Chapter Text
Ever since announcing to his friends, family, acquaintances of said family, pets he knew well and in passing, and anyone who cared to listen (on the down low, naturally) that he was working on Project Hail Mary with a certain A-lister, James had been asked the same question, like, a million times:
So, what is Ryan Gosling really like in person?
And James would start with, “Well, the thing about Ryan . . .” before going off on an extensive yet eloquent explanation about all of Ryan’s winning attributes, with the focus shifting depending on any follow-up question James’ audience might have, or how well he knew the person that was asking.
(His friend Katy, for instance, could not be swayed by a single man, no matter how charming or attractive, but was just full of questions surrounding how Ryan approached a scene, the percentage to which he stuck to a section of dialogue verbatim compared to improvisation, and also, weirdly, if he ever sang between takes.
His other friend Rachel, however, was more focused on what Ryan smelled like and whether he had ever bent over in front of James while wearing tight pants.
The duality of women—something to be admired and rarely feared.)
It hadn’t taken James long to anticipate the questions and come up with some stock answers.
Is he really that good looking in real life?
“What do you think?” James would say, or “like you wouldn’t believe”, or even “oh no, honey . . . he’s better” while holding back any pity in his voice—even though they both knew that only one of them was missing out on the experience and it certainly was not James.
Is he actually tall, or is this, like, a Tom Cruise situation?
“Oh no, he is. But like, not freakishly so. Not even in a wow, so you’re tall tall kinda way. He’s, what, I don’t know, six foot? He’s a good size. But then, so am I,” James would say while biting back any mention of how strong and buff Ryan was despite it being a related topic, instead sometimes adding, “Tom Cruise? Really?” Because not once had James ever looked at a photo of Ryan and thought to himself: oh, that man is fighting to bypass the general male average—unlike Mr Hollywood.
Is he funny?
“Um, yeah? Watch a fucking interview or two. Next question.”
If I visit you on set, will I be able to—
“Cutting you off right there. Maybe, yes, you could meet him if you swung by the studio in fucking England. But let’s not make it weird, Lucas. He’s actually just . . . you know, a regular guy.”
Except he wasn’t. Not exactly. The duality of women? More like the duality of Ryan.
Over the past few months, James had dedicated a frankly ridiculous amount of brain power towards pondering exactly that.
Because sometimes when they were hanging out, it was just like hanging out with any other (straight) guy. A typical chill dude that would out of nowhere bring up references to lifechanging events like that time Fabio was on a roller-coaster and got hit in the face by the pigeon or goose or whatever it was, and James would nod and laugh because, oh my god yes, he remembered that too and wasn’t it great that they were both boys of a certain age and understood the same severely outdated pop culture references and were a little weird and never quite fit in with the other kids but to hell with them anyway because it all worked out okay in the end?
And when James would keep talking about the “joys” of being the little gay boy that didn’t fit in, even after proclaiming in any event, fuck them, Ryan would look at him with so much empathy and intensity, as if James were the most interesting person in the entire world and nothing, not a damn thing, could pull him away from absorbing what was being said and finishing this conversation. As if he cared. And he did.
Not once had James doubted that.
Just two regular guys, sharing a heart to heart.
But then there were all those other winning attributes to consider. The ones that had led to Ryan’s name being featured above the title on movie posters, that made girls and boys want to be him or be with him.
That could lead to an obsession that was impossible to shake.
James had spent too much time thinking it through, even though it was not at all a complex situation.
In short, the thing about Ryan was this: he was stupidly, irresistibly gorgeous.
And while James generally figured that Ryan did not believe that about himself, there was a part of him that, at the very least, understood the effect that a single wink or smile from him could have on any random person no matter their age, gender or orientation (besides Katy, apparently).
Then there was the other part of Ryan that resented it—resented his own goddamn charm and looks—because he had never been the type to want too much attention or fuss. This was, after all, a man that was known to almost wither while in search of an appropriate reaction (or better yet, the nearest exit) that wasn’t pure bashfulness when a compliment was directed his way.
The rest of him, frankly, fluctuated between confusion and faint suspicion about the entire situation that came with being fawned over for looking like he did, like a baby owl experiencing its first day on Earth. Brow furrowed, blue eyes narrowing, fidgeting because he just had to move.
James could go on. He had gone on in the past. There was just so much to talk about when it came to Ryan, and yeah, okay, so maybe James was a little preoccupied. Who could blame him?
“The thing about Ryan,” he had said to Katy while trying his best—and failing—to sway her, “is that he has enough charm to power an entire goddamn planet.”
And it was true, hypothetically speaking.
But he was also kind like any good Canadian should be, warm and clever and sweet and awkward and cool and talented and, yes, so insanely funny, in a way that was expected and still took James by surprise.
In truth, James was hard pressed to find a flaw. And that was maddening and mesmerising. He supposed Ryan did chew gum a lot, but somehow that only added to the charm. He also struggled to keep still, but remained completely adorable while in motion. He asked a lot of questions, but that just meant he cared.
