And then everything goes dark and still. No hum, no fan, no heater—just a heavy silence pressing in around us.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no.”
But the car’s dead.
CHAPTER 2. Thomas
The car is completely silent around us—and so is Carter.
He’s already tried to restart the engine five times, then let me try too. Nothing. Now he just sits there, hands clenched around the steering wheel like maybe if he holds on tight enough, the car will change its mind.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. His face is still pink and damp from crying, and it physically hurts to see him like this.
This is not how I pictured today going. Not even close.
We were supposed to decorate for Jason’s birthday together, talk while we worked—keep things friendly, like they used to be—then have a few drinks at the party. And after, maybe, I’d finally find the guts to pull him aside and say all the things I’ve spent the past three months rehearsing.
Instead, we’re stranded in a snowstorm, in a dead car, with nothing but the echo of that horrible conversation bouncing around between us.
And I’m panicking.
“Shit,” Carter mutters, still staring straight ahead through the windshield, where snow is already piling up on the frozen wipers. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Let me call a tow truck,” I say—because it’s the only remotely useful thing I can offer right now, even though I already tried that for my own car earlier and found out there’s an hour-long waitlist.
I pull out my phone anyway, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I find the same towing company and call again. A bored-sounding dispatcher—the same guy I talked to earlier—picks up after a few rings and tells me the wait time is still over an hour. Best case.
I ask him to add us to the list, give him our coordinates and my name, then hang up.
Carter hasn’t moved. He’s leaning forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, his whole body tense.
“They said it’s going to be at least an hour,” I say. “Probably closer to an hour and a half.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“Fantastic,” he mutters. “I tried Uber too, but the order cancels every time. So we’re stuck here for God knows how long.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I’m not just apologizing for the car. I’m apologizing for everything I did wrong with Carter—starting with last year, when I completely screwed things up.
It was Jason’s birthday. I got drunk, let my guard down, and came way too close to telling Carter I was in love with him.I touched him like someone who wanted more. And for a few hours, it felt amazing. But the next morning, I woke up panicked. Because I couldn’t be that person. I couldn’t be bi.
I’d had feelings for him for years—probably since I was nineteen and he was seventeen—but I’d gotten used to keeping that part of myself buried. As long as I never said it out loud, I could pretend it wasn’t there. I could stay close to him without ever having to deal with what that closeness meant.
But after that night, there was no more pretending. I knew exactly what I’d almost done—and instead of dealing with it, I shut down. I asked Carol out the next day, like it would somehow fix things or prove I was still the guy everyone expected. And then I pulled back completely. Didn’t talk to Carter. Didn’t explain. Didn’t even check if he was okay.
I just left him sitting with all the confusion and hurt I’d caused—because I was too afraid to face it myself.
And while I was off trying to convince the world I was fine—‘normal’, straight—Carter was left behind, probably assuming I just didn’t care. That I said all those things and disappeared because it meant nothing. Becausehemeant nothing.
It’s no wonder he let it go. Whatever he might’ve felt back then—if there was ever anything there—he’s clearly over it now.
I don’t blame him. I really don’t. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Carter finally lifts his head. His eyes are tired, his expression flat.
“Not your fault,” he says. “Unless you secretly sabotaged my car.”
