“I’m sure he would love the good news,” she says softly, always encouraging this thing between me and Ian.
I sigh. “I hate that I can’t help him.”
She pats my hand, eyeing me warmly. “I’m sure you being there helps.”
“He’s like super organized. My place is chaotic, but his is neat. Like, even his pantry is neat. And he even eats my food.”
She arches an incredulous brow. “He was the first person you wanted to cook for. You couldn’t even heat soup.”
“Hey,” I say and shove at her arm playfully.
“Why do you think that is?” she asks, suddenly serious.
I chew on my lip. “I…”
“You’re just friends even though neither of you goes out or dates.”
“It’s…” No excuse rolls off my tongue quick enough.
She seizes the opportunity to make her point. “You should take the leap at more with him.”
My phone pings, and I see a message from Ian. My heart flutters like crazy in my chest—like he’s the moon and my insides are the tide, completely helpless at his pull.
Italian?
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks, tilting her head to me.
A warm feeling settles in my belly. “We try to come up with a daily takeout schedule based on what we like most.”
“Aww. That’s adorable.”
“We’ve had Chinese and Italian twice, Greek, Mexican, and vegetarian. He always orders grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. He says he’s eating vicariously through me.”
Can’t tonight.
I see the conversation dots appearing and disappearing while I peel my cuticle with my teeth. Why do I feel guilty? I am about to type something more when he finally replies.
Kat snatches my phone from my hand, and I let a sound of protest out.
“Why can’t you tonight? You’re backing away? Really?” Her harsh tone only intensifies my nervous state. Ignoring my true feelings. Lying to myself. Pretending we’re just friends. How long can I continue this path before my foundation crumbles?
“It’s not that. We need a bit of distance. We spend way too much time together.”
She sends me an intense look, sighing. “All I hear are excuses.”
Once back at my building, in the elevator, I search for the keys in my bag, digging out his first. Not tonight. It’s not normal for just friends to sleep together. One night, it will be fine to sleep on my own in my apartment.
I glance at his door. Longing grips me, forcing me in the direction my heart wants to go. With a will that seems supernatural, I walk to my apartment.
I take a shower, thinking we’d have dinner afterward. Wrapping a bathrobe around me and a towel on my head, I go into the bedroom. His hoodie lies sprawled on my chair. Picking it up, I inhale deeply. It still preserves a bit of his woodsy scent.
I miss him. I miss his space. Why doesn’t my apartment feel like mine anymore? This is crazy.
I try to watch some mindless TV, but he’s not there to remind me we’re watching the film for the first time, and he doesn’t know either. Or shushing me whenever I add a sarcastic commentary. It’s no fun, so I shut it off and climb into bed, tossing and turning.
Get a grip. But it’s like my pillows are stone and my bed cement—terribly uncomfortable. There’s no heat blanketing me or his scent making me feel safe—at home.
