His steel-grey eyes find me. “Three days?”
It takes me more than a second to realize that it's Tuesday, or is it Wednesday? It doesn’t matter. I’m fucked. “I had an important meeting on Monday.”
That flicker of humor in his eyes gives him away.
“You’re an asshole. What day is today?”
“I might be, but only on those days that end in y,” he jokes. “What do you want to eat?”
As I walk toward my phone, I realize it’s Saturday and only noon. “I slept more than twelve hours.”
“You were exhausted.”
Was I so tired that they didn’t wake me up while they were hanging out? “You guys were too quiet last night.”
He grabs a glass and drinks from it before saying, “I canceled on them.” He lifts his drink. “Smoothie?”
I run my hands over my messy hair, interlacing my fingers on the back of my neck and stretching my body. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening. I should head to the gym. I need to work out.”
“You need yoga, but that’s just my humble opinion.” That playful smirk widens before he goes back to his computer. “Also breakfast. You can check the fridge to see if there’s anything you like, or we can order you something.”
“Hannah would usually have a buffet set on the kitchen island with three different types of eggs and pancakes,” I complain as I make my way to the fridge.
“Dude, remember what we talked about? No shirt, no shoes, no service.”
“No, but I can’t wait to get the bill for the stay. You’re worse than a two-star hotel chain. I bet an Airbnb has better service than you.”
The laugh loosens the muscles of my back even more. Who needs a masseuse when you can have Zeke hosting you for a night in his apartment? I grab orange juice, a carton of eggs, and shredded cheese. Just as I’m about to look for a pan, he shoves a t-shirt into my hand. “Wear a shirt.”
He’s close. So close and hot I could cook the eggs with the heat of his body.
I steer the conversation away from the lust that’s hitting me hard. This time I can’t blame the lack of sleep. It’s all him.
“So, the weekend is canceled because of me?”
“No. They’ll come later today,” he says, grabbing the eggs and getting busy in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry again. I didn’t mean to impose.”
“It’s fine.” As I can only see his back, I am unable to see his expression. His voice is normal, but I can’t believe he’s okay with my presence.
“Are you sure?” I feel like an imposition.
He doesn’t say a word. I pour some juice, sit on the barstool next to his, and wait. Once he’s plating the eggs, he says, “I like taking care of others. Though, you might want to rethink your schedule. Not sleeping for two weeks is unsustainable.”
“I slept when I had time.”
His heavy gaze is a mix of annoyance and want. “I might not know you as an adult, but I know how you are when it comes to deadlines. You barely sleep.”
“It’s been ages since I’ve had a nice, homecooked meal,” I say between bites. “Any chance you can invite me for dinner more often?”
He shakes his head. “Listen, I’m glad you rested. As I said, I like taking care of others. That doesn't mean that I’m ready to open the door to my house daily. We’re not in that place. Last night, I had a crisis.”
I feel like an ass. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He gives me a look that says, don’t-fucking-start-with-that. “Can we not have that discussion today?”
I nod. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?”
My eyes remain on the almost empty plate. Can we call each other friends? We are in an awkward place where we can be civil exchange a few sentences. However, when things start getting serious, we shut down.
“Are we ever going to get past this stage of our relationship where we stop standing five feet away from each other? When will this censoring the content of our conversations come to an end? Are you as exhausted as I am? This”—I pause, finally lifting my gaze and pointing at both of us—“Pretending to act like we’re friends but not treating each other as such…it’s harder than the SATs.”
My words leave my mouth before I think them through, which is so unlike me.
“That’s something I would usually ask,” he remarks, leaning his hip against the counter.
“It feels as if we keep poking the wound while we pretend it’s healing, and it fucking hurts.” My voice comes out like a haul.
“Listen, I’m the last person that can answer your question. I’m in a place where I know being close to you creates an internal turmoil that only settles after talking things through with my therapist,” he says, staring at his forearms. “I pretend that this truce is for the sake of our friends. It’s not. I like being around you. It pisses me off that I can’t act like an ordinary person around you.
“Furthermore, as I’ve told you a few times, you’re hot. I’ll be lying if I say that I don’t notice. Who knew Ethan Killion would ever go to the gym and look the way you do now?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Last night, you threw a truth that I wasn’t expecting. My brain is rewiring everything it knew about our time together. I had no idea about your fears. It’s like a missile exploded inside me, wrecking what I had rebuilt so far. I’m not steady enough to look at the damage.”
My stomach tightens. Did I just fuck him up again? “What do you want from me?”
He stares at me, and I don’t expect him to ask, “What are you afraid of?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m going to tell you what I’m afraid of,” he says, showing me a finger. “Of not being strong enough and succumbing to my addictions.” He pauses, showing me two fingers. “To end up alone because I’m unable to have a relationship.” He shows me a third finger. “To wake up one day and realize that I didn’t live because I was afraid to make mistakes.”
The vein on his temple throbs. His gaze locks with mine, challenging me. He’s daring me to tell him my fears.
This is a great moment to evade the conversation, lie, or give a voice to what terrifies me.
“I already woke up one day and realized that I fucked up my entire life and the man I love.” My voice has never been this loud in my life. “I’m terrified that no matter what I do, you’ll never forgive me. That I won’t be the father of your children. That I’ll never be enough for you. My biggest fear and the one that keeps waking me up at night is the one where I’m at the morgue, and you’re under that blanket.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “This time, it’s you laying ashen and cold.”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve been going to the therapist since I came home from Florida. There are nights that the dream is back, vivid. The loud sounds of my heart shattering, my shallow breathing, and my trembling body cloud my mind.
“I can survive everything else but not the latter,” I say, setting my fork on the plate.
We stare at each other. Neither one of us says a word for a long time until the noise of the elevator moving breaks the painful silence.