It was one of his best qualities as a friend and one of his most annoying qualities as a human being.
“I’m seeing someone.”
The words felt enormous.
Two words—“I’m” and “seeing” and “someone”—okay, three words, technically, and yet they landed in the quiet room with the force of a building collapse.
Tyler nodded. “Okay. That’s great. Is it someone I know?”
This was the moment.
The cliff edge.
The point of no return.
I thought about Jacks, about his patience and his warmth and the way he said he’ll be there either way with such quiet certainty that I almost cried.
I thought about Erik’s speech.
When I stopped fighting it, everything got simple.
I thought about lying in bed last night with Jacks asleep in my arms, whispering truths I’d been hiding from for years.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
“It’s Jacks,” I said.
Tyler didn’t react.
Not a flinch, nor a blink, not even a widening of his eyes.
He sat there, steady as a stone, and nodded.
“Jackson Armstrong,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
“The guy from Barbacks.”
“Yeah.”
“The former FSU linebacker whose jersey you have framed in your apartment.”
“I . . . yeah.”
Silence.
It stretched between us, long and terrifying, while my heart tried to hammer its way through my sternum and my palms turned slick against the armrests of the chair.
Then Tyler leaned forward and put his hand on my knee.
“Sky,” he said, and his voice was so gentle, wholly devoid of judgment or surprise. “I’m really,reallyhappy for you.”
I blinked.
And gaped.
