Page 84 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

He nodded, but neither of us touched the beers sweating condensation onto our desks. Neither of us moved to change the subject or lighten the mood. We just stood there in our amber-lit room, close enough to touch but separated by everything we weren’t saying.

This was supposed to be the moment where I fixed things. Where I found the right words to bridge the gap I’d created between us.

Instead, I’d only made him think the distance was about something external. About fan fiction and shipping and other people’s perceptions.

But the real distance was about me. About what was happening inside me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control and was too terrified to examine too closely. And, frankly, didn’t want to change. If I had a magic way to erase these feelings and have my friend back, it would be the right thing to do. But I knew I wouldn’t press that button. Letting the fantasies of Andrei consume me felt better than anything I’d ever experienced. Well, almost. The only thing that had ever felt better than that was all the times when Andrei showed his brotherly love for me, unconditional and unwavering.

The hollow feeling in my chest expanded, filling me with the certainty that I’d just made everything worse. That by trying to protect our friendship, I’d damaged it beyond repair.

And the worst part was knowing I’d do it all again. Because the alternative was being honest, and honesty meant risking everything.

So I’d keep lying. Keep pretending. Keep pushing him away while promising I wasn’t.

Because losing Andrei’s friendship would destroy me. But having him know what I’d been thinking about him, what I’d done while thinking about him, would be so much worse.

And so I found myself turning away from the only guy who’d ever truly known me. As my back was turned to him, I realized I had just lost that, too. He no longer knew me. And not because he had neglected to ask. Not because he had lost interest. Not because he no longer cared.

He didn’t know me because I had changed, and he stayed the same.

Except I had changed for the worse. I had become a liar.

Chapter Thirteen

GRIFFIN

I wish I could say I had worked up the courage to turn back on my heels. I wish I could say that something good in me forced me to turn around. But saying it would only prove further how incapable of telling the truth I had become.

What really happened was far less easy to define and impossible to fully understand.

Andrei didn’t ask me where I was going.

He was doing the very thing I had asked him to do. He was giving me the space I needed.

So, as I stepped toward the door, I heard him exhale, and I reached for the doorknob.

In one heartbeat, quiet and aching, it all made sense. For just one flash, for one instance in all of time, I saw clearly what lay ahead of me.

Andrei gave me the space that I would use to postpone the inevitable. Andrei let me go so that I could come back to him.

But I would never come back.

Coming back would require me to admit to my mistakes, admit to my fantasies, and admit to my newfound desires. Coming back would mean doing the very thing I was avoiding. And avoiding it forever meant never coming back.

As my hand wrapped around the door handle, I knew I was walking away forever.

Sure, I’d come back later tonight, hoping Andrei was asleep. I’d play hockey, I’d work out with him, but the gap between us would grow wider and wider until we both quietly understood that there was no bridge long enough and strong enough to bring us back together.

My tongue untied in the face of the most frightening vision of my future I’d ever witnessed. Words welled in my chest, coming right out of my heart rather than any place that had anything to do with reason. I abandoned reason. Reason had gotten me here in the first place. Thinking and thinking again about a very simple thing.

“I already lost you,” I said, my voice deep and airy, as if someone had punched the words out of me. They tumbled out, and I stood by them. I didn’t dare turn around. Not yet, at least. I didn’t dare see the grief ravaging his face, and I knew that it would be. “I might as well tell you the truth.” I bit my lip hard, preventing myself from letting out a sudden, inflating sob that choked me.

“I don’t…” But his words faltered, and he didn’t say more.

Then, I turned around, shoulders slumped and head hanging. I had pulled out the stitches quickly, and the damage was already done. “If I don’t tell you, we’ll drift apart quietly. Maybe it would hurt less.”

Andrei shook his head. “It would be hell.” His voice was small, childish, secretly frightened.

“I can’t keep lying,” I said. “I can’t keep pretending that the truth doesn’t matter.”