Page 113 of The Chance

“I’m not straight.”

Everything in me freezes.

“I kissed Lemon when I met him and though I didn’t hate it, I didn’t like it either.”

I must look as struck as I feel because Jordan’s gaze softens on me, and he reaches for my knee. Pulls back. Settles his warm palm against the denim anyway.

“Mac, ask me why.”

I swallow.I don’t know that I can.

Do I want to know what he felt when he kissed someone that wasn’t me? I mean … I did tell him to fuck someone else, but then we fucked and—this whole thing is fucked.

My throat works and I finally croak out a rough “Why?”

The side of his lips tip up in the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, and ithurts.

“Because I kept wishing it was you.”

All of the breath leaves me on a choked sound I try to reign in, but can’t.

“I kept just feeling for you. Waiting for you. Wanting you. Wishing … it was you.”

There’s no holding back the sob that creeps up this time, deep and soul-crushing.

“Our friendship was never fake, Mac. It was the foundation for everything I feel for you now.”

My eyes are screaming, and my heart is aching, and can this be true?

When the shake to my hands is too much, Jordan takes the mug from me and replaces it with his own. It’s warm and scratchy against mine, yet it feels like so much more than just a comforting gesture between friends with the tingles it brings. It feels like home in a grip.

What if?

I squeeze his fingers, and it feelsgoodto hold them. Maybe a little too roughly, but he’s squeezing mine right back.

“So … I—” He clears his throat and stares at the way we fit together. “I’m not straight. That’s as close to a label as I got.”

I nod. Wipe my face with the back of my other hand.

A beat of silence falls over us and though it’s a little loaded, it’s not awkward.

But then Jordan adjusts our grip and my breath hitches when he interlocks our fingers together instead of letting go.

He turns so that he’s sitting facing forward, but he’s stiff as he scoots closer, resting our joined hands on his thigh. Clearly, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

That is what this has to be. I’m dreaming or heading to the afterlife, and this is the result.

I don’t ever want to wake up.

DNR me, bish.

“The closest thing I could relate to was demisexual.”

I choke on air.

The realization is like a sucker punch straight to my gut with how many things suddenly file under different categories in my mind and turn into makingsense.

Friendship. The platonic stuff.

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