Chapter 11 #2
"He..." I stopped. Picked at the edge of my sandwich wrapper. "You know how we had dinner last night?" At her nod, I continued, "Well, he introduced me as his friend."
Bridget's eyes narrowed. "His what?"
"His friend. We were at dinner—this really nice place. I wore the green dress, like we talked about; everything was perfect. And then this guy he’s known since college stopped by the table and Gavin introduced me as his friend Andi."
"After this long?"
"Yeah. It’s been six months, Bridge."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. What was I supposed to say? 'Actually, we're dating?' In front of his friend, who clearly had no freaking idea who I even was? That would've been just brilliant."
"So you just... smiled and took it?"
"What else was I supposed to do?" My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "It was already happening. I couldn't rewind it. I just had to sit there and act like it was fine."
Bridget was quiet for a moment. "Was it fine?"
"No," the word came out small. Broken. "No, it wasn't fine. I went home and I couldn't sleep, and all I could think about was how after all this time, I'm still just his friend to anyone outside of our little bubble."
"Have you talked to him about it?"
"Not yet. I haven’t texted him back following his message last night. I don't even know how to bring it up without sounding crazy."
"You're not crazy."
"Aren't I? Like, that’s what he still sees me as—his friend. I guess I never really thought about the fact that we’ve never actually defined the relationship."
"Andi." Bridget set down her sandwich. "You've been together almost six months. That’s a fucking definition of its own. He called you his friend because that's what he wanted that guy to think you were."
Bridget's words hung in the air between us like smoke.
I'd been here before. The last time we’d been surrounded by empty wine bottles and neon orange Takis dust—me, crying to the same friend about a different man.
Or maybe they weren't so different after all.
Maybe heartbreak just kept finding me, wearing a new disguise each time but carrying the same old message: not enough.
"It's not just this," I whispered. "It's everything. I started thinking. He's never invited me to meet his family. I've never been to his place when Charisse is there. I've met none of his friends. Every time there's even a chance our worlds might overlap, he finds a reason to keep them separate."
"You still haven't met his friends."
"That's not—" I stopped. "Okay, yes."
"But?"
"But it's more than I think I had even realized.
" The words came faster now. "He doesn’t have much family, and last month when his cousin texted about getting a few people together, he made an excuse instead of bringing me.
He cancels dates when Rebecca flakes instead of just including me.
And now I'm his friend to the people in his life. His friend, Bridge."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know." I looked at her. "Is it reasonable to want to feel like part of someone's life after six months? Or am I being that girl? You know, the clingy one?"
"Stop. You're not being clingy. You weren’t clingy with Ryan either. You guys were together for two years, so don’t let his bullshit poison you. All you’re asking from Gavin is to exist outside of a box." She took a sip of her drink. "You need to talk to him."
"I know."
"Like, actually talk to him. Tell him how you feel."
"I know."
"Do you love him?"
The question knocked the wind out of me.
"I don't know," I breathed. "I think I could. Probably halfway there already, if I’m honest. Well, maybe more than halfway. But how do you love someone who keeps you at arm's length? Like, is that even possible?"
She shook her head. "You don't," she said.
"When someone keeps parts of their life off-limits to you, the relationship stays shallow.
" She glanced toward the window, her eyes following a couple walking hand-in-hand past the shop.
Her voice dropped. "But take my advice with a grain of salt.
I've spent years wanting someone who barely registers my existence, so I'm hardly relationship expert material. "
I sighed. Bridget had been carrying a torch for my brother Joe since we were in elementary school, but he'd never even glanced her way—he basically looks straight through her like she’s not even there.
That evening, after inventory, I sat alone in the shop with the lights off and the street noise muffled through the windows. My phone sat on the counter, messages from Gavin glowing on the screen.
Gavin: How's inventory going?
Twenty minutes later, he messaged again.
Gavin: Want me to bring you dessert?
After an hour of me not answering, I heard my phone buzz again.
Gavin: Dinner tomorrow night?
All the right words. All the right gestures. Sweet and thoughtful and exactly what I'd want from a boyfriend. Except he didn't call me his girlfriend. He called me his friend. So, basically, he wasn’t even my boyfriend.
I picked up my phone. Stared at the messages. Typed out a response. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. What was I supposed to say? That I was fine when I wasn't? That dinner sounded great when the thought of sitting across from him made my chest tight?
I set the phone down. Face up this time, watching the screen until it went dark. I didn't text back.
Not that night. Not when I locked up the shop and walked to my car. Not when I got home and changed into pajamas. Not when I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying "my friend Andi" on an endless loop.
I just... didn't. Because I didn't know what to say.
And maybe that spoke for itself. There was a part of me that wanted to text back, anyway.
To say I'm fine, dinner sounds great and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened. I was good at that. I’d gotten good at that with Ryan.
Smiling through the thing that was bothering me, filing it away, telling myself it wasn't a big deal until one day it was the only thing.
Not this time.