“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.” I heard a chair squeak in the background—she was probably in her office between clients. “You sound weird.”
“I’m on pain meds.” I stretched the truth—I hadn’t taken my prescription medication for a couple of days.
“You’ve been on pain meds for days. This is different.” A pause. “Is it Étienne?”
My heart stopped. “What? Why would it be?—”
“Because you always sound different when you talk about him. And Mama called me yesterday worried because you wouldn’t let her come take care of you, and you said Étienne had everything handled.”
“He does have everything handled.”
“I’m sure he does. But that’s not the point.” Her voice softened. “Marco. Talk to me.”
I wanted to. Jesus Christ, I wanted to tell someone what had happened, what I was feeling, the hope and terror tangled up so tight I couldn’t breathe.
But even with Gia—the only person in my family who knew the truth about me—I couldn’t quite form the words.
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“It always is with you.” She sighed. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s honest at least.” More creaking. “Look, I have aclient in five minutes. But Marco? Whatever’s going on, you deserve to be happy. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think you do. But you should.”
After we hung up, I sat there staring at my phone.
You deserve to be happy.
Did I? Did I deserve to want my best friend? Did I deserve to hope that maybe, possibly, that moment yesterday had meant something?
Or was I just being selfish, risking everything good for feelings I should have kept buried?
The problem was that I’d spent three years training myself not to notice certain things about Étienne. The way he moved, the sound of his laugh, the gentle affection in his touch. Not to let myself want more than friendship.
But lying there on the couch with nothing to do but think, I couldn’t stop my mind from replaying every interaction we’d had since he’d moved in.
The first night after my injury, when he’d slept on the other side of the couch “in case I needed anything.” The way he’d learned my medication schedule better than I knew it myself. How he’d insisted on helping me shower, even though we’d both known it would be awkward.
The way his hand had felt on my calf during PT exercises the previous day. The way his thumb had brushed against my skin.
Had there been something there? Something I’d missed because I’d been so focused on hiding my own feelings?
Or was I just rewriting history, seeing signs that didn’t exist because I wanted them to?
I thought about all the times over three years when we’d been closer than strictly necessary. When his hand would linger on my shoulder. When we’d fall asleep during movie nights with our knees touching. When he’d crash at my placeeven before he’d moved in, choosing my couch over his own bed.
Were those signs? Or just friendship?
I didn’t know. Couldn’t trust my perception when I wanted so badly for them to mean something.
The morning dragged on. I tried to watch TV, tried to read a romance novel on my iPad—to do anything that would stop my mind from spiraling.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that almost-kiss. Maybe all those love stories were skewing my perception. Was Étienne thinking about it too? Did he regret it? Was he trying to figure out how to ask me if he could move out without making it awkward?
