I glanced at him.
He was looking at me, not joking now.
“Drew.”
“What?”
“She is going to love you.”
“Good.”
“That is not necessarily good.”
“It is if you love me.”
There it was again.
The word.
He said it lighter this time, but not lightly enough.
His eyes flicked away first.
Then back.
“You know what I mean,” he added.
I did.
That was the problem.
I knew what he meant.
I also knew what he did not say.
He did not say fake.
He did not say pretend.
He did not say until New Year’s Eve.
He looked out the window for a second, jaw tense, like he was mad at himself for letting the word slip twice in one day.
I should have saved us both.
I should have made a joke.
Instead, I stared at his profile in the passing highway lights and felt something in me ache.
Drew had never been careful in the obvious ways.
He was too loud. Too physical. Too honest. Too much.
But with my heart, he had been careful.
So careful it made me want to scream.
He was waiting for me to hand it over.
