He laughs. “It will be like all of our clothes. Help yourself policy.”
“Just not my socks and underwear,” I say, and like every other time I remind him, I don’t totally trust his answer.
“Sure, of course not.” Rafael’s eyes dart into the gallery. “Was that Davis earlier?”
“Yeah! He moved back to Chicago.”
“Oh, cool.” He gives me a hesitant smile. “He looked like he was flirting with you.”
“What?” I blurt out, as though that’s a shocking thing to suggest.
He chuckles. “I remember Davis. He was definitely flirting.”
“Well,” I admit, refusing to look at my friend, “he did ask me out.”
“And you said?”
I turn back to Rafael. He hasn’t encouraged me to date for a while, and I know he’ll drop it the second I’m bothered, but his response still drives the point home.
I might be hung up on my best friend, but my best friend is clearly not hung up on me.
Unlike me, Rafael has a sex life. He hooks up with people, mainly through the apps, and always casually. Every year or so, it’s like he remembers that I should be having sex, too, and he tries to set me up with a new guy.
Apparently, that time has come around again.
“You are a sucker for a second-chance romance,” he encourages me.
“Whatever,” I laugh, then push his face away, my fingers brushing his beard. “Tonight is about your show.”
“Ooo-oooh,” Rafael hums under his voice, teasing lightly. “Surprise guest star. Return of the ex.”
I link arms with him. “Come on, weirdo,” I say, changing the subject. “You have to greet the art fans of Chicago. No hiding by the drink table and teasing your friend.”
“Okay, weirdo,” he says. “Whatever you say.”
Quickly, we’re swept back into the night as the gallerist introduces Rafael to another potential buyer. Our friends surround us, and all the other thoughts in my head disappear. I stand by his side, right where I belong, and I listen as the compliments pour in, strangers engaging his work and asking about his process and celebrating his art like it should be celebrated.
My heart beams the rest of the night, as we meet a small group at a nearby bar for drinks to celebrate, squeezing together in a small booth and laughing until it’s late. When we leave, Rafael forgets his phone and his jacket in the booth, but I swoop it all up and follow after him. I call us a car back to our apartment, and we’re both exhausted from the celebration, but buzzing with the energy.
“Sleep in the same bed?” Rafael asks, then takes my hand with a squeeze.
“Sure,” I answer, his touch humming through my body.
We slip into my room, dark and quiet, then silently crawl beneath the blankets. It’s like countless other nights he’s slept over, sweet and gentle and wonderful. Rafael is in my bed, right where he belongs, and everything should be perfect.
Except, as his breath slows and sleep comes on, my thoughts return to the show. Davis was so forward. He’s actually interested in me, offering something that my best friend has never been available for.
Rafael stirs, then turns his body to mine. His arm falls over my side, and he whimpers softly beneath his breath.
A fear buried deep inside of me rises up. No matter how good this feels, how right, we’re not truly together.
Even held in his arms, I’m still pining for my best friend.
CHAPTERTWO
RAFAEL
I liein Alexander’s bed the morning after my show. He’s still asleep, curled up into a cute little ball like he does, pressed to my side. On my back next to him, I look up at my phone, disappointment crushing my chest as I read the email from the gallerist.
