It doesn’t.
When I come back out, Vesper is already in bed, her brown eyes fixed on the ceiling like she’s trying to mentally climb through it.Her hands are folded on top of the blanket, fingers tight.
I ease into the bed carefully, as if I’m not allowed to disturb whatever fragile peace she’s built for the next few hours.
Like I’m one wrong move away from watching her bolt.
“Okay,” I say quietly, trying to make it light.“I’m here.Nice mountain of pillows.”
“Don’t get cocky, Winthrop,” she murmurs.Then she keeps staring at the ceiling like it’s holding the answer to how to survive her own thoughts.
She breathes in.Breathes out.Tries again, like she’s practicing being okay.
Then, without looking at me, she says, “Can I ask you something without you making it ...a thing?”
I turn my head toward her.“You mean without me turning into someone who tries to fix your feelings with snacks and affection?”
A small sound escapes her—almost a laugh, if her voice wasn’t strained.“Yes.”
“I’ll try,” I promise, because I mean it.“Ask.”
Her fingers pick at the edge of the pillowcase, worrying the fabric like it owes her answers.
“Why couldn’t you two just ...”She stops.Swallows.“Why couldn’t you ditch me and still be best friends after that night?”
My breath catches.The question is a blow to my system.She’s asking like she’s already convicted herself.It’s as if she’s been holding that guilt for years and never let herself speak it out loud.
She keeps going, words speeding up like if she says them fast enough they won’t hurt as much.“I hate myself for being the one in the middle of whatever it was you two had back then.Four years of friendship and ...”Her voice breaks on the last part.“I broke it.”
I roll onto my side, careful not to knock the pillow wall, careful not to crowd her.“Ves?—”
“Don’t,” she says immediately, like she can smell a lie coming.“Just ...answer.”
I take a breath, exhaling slowly.
“I could never ditch you,” I say.“Even if I tried.”
She finally looks at me, eyes sharp with fear and irritation and that tenderness she refuses to name.“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I say softly.“You meant ...why didn’t we cut you out so we could keep our friendship.”
Her lips press together.She nods once, like she hates herself for the question and still needs the answer.
My chest aches.I want to pull her into me, tell her she never had to earn love by being easy to love.
But she asked for honesty, so I give it to her.
“Because it wasn’t just you who I loved,” I say.“It was never just you.”
She goes still.
I keep my voice gentle because I’m stepping onto thin ice and I know how fast it can crack.
“That last summer,” I say, “we crossed a line we’d been circling for years.And I don’t just mean you and me.”I swallow.“I mean me and him.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“We’d always had these ...moments—Alberto and me,” I say carefully.“The same accidental touches you and I had—those happened with him too.The way we looked at each other.The way we reacted.We kept pretending it was nothing.”I exhale, my throat tight.“It wasn’t nothing.We wanted it.”
