me out: we leave the fish alone and go white water rafting?—”
Just like that, we slip back into our rhythm. Robbie enthuses about rafting as I spoon the remaining mushrooms on his plate. We discuss the idea of me mentoring Greene as I put the bread dough in the oven. We eat on the sofa while watching some lumberjack reality show my brother’s boyfriend got me into. I pretend that I’ve never felt an un-platonic thing for Robbie in my life.
But the whole time, my mind churns with determination.
