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“I know that. Still doesn’t mean I don’t feel like shit over it.”
“Is your mom okay now? I mean, you said she’s paralyzed from the waist down, so obviously not. But... is she okay?”
He understands what I mean.
“Yeah. It was touch and go for a bit. And things got really dark when the medical bills started piling up. The stress was…” He exhales, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if wanting to shake off the memory. When he seems to finally collect himself, he continues. “Mom’s a retired teacher, so it’s not like she had a ton of savings. Whatever she had was quickly depleted. And my dad’s been gone for a while—died when I was three—so it was just us dealing with everything and stuff. I had a different job back then and didn’t make much…” He frowns, his gaze lost as he stares over my shoulder for a moment before looking back at me. “Anyway. That’s why I don’t like the rain. Brings back too many bad memories.”
“I understand. And I’m so sorry it happened.” Some deep instinct wants to reach out and place a kiss on his cheek, wants to run my hands through his hair to make him feel better. But I can’t. “And are you guys okay now?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“Yeah. She’s fucking amazing, honestly. She got used to a wheelchair in record time and does her physical therapy every day. Never complains. Bounced back with an amazing positive attitude. Honestly, there’s no one like her. She’s kinda like you in that way.” He smiles. “Scrappy.”
“But areyouokay?” And it’s like hitting the nail perfectly on the head.
He almost slumps in my arms, the devastation in his eyes goes so deep I almost wish his guilt were a tangible thing I could physically fight off. It’s not like I have a particular talent in hand-to-hand combat, but I’d like to at leasttryand help.
“My mother is paralyzed because I wasn’t able to control the car enough to avoid hydroplaning. So, no. I’m not. But that isn’t fair of me to say. I’m not the one in a wheelchair,” Will says, his voice breaking. “She’s way too forgiving. Constantly tells me it’s not my fault and that I shouldn’t be putting myself through hell for her.”
My stomach twists at the pain radiating off his body. Every ounce of me wants to be the balm that heals it. “I agree with your mom. It’s not healthy, this guilt. I mean, the look on your face just now…” I shake my head, pulling back so I can press my palm to his cheek, feel the prickle of his five o’clock shadow beneath my fingertips like spikes pressing against my already aching heart.
We’re touching a lot. We’vebeentouching a lot. Is this something normal friends do? Is it the alcohol that’s made us handsy? I know whyIwant to keep touching him—I’m crazy about the guy. But he clearly took one look at me weeks ago and decided he wasn’t attracted, so why do I feel him holding on to me like his life depended on it?
“You can’t hold onto this guilt.”
“I know. But it will never not be my fault.”
“Will. Stop. You’re not being fair to yourself.” I rub my thumb across his cheek, almost on instinct, in an effort to soothe him.
He takes my hand from his cheek and brings it between us as we sway with a soft, sad smile. “It’s okay, Bridge. I’m almost done paying for my sins.”
“What the hell does that even mean?” I ask, wanting to push,needingto push.
“Don’t worry about it. Soon enough, it won’t even matter.”
I huff a sigh, ready to burst in exasperation and demand he stop being so cryptic sometimes, but something takes over me. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the music, if it’s the dark lights or the comforting warmth of being in his arms, but I let myself get lost in his furrowed brow, in his dark eyes, and decide not to press him for more answers. Instead, I focus on how Will’s lips could be just half an inch away from mine if I just raised up on my tiptoes. If I just stretched up a little and?—
But the slow song ends, transitions into something fast-paced and upbeat; the crowd around us begins to move faster, bumping into us, breaking whatever magic or moment had started to build. It’s like waking up from a dream you never want to let go of. And I almost wail as I feel his arms slip away from my waist, see the corners of his mouth drop, and hear his voice over the music as he tells me it’s late and he better get home, but can he walk me back to my place before?
* * *
True to his word,he walks me all the way from the Garment District to the hell that is the Times Square subway station, and even takes the train with me down to Chinatown. I tell him it isn’t necessary, that I’m fine, but there’s no walking him off the edge of that cliff. And itisa damn cliff in the sense that I feel we’re in danger.
Our friendship has, once again, evolved—but in a different direction. It’s obvious I’ve been having non-friend friendly feelings for Will fora whilenow. But this is different. We almostkissed. And he pulled away.
I want to dig a hole and bury myself there, a thousand feet below ground. I want to never see him or anyone else ever again after how embarrassingly idiotic I acted. He had just told me about his mother’s tragic accident, just opened up to me about something huge, and I almost kissed him!
I am, it’s clear, beyond a next level idiot.
No wonder he wants nothing to do with me.
A couple of blocks from my apartment building, as thoughts of all the mortifying ways in which I embarrassed myself run through my mind, I exhale loudly.
“Bridge?” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and gently takes hold of my arm. “You good?”
I force a smile because, on top of not being able to control the urge to kiss my friend, I can’t control the urge to sigh—a fully controllable bodily function.
I’m a mess. An absolute nightmare. I’m beat up and tired and heartbroken. Yet still, he stands there in front of me, cold, humid wind pulling at his hair, rain long gone, with a look in his eyes I wish I could properly read. In anyone else, I feel like I could confidently identify it. But after everything that happened tonight and the last two weeks, there’s no way he’s looking at me with the kind of affection I think I see.It’s just wishful thinking, I tell myself.You think he’s looking at you that way because you want him to.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, faking my best smile. “You don’t need to walk me the rest of the way, though. I promise I’ll be okay. I can even text you when I get to my apartment. Even share my location with you, if you want.”
