CHAPTER 2. Thomas
The car is completely silent around us—and so is Carter.
He’s already tried to restart the engine five times, then let me try too. Nothing. Now he just sits there, hands clenched around the steering wheel like maybe if he holds on tight enough, the car will change its mind.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. His face is still pink and damp from crying, and it physically hurts to see him like this.
This is not how I pictured today going. Not even close.
We were supposed to decorate for Jason’s birthday together, talk while we worked—keep things friendly, like they used to be—then have a few drinks at the party. And after, maybe, I’d finally find the guts to pull him aside and say all the things I’ve spent the past three months rehearsing.
Instead, we’re stranded in a snowstorm, in a dead car, with nothing but the echo of that horrible conversation bouncing around between us.
And I’m panicking.
“Shit,” Carter mutters, still staring straight ahead through the windshield, where snow is already piling up on the frozen wipers. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Let me call a tow truck,” I say—because it’s the only remotely useful thing I can offer right now, even though I already tried that for my own car earlier and found out there’s an hour-long waitlist.
I pull out my phone anyway, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I find the same towing company and call again. A bored-sounding dispatcher—the same guy I talked to earlier—picks up after a few rings and tells me the wait time is still over an hour. Best case.
I ask him to add us to the list, give him our coordinates and my name, then hang up.
Carter hasn’t moved. He’s leaning forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, his whole body tense.
“They said it’s going to be at least an hour,” I say. “Probably closer to an hour and a half.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“Fantastic,” he mutters. “I tried Uber too, but the order cancels every time. So we’re stuck here for God knows how long.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I’m not just apologizing for the car. I’m apologizing for everything I did wrong with Carter—starting with last year, when I completely screwed things up.
It was Jason’s birthday. I got drunk, let my guard down, and came way too close to telling Carter I was in love with him. I touched him like someone who wanted more. And for a few hours, it felt amazing. But the next morning, I woke up panicked. Because I couldn’t be that person. I couldn’t be bi.
I’d had feelings for him for years—probably since I was nineteen and he was seventeen—but I’d gotten used to keeping that part of myself buried.
As long as I never said it out loud, I could pretend it wasn’t there.
I could stay close to him without ever having to deal with what that closeness meant.
But after that night, there was no more pretending.
I knew exactly what I’d almost done—and instead of dealing with it, I shut down.
I asked Carol out the next day, like it would somehow fix things or prove I was still the guy everyone expected.
And then I pulled back completely. Didn’t talk to Carter.
Didn’t explain. Didn’t even check if he was okay.
I just left him sitting with all the confusion and hurt I’d caused—because I was too afraid to face it myself.
And while I was off trying to convince the world I was fine—‘normal’, straight—Carter was left behind, probably assuming I just didn’t care. That I said all those things and disappeared because it meant nothing. Because he meant nothing.
It’s no wonder he let it go. Whatever he might’ve felt back then—if there was ever anything there—he’s clearly over it now.
I don’t blame him. I really don’t. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Carter finally lifts his head. His eyes are tired, his expression flat.
“Not your fault,” he says. “Unless you secretly sabotaged my car.”
I blink. “Why would I sabotage your car?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.”
There’s no heat behind it, but it’s not quite a joke either. Like he wants to be mad at me but can’t figure out how.
And honestly—I’d take his anger over his tears any day. If he’s angry, it means he still cares.
I probably deserve worse anyway.
I glance at my phone. “I’ll text Jason—let him know we’ll be a couple hours late.”
Carter nods and pulls out his own phone. “We’re about…seven miles from downtown. On a normal day, that’d be what, a two-hour walk?”
“Yeah, but in this?” I glance at the snow swirling outside the windows, already stacked against the sides of the car. “More like three. If we even make it without freezing to death or getting clipped by a car in the dark.”
He sighs and drops his phone into the cupholder. “So we’re stuck.”
“Looks that way,” I say, finishing my text to Jason. I try to sound a little frustrated, but honestly, I’m relieved. After everything that happened between us, walking into dinner like nothing’s wrong would’ve been worse.
We fall into silence again. But this time, it’s worse. The engine’s off, the heater’s gone quiet, and there’s nothing left but the wind outside and the soft creak of cold metal settling in.
