Chapter 1: The Game Night Gamble
The wine was already gone, and Frank was working on his third beer, which was dangerous because beer made him honest, and honesty was the thing that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
"So then Karen says," Breanna gestured wildly with the card in her hand, nearly knocking over her empty glass, "she says, 'I don't think you understand the emotional weight of a infographic.'" Her laugh burst out of her, bright and unself-conscious, filling the small living room until Frank felt it pressing against his ribs from the inside.
He laughed too, but his eyes stayed on her. They always stayed on her.
The fairy lights tangled in the corners of her apartment cast everything in a warm, amber glow. Breanna had pinned her hair up with a blue pencil—the one with the chewed end, the one she always reached for when she was thinking—and a few wavy strands had escaped, curling against her neck. She wore an oversized sweater with a hole in the elbow, and Frank knew exactly what that hole looked like because he'd stared at it for the better part of the last hour.
Two years.
Two years of Thursday night game nights, of fake-casual invitations to things he didn't care about, of leaning in just a little too close and finding excuses to brush his fingers against her arm. Two years of watching her laugh at his jokes and miss every single signal he threw at her with the grace of a runaway train.
Kevin the succulent sat on her windowsill, because Kevin had apparently moved in last month. She'd named him Kevin Jr. Frank had not objected.
"Your turn," Breanna said, sliding the deck toward him. She was smiling, that full-mouth smile that crinkled her eyes and made something in Frank's chest ache like an old wound. "Try not to lose this time. I'm keeping score."
"You keep score?"
"I keep score." She patted the spiral notebook beside her, and Frank caught a glimpse of tally marks. Neat ones. She'd been keeping track of his losses for weeks.
"Why do you even have a notebook for this?"
"Because I'm competitive, and you're distractible." She said it like it was simple math, like she didn't know that the only thing he was ever distracted by was her. "And because I like watching you lose."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a graphic designer with a petty streak."
Frank picked up his cards and looked at them without seeing them. His hand was mediocre at best—a few scattered numbers, no pairs to speak of—but he wasn't thinking about the game. He was thinking about the way the fairy lights caught the gold in her hair. He was thinking about the fact that he was thirty-one years old and he'd spent the last two years orbiting her like a sad, lovesick moon, waiting for something to change.
Nothing was going to change.
He had realized that on Tuesday night, alone in his apartment, eating cereal over the sink while Kevin Jr. judged him from the windowsill. He'd realized it again on Wednesday, when he'd drafted and deleted seventeen texts to her, each one more pathetic than the last. By Thursday morning, he'd made a decision.
Tonight, he was going to do something about it. Or he was going to die trying. Or he was going to humiliate himself so thoroughly that he'd have to move to a different state and start over as a man with no past and no feelings. One of those.
"Frank." Breanna was looking at him now, her head tilted in that curious way she had, like she was examining a piece of art she couldn't quite figure out. "You've been holding your cards wrong for like, thirty seconds."
"What?"
"You're looking at them upside down." She pointed. "That's a seven of hearts, not an L."
He looked down. She was right. He flipped the cards around and felt heat creeping up the back of his neck.
"You okay?" she asked, and there it was—that note of genuine concern in her voice that always made him want to tell her everything. Which was dangerous. Because if he told her everything, he'd have to admit that he'd been in love with her since the moment she'd corrected his grammar at a mutual friend's party two years ago, and she'd looked so pleased with herself that he'd known, right then, that he was completely and utterly screwed.
"I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About you. About the way your laugh sounds like a fire alarm and I've never heard anything better. About how I want to kiss you so badly that I can't remember what I was doing before I met you.
"About how you cheat at cards."
"I don't cheat!"
"You keep score in a notebook, Breanna. That's premeditated."
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it and held it up like a shield, grinning despite himself. She was laughing again, that big, unguarded laugh that made her whole body shake, and Frank felt something crack open in his chest.
This was it. This was the moment.
"I can make you blush," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, dropping into the space between them like a grenade with the pin already pulled. Breanna's laugh stuttered to a halt. She blinked at him.
"What?"
