I remember the ease in which he rested his hand on Noah’s arm at the reception. Their bodies know each other, that’s something I’m struggling with, I’ll admit. My body has no count nor has it been counted. I hardly think Rhiannon is putting me on any lists.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until sparks dance behind my lids.
Eli knows himself. Knows what he wants, how to take it, how to give it. He didn’t spend decades labeling himself broken before he even understood the question.
I did.
So many years of quiet disconnection, of watching colleagues and friends fall into passionate relationships, get married, have the white picket fences, all while I observed from the margins, convinced desire was a language I simply did not speak.
Until Noah.
I canceled our Friday run with a single clipped text message. Ignored hisCade, please talk to metext message that followed. Skipped the department happy hour we’d planned to attend together, the one where I’d promised myself I would try holding his hand in public again. Each avoidance feels like like something good, like self-preservation to keep myself from spinning out. But they’re victories that I don’t want. Not really.
Childish.
That’s what I feel most of all. While others were exploring, falling in and out of love of all shapes and sizes, some minor and others made of marble. Some are so memorable and deep that they forever change you. What was I doing? Ignoring, hiding, misunderstanding.
Noah and Eli have lived boldly. And I have, in a way, hid from myself.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I don’t need tolook to know it’s him. Another message. Another one that I won’t answer, because we’re already living the answer. He shouldn’t pause his entire life for me and my need to move slowly. I mean, he’d been trying to ask me out for months. No, hedidask me out for months. And once he pointed it out, I felt pretty stupid because it was all so obvious. As clear as day to most people.
But that’s why I don’t feel like most people. I didn’t even think that Noah would ever think of me that way. Though all along, I knew that I liked him. I just didn’t let myself really think about how much, or what it meant.
The screen lights up.
Noah
It’s been five days, Cade. I’m worried. Let me in. Whatever’s in your head, please.
I turn the phone face down. Tears burn my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I don’t deserve his constant worry and attention.
I don’t deserve the way he’s loved me so far—gently, fiercely, without asking me to be anything but what I am in each uncertain moment. That’s the worst part. Noah has beenperfect. He understood when I let go of his hand the other day. He’s never pushed. He’s never been impatient or angry. He’s never asked for anything that I wasn’t desperate and eager to give. Never, not once. He’s a patient teacher, a passionate lover, and a solid presence in my life, showing me that affection isn’t fleeting. And I’m repaying him by disappearing.
My lungs seize and panic fills my throat, hot and sticky.
What am I doing? Am I making a mistake? Or is Noah making a mistake by so actively pursuing someone like me?
The rain intensifies, thunder rumbling on the horizon. I rise, pacing my living room, bare feet silent on the rug. My body remembers this space as a place christened by Noah, and now pacing here makes me think of him.Everythingmakes me think of him. The trace of his hands on my hips as he guided me through our first time with me inside him. The gentle way he mapped my skin with his mouth, moaning and mewling as he worshipped me. Heat stirs low in my belly at the memories. Even now, spiraling, my bodycraveshim, aches for him. Literally.
I stop at the window, and press my forehead against the chilled glass. Outside, the streets are empty, puddles reflecting streetlights and faraway stars in the sky. I imagine Noah in his apartment, maybe grading papers alone at his kitchen island. Or worse—reaching out to someone easier, tired of my silence, tired of me.
Someone like Eli, who wouldn’t need five days of radio silence to process a simple conversation.
I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid.
Twice.
Then I see them together in my mind’s eye: Noah’s broad shoulders flexing as he moves over Eli, no hesitation, no white gloves needed.
I was childish but I still am. Hiding instead of communicating. Running from the very first real connection I’veever had. For years I watched him from across our office, the charismatic professor who surprised me at my interview panel—wondering if he noticed the way my gaze lingered on him. Now I know who he really is and just how he feels, and instead of embracing it, I’m running.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I pick it up, not answering but merely surveying the news on-screen.Three missed calls. Then—a string of texts that grow increasingly pained:
Nothing changes us and what we have.
I chose you. I choose every perfect second of learning you.
I miss your frown. Your fingers in my hair. The smile that’s only I get to see.
