Sixteen years.
He’s been in love with me for sixteen years?
The same sixteen years I’ve spent pining after him like some tragic Jane Austen character?
This can’t be real. It has to be a cosmic joke. Or maybe we’re both suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning, because the universe isn’t this kind. Especially not to me.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” I say, because it’s the only thing my short-circuiting brain can manage to produce.
Thomas flinches like I’ve slapped him, and his face—oh god, his face—crumples for just a second before he shuts down behind that guarded look I know too well.
The temperature in the car seems to drop another ten degrees.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight.
I want to tell him I love him too, but the words are stuck—buried under years of hope, hurt, and everything I’ve tried notto feel. I need to speak. I mean to. But apparently, my body’s chosen this exact moment—possibly the most important one of my entire life—to completely shut down all motor function.
Thomas takes the silence as an answer. He shifts back, pressing against the car door to put as much space between us as the backseat allows.
Snow keeps piling up on the rear window, sealing us inside our own private snow globe of emotional disaster.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and there’s a tremor in his voice I’ve never heard before. “I messed everything up.”
My heart’s beating so fast I’m half convinced I’m having a cardiac event. This is not how I imagined this conversation going—not in any of the thousand scenarios I’ve played out in my head over the years. In those versions, I was calm, articulate, ready with the perfect response.
But apparently, the real me can’t even string four words together when it actually counts.
“Fuck,” Thomas whispers, staring at me, panic creeping into his expression. “You don’t feel the same way anymore, do you?”
The question finally jolts me out of my stupor.
So he knew. He knew I was in love with him.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, except it clearly isn’t—his voice is tight, and he’s breathing too fast. “I get it. I hurt you. I disappeared for a year. Of course you moved on. You should’ve moved on.”
Moved on? What the hell is he talking about? I’m still stuck on the part where Thomas Moore—straight Thomas, gold-medal friend-zoner, and my brother’s best friend—just said he’s been in love with me for half my life.
It’s dark in the car now, but I can still see the tears sliding down his cheeks. He tries to brush them away, like maybe I won’t notice.
Thomas Moore is crying.
Thomas—who didn’t cry when he broke his arm in three places on that ski trip in tenth grade. Who didn’t cry when five guys from the rival school jumped him after a soccer game. Who, in the twenty-plus years I’ve known him, has never once shed a single tear in front of me.
And now he’s falling apart.
My own eyes burn with more unshed tears. All the anger I’ve been holding onto—all the hurt and resentment—starts to crumble.
But before I can say anything, he sucks in a sharp breath—like he suddenly can’t get enough air—and exhales in a shaky rush. His eyes are wide now, his whole expression pulled tight with panic.
“Thomas?” I say, heart climbing up into my throat. “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, unable to get any words out. His breathing turns ragged—short, shallow gasps that sound like they hurt. His free hand comes up to his chest, and there’s fear in his eyes.
“Are you having chest pains?” I ask, already reaching for my phone. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”
He shakes his head again, more forcefully this time. “No, it’s just a—” he manages between gasps, “panic attack.”
Relief hits me, but I don’t let myself relax. I’ve had panic attacks—they’re awful, like your own body turning against you—but I’ve never seen Thomas like this.