"I can make you blush." He set the pillow aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure she could hear it, but he kept his voice steady. "Any time I want. I have that power."
She snorted. Actually snorted. "No, you don't."
"I'm serious."
"You're not serious about anything, Frank. That's your whole thing."
"My whole thing?"
"Your thing." She gestured vaguely at him, at the space he occupied. "You're the funny one. The one who makes jokes and defuses tension and never actually says what he means." She said it lightly, without malice, but the words hit him like a slap anyway.
Never actually says what he means.
"Is that what you think?" His voice came out quieter than he intended. "That I never say what I mean?"
Breanna's smile flickered. For a moment, something complicated passed over her face. "I think you're good at hiding," she said. "Better than me."
"I'm not hiding anything." The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. "I'm an open book."
"You're a closed book with a really good dust jacket."
"Did you just call me well-designed?"
"I called you deceptive." She grinned, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "There's a difference."
Frank looked at her. Really looked at her. At the way her brow furrowed slightly when she was trying to figure him out. At the way she bit her lip when she was nervous, even when she was pretending not to be. At the way she held herself like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, like she couldn't quite believe that anyone would want to stay.
And he thought about what it would mean to tell her the truth. To say the words out loud and let them land wherever they landed. To stop being the funny one for five goddamn minutes and just be the one who loved her.
"I bet you a hundred dollars," he said instead.
"What?"
"A hundred dollars. I bet I can make you blush before this game is over."
She stared at him. Then she laughed—but it was different this time. Shorter. Edgier. "You don't have a hundred dollars."
"I have savings."
"Frank."
"I have a 401k. I have mutual funds. I have a rainy day fund that's specifically earmarked for stupid decisions, and this qualifies."
"You're insane."
"I'm determined. There's a difference."
Her eyes searched his face. He watched her try to read him, watched her try to slot this moment into one of her carefully organized categories of Things Frank Says That Don't Mean Anything, and he watched her fail.
"You can't make me blush," she said, but her voice had gone slightly breathless. "I don't blush."
"Everyone blushes."
"I'm part Nigerian. My skin doesn't show it."
"Your cheeks do." He said it softly, almost tenderly, and he saw something flicker in her expression. Surprise. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the beginning of something she hadn't let herself feel yet. "I've seen it. When you get embarrassed. When you talk about something you love. When you laugh too hard at your own jokes." He paused. "It's my favorite color."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"That's—" She shook her head. "That's weird. You're being weird."
"I'm being honest."
"You're never honest."
"I'm honest with you." He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. She didn't pull back. "I'm always honest with you, Breanna. You're just not listening."
The air between them had changed. It felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. Breanna's fingers were wrapped around her empty glass, and Frank watched her knuckles go white as she gripped it.
"Good one," she said, but her voice cracked on the second word.
"Not a joke."
"Frank—"
"I'm going to prove it to you." He set his cards down on the table, face-up, not caring anymore about the game. "I'm going to make you blush, and then I'm going to collect my hundred dollars, and then you're going to have to admit that I'm not just the funny one."
"You're scaring me a little bit."
"Good." He said it gently. "Because I'm a little scared too."
She was watching him with wide eyes now, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. Her chest was rising and falling faster than it should have been, and Frank could see the pulse beating in her throat—quick, nervous, alive.
He could stop. He should stop.
But he'd been stopping for two years. He'd been waiting and hoping and dropping hints that she kept mistaking for lint on the floor. He was tired of being the funny one, the safe one, the friend who never said what he actually meant out loud.
So he leaned in.
Not a lot. Just enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Just enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and vanilla and something underneath that was just her.
"Close your eyes," he whispered. When she didn't obey, he raised one hand to her face, his fingers brushing against her jawline. She gasped softly. He felt it all the way down his spine.
"I'm going to tell you something," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "And I'm not going to make a joke about it. I'm not going to deflect or pretend it didn't happen. I'm just going to say it, and you're going to hear it, and then we're both going to have to live with whatever comes next."
"Frank—"
"I love your laugh." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I know that sounds stupid. It sounds like the kind of thing you say when you don't know what else to say. But I mean it. I've been in love with it since the first time I heard it. Since the first time I made you laugh, and I realized I would do anything—anything—to hear it again."
