Page 83 of If It Can't Be Us

“Prove it,” I challenge.

She pulls up her Instagram account and shows me her page. Her last post was from a few weeks ago, featuring a group of friends at dinner.

“Are these your friends from your support group?” I ask, pointing to the picture.

“Yeah,” she replies, starting to name each one as I look over her page. Her next post is from Christmas time, showing her with her family. Thenthere’s one with several people I don’t recognize. “Who are these people?” I ask.

“That’s Ben’s family,” she says, and proceeds to tell me who they all are.

The next post is one of us—the night things got out of hand. I take the phone from her and scroll through multiple photos. There’s a picture of us at the Christmas market, our glasses of wine together, and us at Craft’s. I look further down her page, noticing there are so many pictures of us together. A pang of sadness hits me in the chest.

I look at her with remorse. “I’m sorry I fucked things up for a while.” I swallow, “We can get back there, yeah?”

She smiles and takes the phone from me. “We’re already on our way,” she says, positioning the phone in front of us to take a picture. I smile, beyond happy to be here with her.

We continue to play until we’ve answered ten questions each, and she wins. She gloats, and we order drinks to celebrate her victory.

The plane is warm, and Vivian removes her jacket, revealing a very low-cut athletic tank top. Although I’ve been focused on rebuilding our friendship and enjoying our time together, the sight of her cleavage makes it challenging to ignore the attraction I’ve been trying to suppress. She opens her text messages and scrolls through a list of unread notifications. I notice names with a blue dot next to them:Sarah, mom, Nick, Grant, Brian.

Brian? Jesus.

She glances up and catches my reaction. “Relax. We’re friends. You asked me to keep it friendly, and I have,” she says with a calm smile.

“I didn’t say anything,” I reply coolly.

She gives me a tight-lipped look, noting the disapproval in my expression. “But I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to say it out loud; your face shows it all. Didn’t we just prove that I know you?” She relaxes, “We truly are just friends, I promise.”

I nod. “You’re allowed to be more… if that’s what you want,” I say, tapping my finger on the wall between us. The rhythm is more for my nerves than anything else.

She notices, her eyes flicking to my tapping finger, then back to me. She knows this isn’t easy for me—letting go of control, choosing to be okay with what she decides, even if it twists me up inside. But I mean it. Her happiness matters more. She nods, and the gratitude in her eyes says it all.

We don’t need more words; we understand each other.

* * * * ** * * * *

We make our way to the eighth floor of the Four Seasons, where our room is located. I hand Vivian the key. “You do the honors?”

She takes the key with a grin and opens the door. As she steps inside, her eyes widen. “Oh. My. God!” she exclaims as she walks over to the window. “Look at this view!”

I watch her take in the room with a sense of satisfaction. The suite is a stunning Premier King Room, remarkably spacious for Parisian standards. The grand marble bathroom, the elegant coffee bar, and the king bed with its plush linens all exude luxury. A cozy sofa sits a few feet in front of the bed, facing a large television nestled among beautiful built-in cabinets. A chandelier hangs gracefully from the ceiling, and three floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, flooding the room with natural light.

She walks around, exploring the suite, ooh-ing and aah-ing. She stops at the bed and frowns. “Hey,” she looks at me, “you said there would be two beds.”

I grimace. “Well, it looks like I was mistaken. It’s fine, Viv. It’s a big bed. I’m not going to bite or roofie you. Besides, I know you’re with Nick. I’d never be disrespectful of that.”

“Well actually,” she hesitates, “never mind,” she says, shaking her head. “So… what are we doing first?”

“God, I forget how energetic you are. Can’t we take a quick nap? I’m exhausted.”

“What? We are not napping! We’re in Paris. You can nap at home or when you’re dead. You know what I want?”

Vivian bounces onto the bed, flopping down on her stomach with a dramatic sigh, her feet kicking playfully in the air.

“I don’t know, a Xanax?” I offer, grinning at her.

She rolls her eyes and props herself up on her elbows. “Okay, Grandpa, chill out. I want a coffee and a pastry from a café in Paris.”

“A coffee and a pastry? God, you’re so wired, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’d done a line of coke on the plane.” I raise an eyebrow, teasing.

---