By two o’clock on the third night, I gave up trying.
I lay there staring at the ceiling for another twenty minutes before finally throwing off the covers and heading downstairs. Maybe some water would help. Maybe moving around would quiet my brain enough to let me sleep.
The house was dark except for the small lamp by the couch that we left on at night so Marco could navigate if he needed to. As I came down the stairs, I saw him.
He was awake. Sitting on the couch with his injured foot propped up, his shoulders slumped and his head hung low.
He looked as wrecked as I felt.
“Can’t sleep either?” I asked, my voice rough from lack of use.
He startled and turned to look at me. “No.”
The smart thing would have been to get my water and go back upstairs. To maintain the distance we’d been keeping since the near kiss. To protect us both from whatever this conversation might become. But I was so tired. Exhausted from pretending. Crushed under the weight of everything I couldn’t say. I walked over to the couch, stood there looking down at him. He looked back up at me, and something in his expression—the same exhaustion, the same pain, the same desperate need—broke something in me.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“This.” I gestured between us, at the space in the room, at everything. “Pretending. Acting like everything’s the same when nothing’s the same anymore.”
His jaw tightened. “Étienne?—”
“I need to tell you something.”
The words were out before I could stop them. But now that they’d started, I had to make a choice. Tell him everything and risk losing him or backtrack and keep drowning in secrets.
“What is it?” Marco asked, his voice cautious.
“I’ve been trying to figure something out. About myself. And I think I need to say it out loud, to you, because keeping it inside is killing me.”
He shifted on the couch, his full attention on me now. “Okay. I’m listening.”
God, this was terrifying. “You know I dated Amelie. That was real—I was attracted to her, the relationship mattered.”
Marco’s gaze slid away from mine, his lips a flat line.
“But…” I paused and searched for the right words. “That’s not the complete picture of who I am.”
Marco’s eyes came back to mine, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not just attracted to women.” My heartpounded so hard I could barely hear my own voice. “I’m also attracted to men. I’m bisexual.”
Marco stared at me, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’re bisexual?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
“You… when did you…?” He stopped, shook his head. “I had no idea,” he murmured.
“I didn’t either. Not until this week. I just figured it out.”
“Okay.” He nodded slowly, something enigmatic in his gaze. “Thank you for telling me.”
The acceptance in his voice—tentative but real—gave me courage I didn’t know I had.
“There’s more,” I said quietly.
His eyes locked on my gaze. “More?”
