Words I consider every single day myself.
I lean into him, tugging my own beanie down around my ears. The silence that surrounds us at nearly four o’clock in the morning is dense and sleepy. “For what it’s worth,” I murmur, “I think you’re doing the best you can for yourself.”
Like me, though, he’s not able to talk about his choices easily. His arms circle me for a brief moment in a hug that leaves my heart hurting for him. “We should help Dad get those last two boxes down before he kicks both our arses.”
Because I love him, I do not push any further. Not this morning, at least.
The first time I ate at the Moose on the Loose, I was reminded of the diner I used to frequent with my friends back in high school. Called The Hollow Deer, there were dusty stuffed animal heads on the wall. It used to turn me off of meat when I was there, simply because those poor animals would stare at me balefully, like they were saying, “Et tu, Chloe?” Well, the Moose is similar in that there are animals everywhere—moose, obviously—but rather than stuffed heads, it’s more in décor: moose curtains, moose statues, moose pictures on the walls, and moose etchings on the tables. If you like moose, this is definitely the place for you. If you don’t, well, you’re definitely in the wrong diner.
I like it here, though. Kitschy as it is, it’s also very welcoming, and locals flock to this place for comfort food and easy camaraderie. Well, mostly easy. There’s still Frieda to contend with, especially when she’s in a gloat-y mood like right now. “Imagine my surprise when I saw a change of address form in Paul’s office.”
The yin to Frieda’s yang, Ginny bumps hips with me. “I can’t believe you and Will are living together!”
I roll my eyes. “Roommates,” I stress. “We’re roommates.”
“Riiiggghhhht,” Frieda drawls. She scoots until her hip is also against mine; I’m trapped in a gossip sandwich. One of the locals who comes on a daily basis chuckles from his spot at the counter. I try not to glare at him. “Like anyone could be just roommates with someone as tasty as Will.”
Ginny giggles. Frieda chortles. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I never can get them out, no matter how much I wish I could unburden myself, even to friends. Because if I were to let it out, it’d break me even more than it already has. And I’m a Class A, prime example of a broken girl. You’re wrong, I want to tell them. Will is nothing more than my best friend. He will never be anything more than my best friend, because I already am in love with somebody else. Two somebody elses, actually. And that will never change, no matter how much I wished differently.
I tell them instead, “You realize my bedroom is next to his dad’s, right?”
“I bet old Cameron snores,” Frieda says. “And sleeps like the dead.”
I wrap another set of silverware with a napkin. “He’s forty-five, Frieda. That’s hardly old.”
“I think it’s great!” Gum snaps between Ginny’s super white teeth. “You’re the best thing to happen to Will in ages.”
I scratch the back my neck, uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. I hope Will doesn’t come out of the kitchen. He’s incredibly uneasy about anybody discussing what he considers to be no one’s business but his.
“Right?” Frieda puts a new liner in the coffee pot. “We thought he’d given monkhood a go until you entered his orbit, thanks to some bitch he couldn’t seem to get over.”
I don’t have the heart to tell them that Will isn’t entirely over that bitch just yet; just this morning, there was another traumatizing phone call that had Will in nearly a zombie state for the better part of an hour. I don’t know what’s worse—the lingering tie he and Becca, his ex-girlfriend, can’t seem to unknot, despite the vast physical distance and history between them, or the forced separation and radio silence I’ve enforced between me and my fiancé. And his twin.
But I can’t let myself think about them right now. I grab my pad and pen, ready to let myself fall into my work routine.
Frieda’s not done with me, though. “You cannot honestly tell me that you haven’t hit that yet.” She purses her red lips together.
I look her straight in the eyes and say slowly, but clearly, “I haven’t hit that.”
“Are you asexual?”
I level a long look at her. She’s only asked me this about, oh, a hundred times since we’ve met.
“Because, honey, Will is what we call USDA Prime beef.”
“Well, thank you. Nothing makes a man feel manlier than being compared to actual cow flesh. Shall I lift my shirt so you can check my marbling as well?”
Ginny gasps, fire engine red, as Will sets a rag down on the counter next to us. Several customers nearby laugh loudly. Another smile curves my lips. It’s an epidemic.