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“Can I come up?”
She nods again, taking the flowers and the novel from my hands.
I stand in the small living room, watching as Annie puts away her laptop and finds a vase for the flowers I brought her. She leans close to the flowers and breathes in their sweet scent before setting the vase in the center of her table.
“My favorite,” she says.
“I know.” I step closer to her, and she doesn’t step away. We’ve been so easy together for so many years, and I don’t want that to disappear. “Annie, I’m not asking for a commitment. But how about a date?” I lift one shoulder. I can’t help but smile when I see her—even if she’s a little unnerved.
“That isn’t fair,” she says, pointing at my face.
“What?” I peer around as if I’ve missed something.
“That Owen grin. It’s something I can never say no to.”
Which only makes me smile more. “Is that a yes?”
She plunks down onto her couch and covers her eyes with her hands. “I don’t know, Owen.” She groans, and I sit next to her. “That would make Margo happy.”
“Your editor?” It’s not exactly what I’m going for. I want to make Annie happy.
“Yes.”
“Margo?” I say again—utterly confused. “Margo wants us to date?”
“Oh, yes.” She pulls her hands down and peers over at me. “Apparently, we make for a great story. Our readership has doubled since last night. Since—” She doesn’t finish. But she doesn’t have to. I know what happened last night. I was very present at my livestream confessional.
“But you don’t want to?” I say, my mouth dry.
She blinks, her head leaning against the couch and her eyes on me. “I don’t want to lose you, Owen. You’re my best friend.”
Lose me? That, I can work with. “You won’t,” I assure her, my body instinctively moving closer to hers.
“But you have these feelings, and what if I can’t reciprocate? And we both know—” She shakes her head and moves on. “Things just won’t ever be the same now that… that everything is out.” She covers her eyes again and sighs. “Not that I wanted you bottling up the truth.”
“What do we both know?” I didn’t miss how she started,stopped, and then skipped over the sentence completely. I know Annie—there is something more.
Her long lashes, frosted in black mascara, flutter as she peers my direction. She blows a raspberry through her lips, and I slink down until I’m right next to her. Eye level. In best-friend-Owen mode. This is what I would have done a week ago. This is me. This is her. And this is what I want—just at a different level. I slip my fingers through hers.
Annie peers down at our knotted hands. “This,” she says, lifting our fingers up, “feels a little more complicated now.”
I press my lips together and shake my head. “But it isn’t. My feelings haven’t changed in any way. Now finish. We both know what?”
Tears well in her eyes. My strong, feisty Annie is—crying? Ah—crap.
“We both know”—she sniffs—“that I’m bad at love.”
“Bad?”
“Yes, Owen. What’s the longest I’ve kept a boyfriend?”
I don’t have to think–I know. “Well—”
“Exactly. If I’m lucky—two months, and then I don’t see them again.” One of the tears blurring her vision falls onto her cheek. “What happens when it ends?”
“Who says it’s going to end?”
She scoffs, small and harsh. “History. That’s who.”
