I leave her to get herself together and head downstairs to make us an early dinner.
Braelyn and Nash were together for over a year and a half when he died. It was a big deal for them. They were best friends before he ever made his move, but he had been crazy about her since he first realized he liked girls. I can’t begin to explain the guilt I’ve carried. The number of times I’ve wondered if she would have been marrying Nash in seven weeks instead of Adam.
After he died, I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t handle any of it, especially when Braelyn just held my hand and didn’t blame me. Not once. I took the love of her life from her, and she hugged me through it.
I left for Rome, then Paris, and London, doing apprenticeships and working as a sous chef in some of the best restaurants in the world. I threw myself into cooking. Into mastering my craft. After a couple of years, I moved back stateside to Las Vegas and LA. Anything to avoid coming home. I was making a name for myself and even did some guest spots on Food Network shows.
Then I realized I couldn’t keep running from it or fighting it. I loved her. It hadn’t dissipated from the moment I realized itwas her. This was about… three and a half years ago, I think. It was the fall, and I was twenty-eight and finally starting to feel like I could take a breath without it shredding my lungs. I moved back to Boston and opened two restaurants.
And I planned my strategy.
I made my move. Gently felt her out and tested boundaries to see if she’d respond. I didn’t get much in return, and then Adam came barreling in. That was that. I never told him how I felt. I never told her either. Which is why I’m the best man maid of honor. The best friend. The perpetual third wheel in our not-so-triangular situation. He was good to her, and that’s what I cared about the most.
So I let the dream of one day with Braelyn die. She’s my best friend, and I can’t live without her. The ventricle to my atria, as she once called us. I’d take her like this any day over nothing, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be here while she was a newlywed with someone else.
I’ve signed contracts at three locations. Frankfurt, Paris, and London. I’m leaving for Europe in ten weeks and am living there for at least eighteen months. I haven’t told her yet, and now this.
In the kitchen, I unpack the things I picked up on the way over here and get started on Brae’s favorite dish, spicy chicken carbonara. Usually, I make this for her with homemade bucatini, but I caved and purchased packaged fresh pasta to make it easier and faster. I start boiling the water while I sauté the pancetta and grill the chicken on the griddle part of my stove.
I hear her pad into the kitchen and turn to find her looking adorable in my oversized clothes. Her brown hair is brushed back off her makeup-free face, and her milk-chocolate brown eyes are bright.
“Better?” I ask.
“Better. But I might not give you this hoodie back.”
“I might not give you the option.” I pull out a sauvignonblanc that will complement the chicken and pasta and start uncorking it. She climbs up onto a stool and gratefully takes the glass when I slide it across the marble to her.
“You’re making my favorite?”
“Kid, you got your heart broken tonight. Of course I’m making your favorite. I also got stuff to make pecan bars with caramel ice cream.”
She rests her head on her forearm on the counter. “Thank you. Thank you for being on my side with this. I know by coming to you, I put you in a weird spot with Adam.”
“There’s no weird spot. I love him like a brother, but you’re my Braelyn, and right now, he’s just Adam.”
Her eyes close, and she bites into her lip to push back her emotions. “This sucks, you know?”
I don’t, but I do, so I just nod and turn back to the food so I don’t burn anything.
“I got out of work early because we were overstaffed, and I walked in to find them fucking to Harry Styles.”
My brows furrowed because that’s just… “Harry Styles?”
She snorts a laugh as she takes a hearty sip. “I know, right? How random is that? She was also faking her orgasm. It shouldn’t make me feel better that he couldn’t even get her off, but somehow it does.”
“How can you tell she was faking?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me, and my lips twitch up into a smirk.
I raise a hand defensively. “I’ve never experienced anyone faking it, so I wouldn’t know. I’m simply asking.”
She laughs and gives me two thumbs-up. “Okay, yeah, sure. I’m sure you’re the Zeus of all sex, and no woman has ever faked it with you.”
“I mean, you said it. I didn’t.”
She puffs out a sarcastic noise. “The arrogance of men never ceases to astound me. Haven’t you ever seenWhen HarryMet Sally? All men say that a woman has never faked with them, and yet all women have faked at one point in their lives. As Meg Ryan said in that film, you do the math.”
I shrug as I whisk the eggs and yolks together before I add the parmesan and pepper to them. “Not with me, they haven’t.”