Chapter 18
COVEY
Three days, four performances, and zero messages from Aidan. Not talking to him feels like a terrible punishment. I only wish I knew what I did wrong.
Other than pushing him into becoming my fake boyfriend, crossing the lines of our friendship, and subjecting him to my family.
Right, so the silence is well-earned. It still feels unfair.
In a short time, I got used to speaking to Aidan every day.
All the messages back and forth, the phone calls, the time together in front of the TV.
Like all the years and miles we put between us didn’t matter.
I’m well aware that those kinds of relationships are rare. I hate to think I spoiled it.
My one text message to him, asking if he’s okay, is left unread. It’s put me in knots. If I’m not on stage, I’m thinking about him. Even then, he’s never far from my mind.
Calling it off early is best for everyone. It means telling my family that we broke up and managing Christmas with them on my own while they all commiserate over my loss. It’s worth it if I can salvage our friendship.
To do that, I need to stop being a fucking coward, pick up the phone, and call him.
I’ve written and deleted dozens of text messages, but this is one of those conversations that needs more than a pop-up on his screen.
Plus, I’m struggling to find the right words.
I’m hoping they’ll come to me once I’m speaking.
Nothing like going out there and winging it, expecting a stroke of genius to hit me when I hear his voice.
What could go wrong?
The phone rings four times before Aidan picks up.
“Hi, Covey.” I like the way he says my name. Everyone says it differently, pronouncing and stressing the syllables in different ways. Aidan’s version is my favorite.
“Do you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you about something.” There’s rustling in the background, followed by the sound of a key in a lock.
“Sorry, just got home from school.” Six o’clock? For some reason, I thought teachers finished earlier than that.
“I can call you back,” I say quickly. It’s a stupid offer because I’m pretty sure if I don’t do this now, I’ll lose my nerve entirely.
“No, just give me a second to put my stuff down.” There’s a bunch of noise on the other end. I imagine him going through his routine, taking off his coat and shoes, putting everything away for the day.
It’s Aidan, so I suspect most of those things are on the floor instead of put away. “Okay, what’s up?”
“Thanksgiving ended poorly. And then I kissed you, and things got weird. Well, weirder. And then the whole thing blew up.” Great work, Covey. The plan to wing it is going very smoothly, if I ignore the verbal diarrhea. “I think we should be done with the whole thing.” There. I said it.
“What whole thing?”
“The fake dating thing.” I’m pacing my kitchen, unable to hold still for even a second.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
I hold my phone out from my ear and stare at it. I wonder if this is how Alice felt when she found herself in Wonderland. It’s like everything’s a little off, and I no longer know which rules do and don’t apply. “I-I’m fake breaking up with you.”
“Well, if you’re fake breaking up with me, that would mean that we’re technically still together.”
I could really use a drink. The water with lemon in my big mug isn’t cutting it. “But it’s a fake relationship.”
“I don’t think that matters in this context.”
Maybe I’m tired, but that almost makes sense. “Well, then I’m offering to end our agreement early.”
There’s silence. After a minute, I check to make sure the call is still connected. Finally, his voice comes through, almost a whisper. “Is that what you want?”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer, but not super helpful. “What I want is to keep you as my friend. I’m afraid that this situation is going to tear us apart. I’d rather have you as a friend for the next fifty years than as my fake boyfriend for the next five weeks.”
“Covey, it doesn’t have to be a choice. Yes, Thanksgiving got a little weird.
I should’ve anticipated that situation a little bit better.
Plus, I was still a bit emotionally vulnerable from everything else that happened.
” I wince at his words. In all the craziness, I forgot that he was still dealing with all of that. “We can make this work.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Covey, when it comes to your crazy plans, I’m always sure.” And if that isn’t the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, I don’t know what is. “Can you come over? We could talk about this and eat dinner?”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
AIDAN
Bad ideas are multiplying like rabbits in my brain. Sure, invite the best-friend/fake-boyfriend/friend-with-benefits over for an intimate dinner.
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that my feelings for Covey don’t fit into any of those categories. There’s been a significant amount of research done over the last few days, and I’m one hundred percent sure.
And when I say research, I mean that I shouted Covey’s name on Thursday night as I came.
The minute I got home from the ballet, I had my hand down my pants.
The fantasy completely took over, thinking about his thick thighs and how good they’d feel wrapped around my waist as I pounded into him.
Wondering what it would be like to have him come over after a show, still wearing his delightful costume.
I’m sure they change at the theater, but it’s my fantasy, and I want him in those tights, want to trace the lines of his muscles as he flexes.
I want to be the one to strip him down and get him extra dirty before washing him clean in the shower.
Am I ashamed to be jerking off to thoughts about my friend?
Yes, and it’s usually a line I refuse to cross.
Except, I’ve been playing jump rope with the darn thing for the last few days.
