I stare at him, lit by candlelight as he peers down at his food, his frown tinged with confusion and vulnerability. I look at his dark hair, flopping into his face, his beard that’s neat and sharp once more, because he let me in, let me close enough to do that for him.
I look at this man who I held on a pedestal for so many years, idolizing; the man who became a reality rather than a myth and shattered the illusion I’d created, who I vilified for disappointing me so deeply. Now, I don’t see my idol or my enemy. I see him. Scared, hurting, angry, lost, a man who clings to those jagged edges and wields his sharp tongue, who’s so practiced at pushing away anyone who wants to be close.
And I see someone who’s shown me, in so many ways, that isn’t the heart of who he is; it’s his protection, his survival. His armor, shielding his heart.
I stare at him, so damn scared yet oddly relieved to admit it: how much Gavin matters to me, not the soccer legend or the sullen captain of my team, but the man. The man who makes my niece guacamole and colors with her. The man who holds me when I’m panicking, who believes in me when I have belief enough for everyone but too little for myself, who sees through every happy-go-lucky layer of my bullshit straight to the heart of my own aching fears and wants.
I promised myself I wouldn’t end up here again, falling for someone whose life is tangled with mine, whose world and career I share. And yet here I am, worse off than I ever was back in college.
I stare at Gavin, begging him with my mind: Show me. Show me how you’re different from him. Show me how this can work.
I don’t know what to do. Does Gavin want me the way I want him? Is he just as scared of this as I am? Or maybe all he’s ever wanted was to bang my lights out, then send me on my way. In which case—
“Bergman.”
I blink, forcing myself to give him an easy smile. “Hmm?”
He examines me, brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” I sit back, picking up a strip of turkey bacon and biting into it.
His eyes narrow. “You had an awfully funny look on your face for it being nothing.”
I throw him a glance, pointing his way with the turkey bacon. “I was remembering your caveman beard, may it rest in peace.”
“Piss off,” he growls, stabbing another neatly cut bite of pancake, which he drags through egg yolk. “If it still looks like shit, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
“Excuse me, I am an expert barber. And cook.” I reach for his plate, pinching a piece of turkey bacon and pancake together, then popping them in my mouth.
“Oi!” He looks at me, wide-eyed, deeply offended. “Eat your own!”
“Yours looks better. That bite.” I point to my mouth and roll my eyes with pleasure. “Too perfect to pass up.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he growls, “considering I’d assembled it and was planning on enjoying it.”
“Oh, cool your gym shorts. I’ll get you more if you run out. For being excited about that bite, you left it there an awfully long time.”
He throws me a glare, which softens as I smile at him, until he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me instead of throw me off his porch. My heart sprints inside my chest.
Finally, he refocuses on his plate. “Oliver.”
“Oh, boy. I’m being Oliver-ed.”
His jaw clenches. He doesn’t look up. “Thank you…for…this. For everything.”
Now my heart’s decelerating, stuttering. Anxiety spins its web, tangles my thoughts with familiar worries.
“But?” I ask quietly. “There’s a but coming, isn’t there? And not the fun kind.”
Gavin sighs, dropping his fork and rubbing his temple. “You need to focus on your captaincy, the team, the season. I need to…I’ve got a lot to tackle, myself.”
My heart collapses, and in rushes sadness, chased by bitter disappointment.
See how quickly he’s ready to move on? How little being together meant?
Is it that simple, though? Or is…is Gavin waging the same war that I am? Is pulling back protection rather than dismissal? Does his caution signal not that he sees me or us as something easily thrown away, but rather as something precious and fragile that deserves going slow, the gentlest handling?
Or am I just hopelessly falling for this man and trying to convince myself he could possibly fall for me, too?
Oh, God. I have fallen for him. So hard. And I have to figure out what to do with that. I have to discern if my heart’s got the best of me all over again or if it’s made the best choice despite my best efforts to deny it.
I don’t know how to figure that out except…to wait. To see if he’ll let me in, if this distance he’s already creating has a purpose that I simply don’t understand yet.
Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I tell him, “Okay.”
His head snaps up, eyes locking on mine. He looks suspicious. “You’re not going to bicker with me about this? Give me hell? Throw a bizarre anecdote in my face and try to talk me out of it?”
“Nope.”
His hand wraps tight around his fork. He realizes what he’s doing, stares down at his hand, and seems to have to will it to loosen, then let go. “Right,” he says, frowning at his food. “Well. That’s…refreshing.”
I force a smile, even though inside it feels like my heart’s blistered and breaking. “See? I can be agreeable.”
“Sure, you can.” He eyes me sharply, takes a bite of bacon. “I’ll just be waiting for a water balloon to explode over my head. Another glitter bomb in my car.”
He’s so quick to fall back on who we were. On what we’ve been. A part of me wants to grip his shirt and shake him and make him tell me what this means. But the bigger part of me knows that I’m scared to hear his answer, that he’s hurting and vulnerable and pushing him right now is unwise.
My heart hurts. I peer up at the stars, swallowing around that lump in my throat again, hiding my face so I don’t risk giving myself away. I take a deep breath and do what I’ve done for years—wrap my sadness in the blanket of cheerfulness, force the topic toward an easier, happier place.
I’ve always loved stargazing. Being reminded how vast the world is, how small I am in its grand scheme, yet how inextricably linked I am to those stars, being made of the very thing burning in the sky—bright, beautiful stardust.
“Ursa Major.” I point. “Ursa Minor. The Big and Little Dippers.”
“I’m familiar,” he says dryly without looking up, having another bite of food.
“Do you know their story, those constellations?”
He watches me warily, chewing coming to a stop. “No, I don’t.”
I nod, looking back at the sky. “So, the story goes, Zeus—who really did not keep it in his pants—and Callisto got down to business, had a kid named Arcas. Hera, Zeus’s main squeeze, who allegedly had a fierce jealous streak, got wind of this and was not pleased. Though, I’m not exactly sure why we act like that’s some kind of character flaw, jealousy, when her husband was about as faithful to her as I am to my commitment to go easy on the dairy.”
Gavin rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks in amusement.
“Anyway,” I tell him, studying the stars, which, with the city’s light pollution, twinkle only faintly in the night sky. “Zeus decided that in order to protect Callisto and Arcas, he was going to change them into bears, grab them by their nubby little tails, and chuck them up into the night sky. That’s why their tails are stretched out.” I point to the row of stars, one after the other. “See?”
Gavin doesn’t answer me. He’s looking at me with this blank expression. His throat works in a swallow. “What the hell is the point of this?”
I glance back up at the stars, lacing my hands together behind my head. “I’m getting there. These ancient stories—myths—have lasted so long, these bizarre explanations for burning balls of gas, because there’s something that resonates. Maybe they don’t make much sense, in literal terms. They’re definitely far-fetched efforts to understand our existence, our surroundings, when none of what we know now existed to demystify the vast, complicated workings of the world, but I do think there’s still some nugget of wisdom in them.”
“And what nugget is that?” Gavin asks.