I want to say something. Break the tension. But the words I’ve gone over in my head for weeks—the explanations, the apologies—they feel small now. Like they’d barely scratch the surface.
How do you admit you’ve been in love with someone for years? That you pushed him away because you were scared of what it meant? Because the feelings were too much—and you didn’t know how to live with them?
Gigi and I had it all mapped out. After months of late-night conversations where she helped me sort through the wreckage, I really thought I was ready.
Just last night, we stayed up for hours going over everything I wanted to say—how I’d explain the silence, the fear, the confusion.
How I’d admit that dating Carol was one last desperate attempt to prove I wasn’t in love with my best friend’s little brother.
But now we’re here, and I’ve already ruined it.
Another ten minutes pass in silence. I read texts from Jason, who responds with a string of worried messages.
“Jason's freaking out,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
Carter makes a noncommittal sound. “He always does.”
He shifts again, rubbing his arms. The temperature’s dropping fast without the heater. In twenty minutes, it’ll be freezing in here. I can already see my breath clouding the air.
“We should probably preserve our phone batteries,” Carter says, switching his to power-saving mode. “In case we need to call for help later.”
I nod and do the same. Another silence falls—this one broken only by the faint, involuntary shudder of Carter’s body. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s clearly cold. His coat is thinner than my parka, and knowing him, he’s probably just wearing one of those button-ups underneath.
“Take my jacket,” I say, already slipping an arm out of the sleeve. I always run warm. He never does.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, too quickly.
“Carter, you’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine,” he repeats, without much conviction. His teeth are still chattering.
“Don’t be stubborn. You’re freezing.”
“And you won’t be if you give me your coat?” he shoots back, skeptical—but his voice is quieter now, less defensive.
He’s got a point, but I can’t just sit here watching him shiver. “We could move to the back seat instead,” I say, trying to play it off like a joke. “Share body heat.”
Jesus. That came out way flirtier than I meant it to.
He gives me a deadpan look, like I’ve suggested something completely unhinged, and my face heats instantly. Hopefully the dim light hides it.
“Okay,” he says, suddenly flat, unreadable. “Let’s go then.”
I just stare at him, lagging—my brain catching up one beat too slow. Is he serious? Is he messing with me?
“Are you joking?” I ask, a new wave of heat crawling up my neck.
He blinks. “No. Are you?”
“No,” I say—too fast. Wait. He actually wants to?
“Alright then,” he mutters, popping his seatbelt. “I’m not dying of hypothermia in a Honda Civic. That’s a dumb-ass way to go.”
My heart stutters. Okay. Maybe this isn’t completely doomed.
Carter climbs into the back seat first, awkwardly scrambling over the console. There’s no way I’m squeezing through the front, so I open my door, step out, and climb in after him—moving fast to let in as little cold as possible.
I shut the door behind me, brushing snow off my shoulders and hair as I shift closer. I settle beside him—but still leave about a foot of space, out of hesitation more than anything. Which is dumb, considering the whole point was to get warm.
Then I catch it—that familiar hint of his shampoo. Vanilla, with some kind of fruity kick. And just like that, we’re back in his living room, curled up on the couch. Kicking through piles of leaves in the park. Laughing behind the counter at Drip while Logan pretends not to listen.
I blink, and it’s gone. Just the car again—and the low, persistent ache tugging at me, knowing I chose to stay away from all of that for a year.
Carter’s sitting stiffly, arms wrapped tight around himself, still shivering.
“This isn’t gonna work if you stay over there,” he says, giving me a sidelong look.
“Right,” I mutter. “Sorry.”
Why do I suddenly feel like some awkward teenager around him? I’m not exactly the soft-spoken type—I mean, I’m twice his size—but Carter makes me flustered in a way I can’t explain. Especially this version of him, the one who doesn’t bother softening anything.
I shift closer until our sides touch, shoulder to knee, not sure if he expects me to go all in for a hug or if that’ll just make things worse.
“Better?” I ask.
“A little,” he says, glancing up at me.
Okay. That’s something.
I pause, then lift my arm and settle it around his shoulders, pulling him in until he’s half wrapped in my parka. He stiffens for a second like he might pull away, but he doesn’t.
I’ll take that as a win.