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“It’s got heated seats.” Saint gestures at the dash that’s lit up with enough features to rival a Christmas display.
“Thanks.” I jab at the buttons to turn it on, darting surreptitious glances at Saint. His car practically glides along the streets to the community center with a smoothness that has nothing to do with the icy conditions. This thing rides so much nicer than my old car. I wish I could spend a lot longer admiring Saint’s profile as I wonder how everything got so freaking complicated.
The thing is, I’m not looking for romance. It’s just that taking care of my kids has been my sole responsibility for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be the one cared for. I don’t think Saint fully comprehends how much his simple gestures mean to me. How his constant and ongoing kindness is like kryptonite to my heart.
I can see myself falling for him. Getting used to having someone in my corner. Someone who holds me when I can’t hold myself together for a second longer. Who offers me help when it seems like the next disaster will shatter me.
And that’s terrifying because I promised I’d never put myself in that position again. Never depend on someone else when everyone I’ve ever loved has done such an excellent job of showing me how fast comfort and support can be ripped away. Our friendship’s framework started out so clear. Fuck buddies. Easy, no-strings sex and the occasional raunchy joke over text.
But it evolved from there. Of course it did. I don’t think I could stop myself from caring for the man who holds me after a bad day and lets me vent about a shitty shift at work if I tried. And Saint cares too, it’s obvious in all our interactions.
I love him. Best friend love. The first person I call when I get important news love. Like Trevor moving. Or the email that pings my inbox as I fumble over the fancy controls for Saint’s heated seats. They’re nice, but my butt might ignite if I leave it set to the hottest setting for long.
I punch the off button, immediate relief as the burning heat subsides to a gentle glow. The email is even better.
“I got my transitional certification from the province!”
“Huh?” He glances over at me, eyes darting over my body like he thinks I’m talking about something related to my gender transition. I bite my lip so I won’t laugh at the unasked questions burning in his interested gaze. He turns back to the road before I can remind him to pay attention and doesn’t pry for details.
“It’s for teaching. You know how I’m starting my practicum in January?”
“Oh! I was going to say I didn’t think you needed a certificate to transition.” He forces a chuckle. “But yeah, you’ve mentioned that.”
“Well, I’ve been in touch with my mentoring teacher. She suggested that if I apply for my transitional certification, she can help me get on the supply list. That way I can get paid to substitute while I’m finishing out my fourteen weeks of classroom experience.”
“Oh! That’s great.”
“Yeah. It will mean fewer shifts at the diner. I’ll need to figure out childcare for any shifts I take, since it won’t be during school hours, but I’ll figure it out. Marcus and Gail have been vying for aunt and uncle of the year since they found out they’re expecting, so I can probably swing it? It feels so good to be in the homestretch, Saint. Taking my classes all spread out like this and years later than most of my peers has sucked. It’s like I’m constantly playing catch up. It will be so nice to just have breathing space.”
“I’ll bet. Congratulations, Angel. You’ve worked hard for this.” He pats my thigh.
“Yeah.” I have. The acknowledgement fills me with a warm glow of pride.
I can make this all work. Get the sort of job I dreamed of as a kid. No more settling for anything to pay the overwhelming pile of bills that seems to stack up around me every time I turn around.
That reminds me of the unknown car repair costs looming over me. I slump into my seat and breathe through the anxiety. I can’t change it and I’ll get through it one step at a time.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. How are you? You seemed off tonight. Did I do something?”
“I’m—” Saint sighs and rubs at his temples and I get the distinct impression he’s about to open up to me, but thinks better of it. That stings. I want him to trust me. To lean on me like our friendship is a two-way street instead of me constantly taking from him with nothing to offer in return. “—sorry about my reaction to the fudge. It was a sweet gesture. I guess a part of me panicked, thinking it was a sign you wanted more than what we have and I don’t want our friendship to change.”
“Isn’t that the nature of any relationship though? I mean, I’m no expert since most of mine crash and burn in spectacular fashion, but people aren’t stagnant, so why would our interactions be?”
“I suppose.”
“Hey, all I’m saying is, if you think fudge means I want you to get down on one knee and propose, you might be watching too many of Carl’s rom-coms.”
That gets a bark of laughter out of Saint, but he sobers fast. “No, I haven’t been seeing as much of Carl lately. I guess that’s got me on edge, realizing that even the best things in life sometimes have to end or change in ways you’re not ready for.”
“I’m sorry. You two have been through a lot together. I’m sure he still loves you, even if he’s making time for new love now.”
“You think?”
“I mean, I hope so? Not the same, but I’m pretty sure Meg still loves me, even though she spends every spare minute with her friends and ignoring Owen and me. Teenagers, amiright?”
Saint rolls his eyes. “Sure, but she’s a teenager and you’re her parent. It’s not the same.”
