Her head tilts. “Why do you say that?” she asks. “Did he tell you he never wants to leave it?”

“Maybe,” I answer. “CJ could’ve told me a lot of things the other night when I made that phone call to Reed. I can’t remember.”

Beth looks at me straight on as realization lifts her brows. “Oh, right. Reed said you sounded drunk on that message. What’s up with you Tennyson kids drinking too much and forgetting things?”

“It isn’t my fault! I blame the tequila. And CJ was drinking it too. It wasn’t just me.”

I definitely remember clinking glasses.

Beth jerks her shoulders. “Well, then, if he got drunk too, maybe he forgets saying he wants to stay in the friend-zone.”

My eyes narrow. Beth smiles unapologetically. She’s lucky I love her.

“Sorry,” she giggles, pursing her lips to fight her amusement. “What all do you remember? Anything?”

I firmly nod my head, then I lift my hand and start ticking off memories on my fingers. “Tequila. Some touching. Flirting done solely by me.” I roll my eyes at that one. “CJ standing in my bedroom. And his resting bitch face.”

Beth blinks. “What?” she sputters through a laugh. “Resting bitch face? He does not have one of those.”

I shrug, dropping my hand to the counter. “Well, he didn’t look happy being in my room,” I tell her. “And he sure as hell didn’t stay there after I know I flirted with him. I’m pretty sure I asked him to do, you know, unfriendly things with me, Beth, and he didn’t do them. CJ didn’t want to.”

“And you wanted him to? You want to be more than friends now?”

“Yes.” The word rushes out of my mouth like a breath of relief. I bend forward, drop my elbows on the counter and my face into my hands, groaning, “I do. I want it so badly.”

He jokingly calls me his lady. I don’t want it to be a joke.

“Oh, sweetie.”

I lift my head and look at Beth again, staying hunched over and letting my arms fall between empty cans of beans. “He’s just, he’s so fun to be around,” I tell her. “I laugh all the time when we’re together. We play, you know? Like goofy, silly things I have the best time doing. And he’s sweet and he’s good. God. He’s such a good man, Beth. And he says things to me and I think, every girl needs to be with someone who talks to them like this. He’s that guy. There isn’t better. I know in my heart there isn’t.”

By the time I finish speaking, Beth’s mouth is doing this half-smiling/half-frowning thing. Her bottom lip is twitching, and her eyes are shining with emotion. And I don’t know if she looks on the verge of tears because she’s pregnant, or because she’s sad for me and the giant mistake I’ve made, but I suddenly can’t stomach the thought of staying on this subject a second longer. I know what she’s going to say.

You chose Richard. You put CJ in the friend-zone. You brought this on yourself, Riley.

CJ never wanted this. He wanted me, and now he doesn’t. He just sees me as his buddy. His roommate. His nurse. Drinking pals who occasionally flirt and share friendly touches, but that’s where it ends. We’re friend-zoned for life. It’s too late for anything else.

“Riley,” Beth begins.

I quickly straighten up and wave my hand at her, stopping any more of this discussion. Then I spin around, saying as I hustle away, “I don’t want to talk about it. I need to get to work.”

Hours later, I’m halfway home, taking the long way and stalling for time when my phone beeps with an incoming text. I pull over to the side of the narrow dirt road I’m driving on—I know there isn’t a red light for miles—lift my hips off the seat, and dig my phone out of my front pocket.

CJ: At Dellis’ getting a bite. You want me to bring you back something?

I read the message, then read it again while gnawing on the side of my thumb.

Huh. I’m expecting all interactions with CJ to be hella awkward now—it’s the whole reason I’ve been avoiding going home—but this isn’t awkward at all. I wonder why he’s being so . . . CJ with me?

Maybe his memory is as foggy as mine? I decide to inquire.

Me: So, Friday night was crazy, huh? Wow.

His response is immediate.

CJ: We’ll talk about it when I get home. Food?

Crap. It looks like I’m going to be entering this conversation blind. This can’t suck any more.

Figuring I’ve most likely reached my limit in begging this weekend, I don’t try and persuade CJ to have this discussion now. Instead, I save what dignity I have left, if any, and picture the menu at Dellis’.

I am pretty hungry. I never eat when I volunteer at Holy Cross. The food isn’t for me. It’s for people who need it.

Me: Cream of crab soup would be awesome. Thanks. I’ll pay you back.

CJ: No you won’t.

I sigh and drop my phone onto the passenger seat.

See? He’s that guy.

Knowing CJ isn’t at the house waiting for me gets me off the back roads. I take the more direct route, saving myself roughly ten minutes of drive time, and once I’m home, it’s all I can do not to go crazy.

I just want to get this conversation over with. And I have no idea how long CJ is going to be. It could be hours before he gets home, especially if he’s sharing a meal with someone.

I need to find something to do . . .