“I need to say something.”
My heart began beating harder.
“I do not want you to choose me because Evan left,” he said.
I nodded.
“I do not want gratitude mistaken for love. And I definitely do not want a promise made by two six-year-olds turned into a debt.”
“Noah.”
“Let me finish.”
I nodded.
“I love you,” he said.
I looked at the paper in his hands.
“I have loved you for years. But I only want you if you know the difference between needing someone and choosing them.”
Then I looked at him.
For months, I had told myself my feelings came from gratitude.
He had shown up when Evan had not.
He had rebuilt my apartment and rearranged his life.
But gratitude did not explain why I knew the sound of his footsteps in the hallway.
It did not explain why his laugh could pull me out of the worst days.
It did not explain why the thought of him loving someone else made my chest ache.
“I know the difference,” I whispered.
He looked frightened.
“I love you too.”
He closed his eyes.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
His face fell.
I smiled.
“I am sure I love you. I am not sure how to do this without ruining 23 years of friendship.”
“That is a separate problem.”
“So we go slowly.”
“Very slowly.”
Our first real date was at a restaurant we had visited a hundred times as friends.
Everything felt different.
I changed outfits four times.
Noah arrived with flowers, then complained that buying flowers had made him feel like a nervous teenager.
We spent the first half hour discussing whether calling it a date had damaged our ability to speak.
But after that, dating became easier.
We still faced stares.
Some people assumed I was his caretaker.
Others reacted with obvious discomfort when they realized we were a couple.
Noah worried I would grow tired of defending us.
I worried he would never believe I had chosen him freely.
Our worst argument happened six months later.
