“I’m good. Already took my meds.”
“Okay.” More silence. I wanted to escape to my room, to hide from this awkwardness, but I forced myself to stay. To at least try to be present.
“Game was rough,” Marco said finally.
“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Just couldn’t focus.”
“Because of—” He stopped. Started again. “Is everything okay?”
No. Nothing was okay. I’d almost kissed my best friendand now I couldn’t think straight, and I had no idea what I was feeling or what it meant. “Just tired,” I lied. “Long week.”
He nodded, but I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe me. That he knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “You good down here?”
“Yeah.”
I headed for the stairs, then paused. Looked back at him. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read, between worry and something else I didn’t dare name.
“Goodnight, Marco.”
“Night.”
I went upstairs to my room, closed the door, and leaned my forehead against it. I’d almost kissed Marco. I’d wanted to kiss him so badly it had felt like need. Like hunger. Like I’d die without it. And I had no idea what that meant. I didn’t know if he’d wanted it too or if I’d imagined the whole thing. I didn’t know what would happen the next day, or the day after, or how long we could keep living in this house together with this thing between us.
All I knew for certain was that everything had changed. That whatever we’d been before—the simple friendship we’d built—was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marco
I woke up to silence and a note on the coffee table.
Had to go in early for optional practice. Your meds are laid out. Ice packs in the freezer. Text if you need anything — É
The aloofness of it made my chest ache.
He’d left without waking me. Without our usual morning routine.
Because of what had almost happened yesterday.
Because I’d looked at his mouth, and he’d seen it. Because he’d leaned in—fucking hell, he’d leaned in—and then pulled away like I’d burned him.
I sat up slowly, careful of my foot, and stared at that note. The handwriting was just like Étienne, larger than life and slightly messy. The words were practical, caring even.
But his absence was loud.
He’d run. And I didn’t blame him.
I would have run too, if I could have.
My phone rang around ten. Gia’s name flashed on the screen, and I debated not answering. But my sister had a sixth sense for when I was avoiding her, and ignoring the call would just make her more persistent.
“Hey, Gia.”
“Don’t ‘hey, Gia’ me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I broke my foot, remember?”
