The idea was unhinged and completely outside my comfort zone.
But it was also an alternative. A reason to leave the apartment. To be somewhere other than inside my own head. To do something other than sit alone thinking about illness and loneliness and dying alone.
I didn’t say yes right away, even if it felt strangely inevitable. I needed to make sure he wasn’t delirious fromwhatever he’d had to drink—which, honestly, might not have been that much. I have a suspicion Noah gets drunk easily. No real evidence—just a working theory.
So I waited until morning.
As the highway curves gently to the right and the hills start unfolding in the distance, it occurs to me that I know almost nothing about him beyond what was written on that sheet of paper sitting in the cup holder between us. Well—except for what carries through our absurdly thin walls.
I know he has friends over most Fridays around eight. They stay for hours, eating pizza or sushi and dissecting someone’s relationship. I know he watches cooking shows and drag competitions. Sometimes he puts on soppy movies and sits on the couch by his front door, crying quietly enough that he probably assumes no one can hear him.
Now that I’ve seen the sheet he prepared for me, some of the things I’d noticed before make more sense.
The work calls, for example. Sometimes eight or ten in a single day, broken up by loud sighs and pacing that makes the floorboards creak. Now I know what they’re about—he raises funds for an animal rescue.
And now I know who Maya is—the person he talks to for hours every Sunday. His sister.
Still, overheard details only get me so far. If we’re going to make this convincing, I need more than fragments. And since Noah clearly isn’t going to break the silence on his own, I do.
“Tell me about your ex,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
It’s not something I’d usually ask. I don’t make a habit of digging into people’s romantic history. But this isn’t exactly standard. If I’m supposed to be the boyfriend brought specifically to make someone jealous, I should at least know what I’m dealing with.
I feel him stiffen beside me, his posture locking up like I’ve hit a nerve.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then he exhales quietly and says, “It’s a long story.”
“We have two hours,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. I’m not trying to pry. I just need to know what I’m walking into.
He takes another long breath and stares straight ahead. “Rick and I… we weren’t public. No one knew. Not my parents. Not his. No one.”
“I gathered that,” I say. “From the bold and underlined warnings in the instruction sheet.”
A faint, self-conscious smile flickers across his face. “Yeah. That might’ve been excessive.” He swallows. “Sorry. I’m just—” He gestures vaguely, then lets the sentence trail off.
“Nervous?” I ask.
He nods.
“Did your sister know?”
“No. Rick didn’t want anyone to know. He was paranoid about it getting back to his parents, so I had to lie—even to Maya.” He swallows. “I couldn’t keep it completely to myself, though. So I told my best friends—Milo and Britney. They don’t run in the same circles as his family, so it wasn’t like it could get back to them.”
I let the silence stretch instead of filling it.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “It’s just—Rick’s supposed to take over his dad’s company one day. If this ever got out, he could lose everything. If anyone found out he was…” He hesitates.
“Gay?” I offer.
“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Or bi. Or whatever he is. I don’t even know anymore. He always said it was complicated.”
I glance at him briefly. His profile is rigid, his jaw clenched hard enough that I can see the muscle working beneath his skin.
“So this weekend will be the first time you’ve seen him since the breakup?”
Noah nods. “Yeah. First time in six months. And he’s going to show up with his new girlfriend, Cassidy Whitmore.”
“She sounds expensive,” I say.
