Noah’s mouth tightens. “She is. She and Rick have known each other since diapers. She’s basically American royalty.”
I let that sit.
“Rick’s family is very rich too,” he goes on. “And very…traditional.” He says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “They have expectations. About who their son is supposed to be. Who he’s supposed to marry. You know families like that.”
“So, oil-painting-over-the-fireplace rich?” I ask.
That pulls a real laugh out of him. “Sort of.”
“How long were you two together?”
“Three years.”
“That’s a long time.”
That’s most of the time I’ve lived across the hall from him.
Noah gives a small, humorless huff. “Apparently not long enough to earn a decent breakup.”
I glance at him. “How did he do it?”
“He texted me.” He lifts his fingers in air quotes. “‘I can’t be gay.’ Couldn’t even say it to my face. Or at least call me.”
“That’s a coward move.”
“Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “It is. And a week later he was dating Cassidy.”
We fall quiet again, the highway humming beneath us.
“I think I’ve seen him a couple of times,” I say after a moment. “The blond guy, right?”
“Yeah.” Noah shifts in his seat. “He didn’t come over much. Thought the walls were too thin.” He glances at me like he expects me to connect it, then hesitates before adding, “For sex.”
I blink and turn toward him. He’s flushed all the way to his ears.
“Theyarethin,” I say. “For everything. Not just sex.”
He laughs under his breath. “Exactly. Thank God most of our building is elderly. You should’ve heard it before the Hills had their last baby.”
“When was that?”
“Before you moved in. They were…busy. Pretty much all day.”
I grimace. “Thanks for that mental image.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles. “But eventually Mrs. Hill got pregnant—thank God. After that, it was just baby crying.” He goes quiet again, then adds, “Anyway, that’s our stupid story. I loved him, but he hid me like I was something dirty.”
I nod but don’t offer comfort. I understand that kind of arrangement better than I’d like to.
Quinn used to kiss me senseless in the back room of his dad’s pub, then act as if he barely knew me if we crossed paths the next day. He told me he loved me on Friday nights and wouldn’t meet my eyes on Sunday mornings. I let it go on longer than I should have, convincing myself that what we had in private somehow made up for the way he treated me in public.
Eventually, it stopped being enough.
When I ended it, I didn’t make a scene. I just told him I couldn’t keep doing it—couldn’t keep being someone he only acknowledged behind closed doors. Part of me expected him to argue, to promise he’d figure it out, to say something that would make staying easier. He didn’t. I left town not long after.
Even now, years later, I don’t like thinking about Quinn. Not because I love him or miss him, but because I remember how easily I reshaped myself around his fears, how little it took for me to accept less than I deserved.
Beside me, Noah is sitting beside me with one leg folded up on the seat, his shoe off, a pristine white sock bright against the dark interior.
