Myfork dug into my mashed potatoes, it prodded little holes between the lumps andspecks of pepper. “That would’ve been weird.”
“Whatwould be weird?”
“Youin a relationship.”
Abarked laugh rang through the apartment. “It would’ve been weird if I was in arelationship with Britney, but the right person?” He shrugged, still grinning.“I don’t think that would be weird at all.”
Wettingmy lips and dropping my gaze to the table, I listened as the song ended. I bracedmyself, holding onto hope that the next song would keep me grounded, but thenthere was Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Book of Love.” And there was me, afraid tolisten to the lyrics and search their meaning. Afraid to wonder if he’d donethis on purpose.
“Billytold me today, that I do everything half-assed,” he said before I could findthe ability to speak. “He said that I live half a life, and I realized he wasright.”
Iwas taken aback. “That’s not—”
Heshook his head. “Don’t tell me it’s not true, Kylie.”
Isank lower into my chair and took to pushing my beans around the plate,ignoring Peter’s haunting voice. “I just don’t understandhowit’strue.”
Devinlowered his fork and placed it on the table. He grabbed a green bean and bit itin half, snapped it between his teeth, and chewed slowly, watching me shufflemine into a neat little row. I waited for him to speak again, I wanted hisvoice to fill the air that was too thick with an unknown tension.
“Inever wanted a girlfriend, you know. I liked not being tied down,” he finallysaid, shaking his head. “I think it broke my parents’ hearts when they realizedhow disinterested I was with the idea of being exclusive to anyone.Actually, fora little while, they thought I was gay, andthat I was suppressing it with casual dating.”
Unsureof where the conversation was heading, I laughed lightly through my nose. “You?Gay?”
Heshrugged while a faraway smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Once, Poppulled me aside and told me I didn’t have to overcompensate, and that I wasfree to be myself.” He laughed, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling.“I straight-up told him my desire for dick was about as strong as Elton John’sdesire for pussy, and I never heard about it again.” He leaned forward, foldinghis forearms on the table. “But you know what I’ve had to hear about for thelongestfucking time?”
Ishook my head, swallowing against the tangle of nerves and butterflies. “No,but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
Hesmirked, and with a slight tip of his chin toward his chest, he pointed thesecond half of the green bean in my direction. And my heart, oh, my fuckingheart … if it beat any harder, any louder, any stronger, I would have diedright there in that chair, where his grandparents had shared decades ofbreakfasts.
Icouldn’t help myself as I dropped my fork and pressed both hands to my face. Ibreathed hard and loud through my nose as the song changed to “Murder of One”by Counting Crows. And Devin … he just leaned back in his chair, popping theother half of the bean into his mouth. He tipped his head back, elongating hisneck as he chewed and swallowed.
“Oh…fuck,” I so articulately responded into my hands, as I trieddesperately to process what exactly was happening.
Devinbrought his head forward, crossed his arms over his chest and dropped his eyesto the table, fixating on the plate in front of him. “You know … the thing is,when I was younger, I was just a stupid kid, and I could chalk it up to that.But, I’m a grown-ass man now, and I’ve wasted so much time on these women whodon’t even know what a fucking meatloaf is. All because I’ve been too scared oflosing the woman who makes me the best fucking meatloaf I’ve ever eaten.”
“It’swhat friends do,” I said, dangerously on the verge ofcrying. Dangerously on the brink of throwing up. Dangerously,sodangerously close to jumping over the table into his arms.
“No.”He shook his head with resolve. “What you and I do? No. Friends don’t do thisshit, and I don’t know why it’s taken me so fucking long to come to terms withthat.”
Hiswords mirrored my recent thoughts and I found myself bending over my plate,exhaling a sob that begged to be released.
“Iknow,” I whispered.
Needingthe security of distance, I jumped up from the table, crossing the room towardsthe couch. It was happening so quickly,tooquickly. Everything waschanging at once, and I needed time to catch up, time to process.
Iheard the scraping of his chair against the floor, the heavy footfalls of hisboots against the wooden planks. “Kylie,” he said, as I covered my face with mypalms. “I want to tell you the truth.”
Istood unmoving, as he rounded to stand in front of me. He took my hands, easedthem back to my sides, and I let him, staring at his chest. He tucked a fingerunder my chin and forced me to look up.
“Istared at you fortwenty minutesat that party, before I had no choicebut to rescue you,” he said, so plainly. “From ten feet away, I thought youwere the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And up close, I realized youweren’tjustbeautiful. Beautiful is only one word, and there arehundredsto describe you. I should know—I’ve spent years stringing them all together.And I wish so fucking badly that I’d asked you out then, instead of writing songsabout what’d I do if I had.”
Mythroat constricted around a hearty lump, and I swallowed repeatedly to noavail. “Why are you telling me this now?” I croaked.
“BecauseI’ve focused so hard, on helping you achieve your dreams, that I’ve forgotten Ihave one of my own,” he replied, and I shook my head.
“Yourmusic is your dream, Devin,” I said, my voice hoarse and trembling.
Hiseyes settled into mine as he replied, “No. I traded that dream in for anotherone, abetterone, the day I met you.”
