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“Yeah. You sure you don’t mind me staying over?”
“Not in the least. Come on.” He offers me his hand and hauls me to my feet when I take it.
He lends me an oversized t-shirt to sleep in and the spare toothbrush I’ve been using for months when I have a weekend night with him. Saint isn’t my boyfriend. But he’s the best friend I could ask for right now.
No part of me wanted to go home to my empty apartment tonight. I keep the heat on practically arctic when the kids aren’t around. So instead of shivering alone in my lumpy twin bed and staring at my water-stained ceiling for hours, tossing and turning over what Trevor’s news will mean for me and the kids, I drop off to sleep with Saint’s warm body tucked up against my back. His big hand is splayed over my belly, pinning me close to him, filling my senses with him and the pavlovian sense that I’m safe here in his bed.
Chapter 9
Saint (December 21st, 2023)
Angelshowingupatmy door is usually the highlight of my week. So I try to dismiss the nerves that go through me at the crinkled gift bag they have with them when they show up late the Thursday before Christmas. They can’t afford fancy gifts, and we both know it. And exchanging presents seems too much like the trappings of a relationship.
“Everything alright?” I ask, ignoring the gift while they deal with their snowy, calf-hugging boots.
“Yeah.” Angel sighs, scraping their long beautiful hair back out of their face. I’ve made a study of that sweet face, cheekbones that have become more pronounced over the weeks and months as their jawline gets wider and more masculine. The patchy stubble that infuriates them with how slowly it’s been filling in. They can’t quite hide the perennial exhaustion around their stormy ocean blue eyes. Angel has always been attractive, but their smile is stunning, even when it’s strained and wobbly around the edges. “Well, no, but I’ll figure it out. The freaking car wouldn’t start.”
“Shit.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to offer whatever help they need. But my eyes stick on the ominous gift bag. Fair or not, it screams relationship, so I keep the offer to myself.
“Yeah. Marcus said he’d look at it in the morning. I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s the battery and all I need is a quick jump. But the boss said it was fine to leave it in the lot at work overnight, so it could be worse.”
They shrug it off like a minor inconvenience when I know it could represent an expense big enough to break the camel’s back for them.
“Fingers crossed.” I do just that, holding up both hands for them to see, gratified when they smile at the corny gesture.
“Anyway, I made you something.” They shove the bag toward me.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” I swallow hard.
My gut impulse to reject the offering is hypocritical as fuck after I wheedled them into accepting gifts for their kids. But that feels different. Helping my friend give their kids an amazing holiday isn’t the same as a thoughtful, homemade gift between lovers. I take the bag and peek reluctantly past the snow-soggy tissue paper that looks the worse for Angel’s trek over here.
Angel rolls their eyes. “It’s nothing fancy. I just got Gran’s recipe from Marcus and you mentioned you like gingerbread, so I thought—is it okay?”
I open the bag to find the adorable tin of homemade fudge. The other night, I offhandedly mentioned wanting to try their family recipe, and here it is. This should make me happy, but it reminds me too viscerally of the sort of heartfelt gift Carl would have gotten me when we were romantically involved. I can’t parse all the emotions roiling through me.
Deeply thoughtful and personal, Angel’s gift scares me. Angel is going through a lot with their ex, their kids, finishing their teaching program in the spring, and now their car crapping out on them. I can’t be the boyfriend who stands by their side and supports them through all that. Friend, yes. Boyfriend? The mere thought gives me hives.
There’s too much baggage there. Angel knows I’m aromantic and what that means for me when it comes to dating. It’s too much for me to process what it will mean for us if they see me as something other than a friend who they enjoy fucking. I’m taking too long to respond to the sweet gesture.
Angel’s face falls. I could kick myself for making it weird when I’ve been looking forward to seeing them all week. I wish this could be as simple as enjoying each other’s company, but it never is.
“Saint?” Angel says my name like a plea and it kills me not to be able to give them the reaction they want. “It’s not a love declaration. Just some fudge.”
“Looks great. Thanks.” I tuck the tin back into the bag and hang it on the hook near my keys. Guilt wracks me as I pretend not to see their hurt expression. I need to move this entire encounter back onto less fraught emotional ground. “So, down to fuck?”
“Yeah.” Angel glances between me and the bag. They lick their lips, like they want to say something more about it, or take back the weirdness. Fuck knows that I want to take that back. But they don’t say another thing about it.
We go upstairs and I spend a solid hour with my mouth on them, apologizing for everything I can’t put into words by making them come. I revel in making them tremble and shake, moaning incoherent encouragement. I can’t promise them more than we’ve got, but I can try to show them how wonderful everything is just the way we are. Remind them what we have works and shouldn’t be messed with.
Or I might need to remind myself. I’m the one who pushed to treat each other like friends and not just a recurring hookup. I’m the one who started the gift giving. This is all on me.
I’m an asshole. And I can’t seem to stop myself as I roll out of bed before their sweat has cooled and pull on my robe. That isn’t how we normally end the night, but I justify it to myself because they’ll need extra time to get Owen from tae kwon do without their car. Angel watches me with wide, hurt eyes.
“Guess I should get going?”
“Don’t want to leave Owen wondering where you are.” I scratch at my stubble and turn away so I’m not tempted to get dressed and offer to give them a ride. Or lend them my car. Distance. We need distance.
“Right. Thanks for tonight, Saint.”
