Page 277 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

That’s not what I expected to hear, so I take several seconds to process. I’m a thinker by nature. I ponder, and the thing is—we’re not apologizers, River and me. Sure, we’ve saidsorryhere and there, but only over little things. Forgetting to get ticketsfor a concert. Missing a coffee meet-up. Saying something dumb about the other person’s favorite singer.

Never something like this.

This feels bigger. More important.

“You are?” I ask carefully.

“I was an ass,” he says, shrugging, but owning it. “I don’t know what got into me.”

But I know what got into me. Desire. Lust. Longing. And I need to do the same thing he’s doing—fix our friendship. “I’m sorry too,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I got all pissy. And I don’t know why I acted that way either.”

I try not to feel guilty for that lie. But he doesn’t need to know everything that’s in my heart.

He clears his throat, soldiers on. “I think I just wanted things to go a certain way today. I had this whole vision of road tripping with you, and listening to podcasts and music, and chatting and eating snacks, and debating anything and everything, and getting to Nisha’s and seeing her and Hailey again, and meeting all your friends, like TJ and everyone else,” River says, with an earnestness in his tone that keeps catching me off-guard. I’m so used to his charm, but this side of him—this open side—is wildly endearing too, as he rattles off a dream day. “I was so caught up in that, and I wanted you to have the Friendsgiving you love with all your buddies, and...” He stops, scrubs a hand across his jaw, his eyes swinging away from me. A few seconds later, they’re back on me, and they flicker with a new vulnerability. “Then things started to change.”

I latch onto those last words, desperate to understand them, and him.

My throat is dry as a desert but I manage to ask, “What changed?”

River sighs heavily, shoves his hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says, like he’s as lost as I am. “Maybe it was the snow. Idon’t entirely know, Owen. We just got here and all I could think was how I’d wanted everything to go as planned. The pie and the drive and the trip and the... everything.”

So maybe he’s not talking about feelings. But that’ll have to be okay. Even if we’re never more than friends, that’s enough. River’s the guy who wanted to road trip with me, to hang out, to talk with me. That counts for more than something. That counts for so much. And you don’t throw a friendship like that away, not when I can see us doing the same thing in five, ten, fifteen years.

“Yeah, I get it. No worries. I was kind of wound up as well,” I say, and that’s true enough.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You were?”

“I guess I wanted things to go a certain way too. And then I was frustrated because sometimes you think you can do anything. You’re so confident, which is awesome, but you’re not always realistic.” I gesture to the toasty luxury cabin. “It’s not the worst thing to have to spend the night here, River. It’s like a travel brochure cabin.”

River’s smile flashes again, bright and buoyant. “Do they even make brochures anymore?”

I laugh, and it’s the first one in a while that feels real. “I don’t think so. You have me there.”

“I do have you there,” he says, a spark in his eyes, a naughtiness in his tone once again. Innuendo is never far away with River. I take its return as a sign that all is well.

His gaze travels to the window. “It really is gorgeous here. I did kind of want to take a tour of the home, check everything out, and stare at it all. So I did while you were asleep. I love checking out homes. Did I tell you when my neighbors had an open house a few weeks ago, I went? I was likeOoh, this is their bedroom, I bet he banged her here.”

I laugh again, this time at the absurdity. “So you like to spy on your neighbors?”

“No. But sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about what people are up to behind closed doors.” He drops his voice to a confessional whisper. “Like if I’m walking down the street, I wonder about the couples I pass.”

“Your brain is a very overactive place,” I say.

“Sometimes it’s too busy. And you’re right. I do sometimes think I can do everything, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“Bring it,” I say, wiggling my fingers.

Drawing a deep breath, he leans forward, palms pressed on his knees. “The pecan pumpkin apple pie was terrible.”

“You made it? For real?”

“I did. Baked it yesterday. I made two—one to taste and one for tomorrow—and they were disgusting. Tossed them both in the trash. I officially cannot bake pies,” he says, banging a fist on the arm of the chair.

“One bad pie attempt doesn’t mean you can’t bake them.”

River waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it was boring. Baking is so boring. I went out and bought a pie instead, and I bet it’s divine.” He takes a deep breath, his lips curving into a kind grin. “Does your head still hurt?”

“No. I feel better,” I say, and that’s all true.

---