Her lips parted. A small, shaky breath escaped her.
"And I love the way you say my name. I love the way you call me for advice and then ignore everything I say. I love the way you talk to Kevin like he's your son." He paused, feeling his own heart threatening to beat out of his chest. "I love the way you look at me when you're trying to figure me out, like I'm a puzzle you haven't solved yet. But I'm not a puzzle, Breanna. I'm just a man who's been in love with you for two years, and I'm too tired to keep pretending I'm not."
She was blushing.
It was subtle—a warmth that crept up her neck, a flush that spread across her cheeks like sunrise. He saw it. He felt it. He let his thumb trace the place where the color had bloomed.
"There it is," he murmured.
"That's not—" Her voice was barely a whisper. "That's not fair."
"I know."
She swallowed. Her eyes were glassy. He couldn't tell if she was going to cry or laugh or push him away, and that uncertainty—that raw, terrifying uncertainty—was the most honest thing he'd felt in years.
"You're saying this to make me blush," she said, but it sounded like she was asking a question.
"I'm saying this because it's true." His forehead touched hers. "I'm saying this because I'm tired of watching you miss every signal I send. I'm saying this because I'm tired of being your best friend when I want to be your everything."
"Frank—"
"I'm not finished." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "I've been keeping a tally. You know that? Every time I flirt with you and you don't notice. Every time I call you beautiful and you think I'm being funny. Every time I invite you to something 'as friends' and you show up in sweatpants and ask if there's free appetizers."
Her mouth quirked, almost a smile. " There were free appetizers."
"That's not the point."
"Those little sausages—"
"That's not the point!" He laughed, despite himself, and the sound cracked something loose in his chest. "The point is, I've been trying. I've been trying so hard, and you keep treating me like I'm not serious. And I understand that maybe I've given you a thousand reasons to think that. But I'm serious now. I'm more serious than I've ever been about anything."
The flush on her cheeks had deepened. She was biting her lip, and Frank watched her try to find words, watched her fail.
"I don't know what to say," she finally admitted. "I don't—this is a lot."
"I know."
"I thought—" She shook her head. "I thought you were messing with me."
"I'm not."
"How am I supposed to know that?"
He considered the question. He considered all the ways he could answer it—with more words, more confessions, more carefully arranged sentences designed to convince her of his sincerity. But he'd already given her words. He'd already given her everything he had.
So he kissed her.
It was slow and deliberate and terrifying. He pressed his lips to hers before he could lose his nerve, and for one horrible, breathless moment, she didn't move. He felt her freeze, felt her hands hover in the air like she didn't know what to do with them.
Then she kissed him back.
It was hesitant at first, tentative—like she was testing whether he was real. Her lips parted against his, soft and warm, and Frank's hand slid into her hair, knocking the pencil loose so that the strands tumbled down around her shoulders. She made a sound against his mouth, something small and surprised, and he drank it in like it was the first water he'd had in years.
When they finally broke apart, she was breathing hard. Her lips were flushed pink. Her hair was a mess.
"I staked my reputation on that," Frank said, his voice rough. "If you tell anyone I kissed like a coward, I'll deny it."
Breanna stared at him. Then, slowly, incredibly, she laughed.
It wasn't her full laugh—the one that filled rooms and demanded attention. It was smaller, quieter. A breathless, disbelieving sound that made his heart ache.
"That was..." She trailed off, touching her lips with her fingers. "That was not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "Not that."
"Is that bad?"
"No." The word came out quickly, too quickly. She blinked, then laughed again, that disbelieving quality still colored her voice. "No, I just—I really didn't think you meant it."
"I meant it." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I meant all of it."
She stared at him for a long, suspended moment. Then she reached for the notebook on the table, flipped it open to a fresh page, and wrote something down.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Starting a new tally," she said. "For all the times you kiss me when I least expect it."
"That seems like a lot of work."
"I'm a graphic designer with a petty streak." She smiled at him, and this time, it was different. Softer. Like sunrise breaking over a horizon he hadn't seen before. "Get used to it."