“I did.”
Tyler nodded, his eyes scanning Blake’s face. “I’m sorry about your grandmother, man. She was a good lady. Always let us steal the good cookies.”
“She did,” Blake said, a small, genuine smile breaking through the tension.
An awkward silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of the years they hadn’t spoken, the history they shared, and the unresolved ending of their friendship.
“Listen,” Tyler said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you’re probably heading back to London soon. But if you have an hour… do you want to get a drink? Catch up?”
Blake hesitated. He had a flight out of JFK that evening. He wanted nothing more than to leave Connecticut behind. But looking at Tyler — at the familiar, easy stance of the boy who had been his best friend for a decade — he found he couldn’t say no.
“Yeah,” Blake said. “A drink sounds good.”
They walked to a quiet, dark-wood tavern a few blocks from the hotel. It was early afternoon, and the place was mostly empty, smelling of stale beer and old wood. They took a booth in the corner, ordering two local IPAs.
For the first twenty minutes, the conversation was easy, skimming the surface of their lives. Tyler talked about his wife, Sarah — the same Sarah who had dated Blake briefly in high school, a fact they both politely ignored. He talked about his job at a commercial real estate firm in Stamford. And he talked, with sudden, unguarded warmth, about his six-month-old twin daughters.
“It’s exhausting,” Tyler said, pulling out his phone to show Blake a picture of two identical, red-faced babies in matching yellow onesies. “I haven’t slept a full night since December. But it’s… it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. By a mile.”
“They’re beautiful, Ty,” Blake said, handing the phone back. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”
“Thanks.” Tyler took a long pull from his beer, setting the glass down carefully on the coaster. He looked at the condensation pooling on the wood, then looked up, his expression shifting, the easy camaraderie dropping away. “I watched the US Open,” Tyler said quietly. “Three years ago. When you won.”
Blake went still. “Did you?”
“Yeah. I saw the match. And I saw what happened after.” Tyler traced the rim of his glass with his hand. “I was proud of you, Blake. I know I never said it, but I was. It took a lot of guts to do that. Especially knowing how your dad would react.”
“It didn’t feel like guts,” Blake said, echoing the conversation he’d had with Liam weeks ago. “It just felt like I didn’t have a choice anymore.”
Tyler nodded slowly. He took another drink, his eyes fixed on the table. “I need to tell you something. And I need you to know that I’m not saying it to mess with your head, or to change anything. I just… I need to say it. Because I’ve been carrying it around for a long time.”
Blake felt his pulse quicken, apprehension tightening his chest. “Okay.”
Tyler looked up, his gaze direct and unflinching. “That day at my house. The pool party, before you left for Paris. When I kissed you.”
Blake didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
“I was drunk,” Tyler continued, his voice low. “But it wasn’t an accident. I always had a thing for you, Blake. Probably since we were kids. I was in awe of you. Your discipline, your focus. I used to give you shit for it, but the truth was, I was jealous. And I was… I was in love with you.”
The words hung in the quiet air of the tavern, heavy and final.
Blake stared at him, the memories rushing back — the heat of the Connecticut summer, the smell of tequila, the sudden, shocking pressure of Tyler’s mouth against his. The confusion. The panic. The urgent need to run.
“Tyler …”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Tyler said quickly, holding up a hand. “I know you’re with Andre. I know you love him. I see the way you look at him in the interviews. I’m married. I love my wife. I love my girls. I’m happy with my life. But I needed you to know that it wasn’t a joke to me. That day wasn’t a joke.”
Blake looked at the man sitting across from him. His oldest friend. The boy who had made him laugh on the long summer afternoons when the pressure of his father’s expectations felt like a vice around his ribs.
“It wasn’t a joke to me either,” Blake said softly.
Tyler’s eyes widened slightly.
“When you kissed me,” Blake continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “I felt it. My body responded. I was terrified, because I didn’t understand what it meant, and I didn’t know how to handle it. But I felt it, Ty.”
Tyler let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. He leaned back against the leather booth, staring at the ceiling. “Jesus.”
“If things had been different,” Blake said, choosing his words with absolute precision, “if we had been older, or braver… maybe we would have figured it out. Maybe we would have gone somewhere that afternoon and gotten it out of our systems.” Tyler looked at him, a question hanging in the air between them — a silent, dangerous what if. For a fraction of a second, Blake saw the possibility of it. The hotel room upstairs. The unresolved history. The easy, destructive comfort of falling into an old pattern.