Every time I swear never to do it again, I find myself a few hours later with my hand on my cock and images of Covey playing in my mind.
And if that’s not bad enough, I can’t get any version of him to stop tormenting my thoughts.
All day at school, everything someone said reminded me of Covey.
A kid held up his finger painting for me, proudly proclaiming that black is his new favorite color.
Instantly, I saw Covey wearing his signature oversized black hoodie and sweatpants.
Dinner’s not going to help. Maybe getting Covey to fuck me would help. A one-time thing to get it out of my system? Yeah, that’s an even worse plan. One I can’t imagine works for anyone. Ever.
Maybe if it turned out to be bad, but something tells me that a guy who can move his body like that on stage makes for a perfect bed partner.
And the knock at the door means my time for wrestling with my thoughts is up. Instead, it’s time to face the music. Or something. At the very least, I owe him more of an explanation for why I’m avoiding him. This weirdness between us won’t work.
Covey knocks again, and I groan. “Coming.”
When I open the door, I can’t help but stare.
He’s in his usual casual getup—a pair of black joggers and a dark gray sweatshirt.
His look stops me in my tracks. Yes, it’s his typical garb, but it’s the fact that I’ve seen a glimpse of what he’s hiding under all that fabric that makes my mouth water.
“Aidan?”
Shoot. “Come on in.” I hold the door open for him as he enters my home. It’s strange how having him in my space makes me instantly more relaxed. And that’s a fact I’ll be keeping to myself. Along with any other feelings I might be having. “Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Wine?”
“Water, please.”
I fill a glass for him in the kitchen, remembering he doesn’t drink alcohol during performance periods.
I hope he doesn’t mind if I have something because this is the kind of conversation that requires a glass of wine.
I pour myself a glass of white from the open bottle in my fridge, one from a Maine vineyard I visited over the summer.
I wonder to myself if it’s the kind of place Covey would enjoy.
A weekend at a bed and breakfast, strolling through the vineyards, and sipping wine under an oversized umbrella.
It’s easy to forget for a few minutes that such activities are typically reserved for people who are actually dating.
“Aidan, I’m so sorry,” he says as soon as I hand him the water.
“Stop. Covey. I already told you, I went into this eyes wide open. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I feel like everything’s broken, and—” His gray eyes glisten as they fill with tears.
I press my index finger to his lips, effectively shutting him up. It’s breaking my heart to see him so torn up. How am I supposed to tell him everything I’m feeling now? What if it hurts him even more? What if he walks out of here, shattering my heart in the process?
Neither of those things is worth the risk.
It’s less than five weeks until New Year’s Eve.
That’s nothing. Then we can put this whole thing behind us.
What that looks like is next year’s problem.
I can practically hear Silas telling me what a bad plan this is, but since the version of him in my head can’t come up with something better, I push forward.
“Seriously, I’ve known your family a long time. I might be a bit out of practice handling them, but I agreed to this and I intend to see it through.”
“You’ve got a whole month left.” His lip quivers when he looks up. “I can’t—” He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t lose you. Not when I’ve just found you again.”
Covey’s sitting here worrying that it’s too long, but I’m trying to figure out how to get the most out of it.
For once, I might be the one with an insane plan.
“It’s two holidays.” He winces. “Christmas and New Year’s Eve?
” Unless there are extra holidays I’m not aware of. With his family, I guess it’s possible.
“Yeah, but Christmas is two. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”
“Of course.”
“We could probably split them. Maybe go to your family for one? Or we could say that we want to celebrate Christmas Eve on our own? Make it special since it’s our first Christmas together?”
As always, Covey knows precisely how to pull at my heartstrings. As well as a few other things. My stomach clenches at the thought. “Yeah? That sounds nice. Celebrating just the two of us.”
“I’ll tell my mom. Especially since I perform that night. Well, and on Christmas Day.” Does he ever get a day off?
“Oh, about that.” He tenses at my words. “I, um, I’m coming to see you.”
“What?” He looks more startled than I expected. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t tell him about my surprise visit on opening night. “When?”
“With the school,” I add quickly. “It’s an annual field trip, and I drew a short straw, so I have to be one of the chaperones.
” It’s obvious I said the wrong thing. The little spark I’d seen in him quickly dies out.
I thought he’d be more excited. He always enjoyed it when I came to his performances.
“That’s nice. I hope the kids like it.” His words sound almost rehearsed.
Yeah, the kids. Not like I’m already imagining how much nicer it’ll be when I’m in a seat closer to the front and can get a much better look at his thighs. And ass. “They always do.”
“Are we good?”
Good? Absolutely not. This whole thing is about to come crashing down around me. I can feel it. And here, Covey gave me an escape hatch, a way to end it early and spare myself the worst of the heartbreak. But no, I’m too stubborn to take it. That, or too in love. “Yeah, Covey. We’re good.”