Page 37 of Shattered On Ice

“Wait, was Lucia before or after Lucretia? I can’t keep up,” Westin says, shaking his head with a bemused grin.

“After. I left Lucretia in Positano the week before, but I’ll always have her in my heart. Anyway. So Briony then tells me Lucia has just explained that she’s halfway in love with me, I just broke her heart by bringing another woman to our place, and she hates me now, too. It was a trip, man, I had to get out of there. That sucked because they made the best cappuccinos, and I had to settle for only really good coffee, not exceptional, for the rest of the trip.” Rook sighs and falls back heavily against the couch cushion.

“Oh, what a hardship. You poor baby,” Westin mocks, throwing a pillow at Rook. “All that rizz and so many women to deal with.” They both crack up as I watch from the hallway, feeling like an interloper in their friendship when Westin was entirely mine for a short eternity.

Westin is back in his All-Star bestie mask, seemingly unfazed at being in this house for the second time today, but with an entirely different role. I can’t go to him and lie in his lap, expecting his hands to comb through my hair like they did last night. I can't even drag my fingers along his shoulder as I pass to let him know I’m thinking of him. I have to keep my hands to myself, and it’s physically painful. I press a palm to my gut, where it’s knotted, and try to hold back the envy and disappointment.

“Hey, Knight, didn’t see you there. Did you miss me?” Rook calls, breaking the illusion that I’m standing on the outside observing without being seen.

“Hey, welcome back,” I say as brightly as I can manage. Rook tosses Westin a game controller and turns on the Xbox, queuing up a shooting game they’ll no doubt both excel at.

I walk a few steps closer, taking in their relaxed posture on either end of the couch. Westin looks completely at ease. I know how hard it is for him to wear this mask, yet he puts it on so effortlessly for Rook that I start to think the last two weeks were all in my head. Is this really the same man who walked up behind me at the stove just this morning, wrapped me in his arms, and held me to his chest while breathing into my neck as though I brought him to life? Or did I imagine the softness with which he held me and the tenderness in his voice when he told me he could live off my scent?

“You should definitely go to Italy,” Rook says, but I don't know to whom he’s directing this. “So many beautiful people. Everywhere you look there’s something old and gorgeous. The food is absolutely incredible. Knight, there were plenty of queer guys, too, but everyone has that stylish metro vibe, so it’s hard to tell if they just dress nicely or they’re into dudes.”

“I’ll add it to my travel bucket list,” I say without inflection. I feel carved out and hollow, nothing fully registering as I adjust to this system shock.

“I’m already researching. The photos you kept sending to the chat were insane. How could I not have FOMO?” Westin adds, sounding genuinely interested.

There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s thinking about the people Rook described, and wants to have his own lascivious adventure like my brother.

It hits me then that the hardest part of this isn't Westin hiding who he is. It’s watching the man I’m falling in love with pretend not to love me back.

I have to get out of here. If I stay another moment watching my brother play a video game with his best friend as they smack-talk each other, my mind will permanently fracture.

“I’m headed out to meet a friend. There’s a pesto pasta in the fridge for dinner if you get hungry. I’ll see you guys later,” I call as I hastily turn away, patting my pocket to ensure I have my phone. I grab my keys off the table in the entryway.

“Ahh, thanks, Knight, that was nice of you to think ahead. I’m so messed up from the time difference; it feels like I should be eating breakfast, but I love knowing there’s already food made. You're the best!” Rook calls as I let myself out.

With the door closed behind me, I can fall apart. The smile fades, and my breathing comes out harsh and jagged. I stumble to my car and fumble to get the door open, cranking the ignition and blasting the AC as I fight my constricting lungs.

My hands shake as I pull up a text to Callum, needing someone who knows what’s going on and can talk me down off this ledge.

Knight: SOS. Please say you’re available. I’m freaking out and need to go somewhere.

It takes him less than a minute to reply.

Callum: Your fairy godbrother is at your service. Here’s my address. Come over right now unless you need me to pick you up.

He sends me a pin with his location, and I put it in the GPS. Once it’s loaded, I send him another message.

Knight: On my way. Thank you. Be there in twenty.

Callum’s house is a craftsman bungalow with a wide porch and pretty hydrangea bushes exploding along the front walk. From the street, it looks tidy and perfect. But as I get closer, I notice signs of half-finished projects, like the paint colors swatched on the porch column, the stack of boxes full of tile leaning precariously next to the door, and the bag of tools left haphazardly beside it. I know Callum is a designer, but it looks like he has an absent-mindedness to him that his creative spark can't prevent.

I ring the bell and wait a moment before the door is answered.

Callum is wearing bright pink terrycloth shorts and a T-shirt featuring Miss Piggy with the words Don't You Know Who I Am on it, all covered by a sheer, floral-print robe that drags along the floor. The wide sleeves wave dramatically as he steps aside and ushers me in.

“Darling boy, what is the trouble?” he begins as soon as the door closes.

I’m shaking, my thoughts a scattered mess. “Rook just got home, and Westin was with him,” I say as Callum guides me to a tufted leather Chesterfield sofa and sits me down beside him. “He was this bro’d out hockey version of the man I’ve come to know intimately as something completely different. He didn't even stop to look at me.”

“Oh, you poor thing. You sit tight, I have just the thing.” Callum bounces up and runs into the kitchen, which is connected to this parlor space by pocket doors that are pushed open, revealing a dining room on the other side. He comes back a minute later with two tall, sweating glasses of icy lemonade and hands me one.

I take a sip and gasp. “This is all booze,” I sputter, my face puckered from the taste.

“Well, you know what they say: when life gives you lemons, add vodka. That’s what I did, anyway, and it makes heartbreak lemonade. Drink up,” he adds before downing half of his own glass.