No kissing unless absolutely necessary.
No ruining the best friendship I had because a hotel reservation had malfunctioned.
When the bathroom door opened, Clare stepped out wearing loose pajama pants and the same old college sweatshirt she had worn in my kitchen that morning.
My sweatshirt.
I stared.
She glanced down.
“What?”
“You packed that?”
“It’s comfortable.”
“You stole it six months ago.”
“Borrowed.”
“You have washed it, right?”
“Don’t destroy the romance, fiancé.”
The word hit differently in the quiet room.
She seemed to hear it too.
Clare climbed under the blankets while I attempted to arrange my body in the chair.
After eight minutes, my knees were practically touching my chest.
From the darkness, she said, “This is ridiculous.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You sound like a hostage.”
“I’m adapting.”
“Get in the bed, Marcus.”
I looked over.
“That sentence is exactly how bad decisions begin.”
“There is enough space for two adults who understand boundaries.”
“Your confidence in adults is touching.”
She threw a pillow at me.
I caught it.
“One side each,” she said.
“No weirdness.”
“You invited your sister’s ex-boyfriend to pretend to marry you.
The weirdness has already cleared security.”
Still, I got into the bed.
We lay on opposite edges with enough space between us to accommodate a small diplomatic delegation.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Clare said softly, “Thank you for tonight.”
I turned my head toward her.
Only the bedside lamp was on.
Her face looked different without the smile she had worn downstairs.
Younger, maybe.
Or simply tired.
“You don’t have to thank me every hour.”
“I know.”
She stared at the ceiling.
“When Evan walked up, I thought I was going to become that version of myself again.”
“What version?”
“The one who starts checking every sentence before she says it.
The one who wonders whether she’s being annoying.
Too emotional.
Too opinionated.
Too much.”
I felt anger rise slowly.
Not the dramatic kind.
The useful kind.
“He trained you to apologize for occupying space,” I said.
She turned toward me.
