Page 58 of Icing Hearts

Tory looks at me, slightly confused and cocks his head. He says slowly, “We aren’t.”

“Maybe not now, but you certainly were,” I quip.

He shakes his head, realization seeping into the tilt of his head. “We never were.”

“I consider friends with benefits to be pretty tight, Tory.”

“I don’t.”

“Is that the type of ‘friendship’ you want with me?” I finally look up at him, trying and failing to school my expression into neutrality. I’m being a complete hypocrite. I know it. He knows it.

“No.” He shakes his head and looks at the carpet. “No, it isn’t. In fact, she and I weren’t so much friends as we were benefits.”

“You’re disgusting.”

His voice rises an octave. “Don’t slut shame me.”

My cheeks pink, and I dart my eyes to the floor, ashamed of my hypocrisy. I would never say such a thing to a woman, and I shouldn’t say it to him. “I didn’t mean it. I’m n—”

“If you’re jealous, just say that, Clara. But don’t attack me when I did nothing wrong. She and I had an arrangement last year during the hockey season. Nothing happened after March, and nothing has happened since.”

I attempt words but only manage to produce sputtering noises and basic utterances, at best. There’s definitely a “psh” and a “well” somewhere along the way.

Tory smirks and rolls his eyes. My noises stop. He hooks a finger into one of the belt loops on my corduroys and pulls me closer.

Just an inch.

Just enough to matter.

“You know what kind of friendship I want with you, Clara? I want lying in bed, clothes on the floor, talking until 3:00 a.m. I want to teach you how to ice skate, because you’re inexplicably inexperienced on the ice, despite growing up here. I want dancing that’s more than just dancing.”

Tory leans in close, lips dusting the tendrils by my ear. My heart hammers, and I can’t help but lean my shoulder into his chest. The desire to be nearer is overwhelming. His voice takes on a tenor that makes me squirm when he says, “And I want to know what every inch of your skin tastes like—to memorize the map of your body with my hands. With you, Clara, I want the friendship first. But make no mistake, I want friends that are so much more than friends.”

“How do you even know to say such things?”

“Books, Clara. Books,” he says, wistful.

“I can’t give you that, Tory.”

“At this point, I’ll take anything you give me, Charity.”

“Well instead, you get nothing.” My eyes drift down to the fingers still connecting us. Quickly, I add, “Nothing other than friendship.” Because I need something. I can’t have what I long for, so I’ll settle for something far less.

“Are you truly mad at me because of thisin particular? Because of Clover?”

“I don’t know what I’m mad at, but you said you could handle my anger so please handle it.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

He hums an “mhm” and nods. “I got you.”

I guess I have my answer about how Tory truly feels. If only it made a bit of difference. But it doesn’t. And I think that hurts even more than not knowing. Now, I have to look at him every day, every game, every tutoring session, and know we could have so much more.

The only thing that keeps me from professing my love is knowing that I’d have to tell him everything. My grip on the façade of my life is so tenuous. I’m barely holding everything together by a million threads attached to a million balloons. If I let go on this one thing, I’ll lose my grip on all of them.

As Vince drives home, we hold hands on the center console in his car. There’s some mindlesschitchat, and I stay just present enough that he won’t ask if something is bothering me. Because if he does, the floodgates will open, and I’ll be a blubbering mess over another boy in front of him. Kind of unforgiveable if you ask me. I want to be confused. But I’m not. I have complete clarity on this situation. Casual with Vince. Keep Tory as a friend. It’s the only option. Yet all I feel is conflicted. Because my brain is making a decision that my heart is rebelling against.

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