“He said that I’m important to him.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?”
“It is. It’s just . . .” I fumbled again, not even sure what I meant to say, much less how to say it. “We’ve been dating for almost two months. I go to his bar multiple times a week. We text constantly. We spend every Sunday together.”
“I hear the but in your voice.”
“But I don’t know that much about him. I mean, I do, sort of. I knowabouthim, but I can’t decide if Iknowhim. Fuck, I’m not making any sense.” I folded my arms on the table and buried my face. Diego remained silent. Finally, I looked up, my voice tiny. “I haven’t met his friends, not properly. I mean, I see them at the bar. They know my name and are friendly and all, but I don’t know them.”
“So get to know them. What’s the problem?”
“I guess? I mean . . . I don’t know.” I straightened, then slumped back in the booth. “It’s like we exist in this bubble, and life doesn’t even exist outside that space. It’s him at the bar, me in my booth, and the occasional dinner and late nights at my place; but we don’t . . . I don’t know . . . overlap.”
Diego went quiet again, studying me. “Do you think he’s keeping you separate on purpose?”
“No,” I said too quickly. Then I drew a deep breath and said, “No, I don’t think it’s intentional. We’re both just so busy. We’re taking what time wecan get together, trying to make something work.” I paused. “But sometimes I wonder if he sees me as part of his life or just another decoration in his bar.”
Fuck, that felt terrible to say aloud. I hated myself the moment the words left my mouth. Still, I couldn’t deny their ring of truth. At least, how they made me feel.
“Have you told him this?”
“Not exactly.”
“Chase.” Diego’s voice was gentle but firm. “You need to communicate. If you want more time, more visibility in his life, you need to say that. He’s not a mind reader.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you have a tendency to just accept whatever situation you’re in instead of asking for what you want.”
I hated that he was right. Diego was always right.
“What if he’s not ready?” I asked. “What if this is all he can give me right now?”
“Then he’ll say so, and you’ll have to decide if that’s enough for you; but you won’t know unless you ask.” Diego thought a moment, then leaned forward. “Can I ask you something?”
“When have you ever asked permission? Would it even stop you if I said no?”
“Fair.” His smile was smug. “Are you in love withhim?”
The question slammed into me, a wall of feelings no amount of lunch or alcohol could prepare me for. The urge to crumple beneath its weight, right there in that booth, was almost too much.
Was I in love with Finn?
We’d known each other for the lifetime of a bug, and already Diego was pulling out the L-word like a sword from a stone. I wished he’d just stab me with that damn weapon and get it over with.
Then I focused on the question, on trying to answer it, at least to myself even if I couldn’t admit it aloud. I heard Finn’s laugh echo in my mind, saw the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, felt the way he fit against me when we slept. Then I thought about the way my chest felt tight every time I saw him walk through a door, or the way I wanted to tell him about my day and hear about his, to be part of every mundane moment of his life.
Dear God, I was in love with him.
I loved Finn O’Brien.
I had to remember to breathe.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think I am.”
“Have you told him?”
“God, no.”
