“Lone Star,” he says. “It’s another start-up. They pay better, and I can work remotely, which is nice.”
“That’s great,” I say—and I mean it, even though the fact that I didn’t know something this big about his life stings.
Thomas always hated the commute toNook’soffices in Chicago. Back when he used to drop byDripall the time, he’d wake up two hours early just to swing through before catching the train. I’d make him coffee, we’d talk, and later he’d text me updates—about delays, or some guy eating tuna straight out of a can across from him. It used to feel like I had a front-row seat to his mornings.
Back then, I would’ve asked for details—wanted to know everything: his coworkers, his projects, whether his new boss micromanaged like the last one.
Now I just...don’t. Because it doesn’t feel like I have the right to anymore.
“Yeah, it’s been good,” he says. “More workload, though. Still getting used to it.”
I nod, not sure what else to say.
We approach a traffic light, and I ease into the brake, testing it on the slick pavement. The silence creeps back in.
“So,” I say, unable to help myself, “what were you doing all the way out here, anyway? Did you move?”
Thomas shifts in his seat again, clearly uncomfortable.
“No, I’m still at the loft,” he says. “I was just, uh…staying over at a friend’s place.”
My heart drops so fast I’m shocked it doesn’t crash through the floor and get left behind on Route 59.
A friend’s place. Right.
I nod again, eyes on the road, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts.
The light turns green. I press the gas—maybe a little too hard—and the wheels spin for half a second before catching.
“Her name’s Gigi,” Thomas says, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring my reaction. “She works atLone Startoo—lives here in Naperville. She’s in product management.”
“Cool,” I say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.
Gigi. Of course her name is Gigi. She probably has glossy hair, a laugh like wind chimes, and no idea what it’s like to spend years wanting someone who’ll never want you back.
“She’s just a good friend,” Thomas adds after a beat, suddenly awkward, and there’s something weird in his voice I can’t quite place. “We were working on a…thing.”
A thing. Jesus. He’s so flustered at his own inability to come up with a lie, I start feeling second-hand embarrassment.
“You don’t need to explain,” I say quickly—because I really, really don’t want to hear any more about Gigi from product management. “It’s none of my business.”
“I know, but—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than I meant. “Seriously. Relax, man.”
Man.
I cringe. That didn’t sound like me at all. Might as well have called him bro and told him not to sweat it.
Thomas goes quiet, clearly thrown by how I just steamrolled the conversation.
I feel a flicker of guilt—but it’s buried under the hot, ugly jealousy burning through me. I know, I have no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from eating through my chest like acid.
The snow’s coming down harder now, thick and blinding, and I lean forward, squinting through the windshield—grateful for the excuse to focus on anything other than the man sitting next to me.
“Carter,” Thomas says after a beat—and just from the tension in his voice, I already know I’m not going to like what comes next. “Can we talk?”
My whole body tightens, panic scraping cold claws down my spine.