“He’s famous, James,” Rachel had reminded James just last night, as if he could forget. “Not to mention—he’s fucking married.”
James couldn’t forget that part either. But was it a flaw? No, it couldn’t be. An obstacle? Almost certainly. And wasn’t it just so like him to become obsessed with the one boy he couldn’t have?
“Well, I mean, this is Hollywood after all, you know? Maybe they have an open marriage?” James had shot back, clutching at straws harder than he ever had before—which was saying something, honestly, given there had been more than a few instances in the past of denial, despair and determination.
“Maybe so,” Rachel had said after harshing the line with an exasperated huff. “Who the fuck even knows anymore. But that doesn’t help you much, given he’s straight, James.”
“You don’t know that for sure—”
“You said it yourself, just the other day!”
“Okay, then I don’t know that for sure.”
The truth was, that sometimes James did get this . . . vibe from Ryan. One that James had encountered in the past, though never from a boy as pretty and as famous as Ryan. A vibe that suggested he might actually be interested. Coming through as a lingering look, a too-fond smile, the enduring ember of warmth that radiated from him in waves shifting to be more familiar and intimate. What James imagined were bedroom eyes appearing in the midst of a conversation before being quickly squirreled away.
That sort of vibe.
And then it was gone, and James was left wondering if it had been a figment of his imagination—or, more accurately, a product of his obsession.
Even if it was actually happening, did it matter? Did it make James special? Probably not. Because the thing about Ryan was that he looked at most people fondly and warmly when having a one on one with them, maintaining eye contact the entire time and actively listening despite any surrounding distractions.
A gorgeous, charming man, engineered to be nice to all he met and designed specifically to drive James insane. That was Ryan.
It was too much. James had to have him. Somehow. Maybe just in his dreams. Maybe not. Who could say what the future held?
“James . . .” Rachel had started before giving in. “You know what? Whatever. But if you end up with a restraining order and then break that order and get thrown in jail, I’m not bailing you out, okay?”
“That’s fine,” James had replied. “When the time comes, I’ll just ask my mother.”
The other thing about Ryan was this: it took a lot of drinking to get him drunk.
“It’s hard work, actually,” he said, shaking his head like all the frustrations of the world had suddenly ended up knocking on his door. “Sometimes, I just give up and go home to bed. I don’t know, maybe it’s in my blood. That tolerance, you know? We Canadians are—”
“I think you just need to try harder,” James cut in, trying to contain any slurring and failing, though just a touch. Unlike Ryan, it only took James a little bit of drinking to get him drunk. Unfortunately. Even if he wasn’t entirely there yet. More . . . tipsy warm than anything.
A part of him honestly expected their night to end at any second, with him being abandoned, leaving leftovers and two glasses (one empty) as his only friends for the evening. It was hard to push away that doubt, especially when he was in such specific company.
A man that had a wife and two kids waiting for him in a house far nicer than the Airbnb James had landed, no matter how adorably English it was. A movie star (and a producer to boot) that always seemed to have someone needing his attention, his time. Surely, he had better places to be on such a night.
But there Ryan was, all relaxed and amused on the plush emerald couch of James’ Airbnb, the distance between their thighs a comfortable six inches or so because James still retained a faint idea of boundaries. Even if he was pointedly aware that distance had been around ten inches just one drink prior.
His fault, he was sure. Rarely Ryan’s.
“Just—just one more,” James added only when Ryan quirked that damn eyebrow his way. “Or two. One or two more drinks, and then we’ll talk about hard work some more.”
The intent going into the evening was for the two of them to run lines on the changed scene planned for Monday.
They had not accomplished any of that.
(Which was fine, if you asked James, for a number of reasons. Anyway, knowing Ryan, he had probably already absorbed the new lines and thought of at least four different ways to shift the words into something more dynamic and him, along with hatching a not-so-secret plan to improvise half the scene anyway.)
Instead, it had turned into a night of shoot the shit over drinks and pizza, which Ryan bemoaned once before reaching for yet another slice that he wasn’t supposed to be touching because, despite playing a science teacher, he was still on a Hollywood beefcake diet where he was meant to eat like six meals a day of brown rice and fucking boiled chicken breast and work out like a maniac to keep his arms like they were now. Not Fall Guy huge, but still really goddamn nice.
Try as he might, James couldn’t help but scan Ryan up and down—casually, though, like James was just gauging the reaction to his hard work comment—drinking in a sight that he had memorised so swiftly and comprehensively that he swore Ryan was imprinted on his inner eyelids.
Fuck, he looked good. So big and so strong. James wanted to make him whimper. Press him into the mattress until he was begging for more.
“Alright, yes,” Ryan said with a wink, causing James to briefly bluescreen. His mind was preoccupied with visions of topping—what the hell had they even been talking about? “Let’s go for two, but I’m just saying . . . don’t be surprised if I manage to walk out of here in an almost straight line afterward.”
“What?” James choked out, then, “Oh,” when Ryan reached for the bottle. A drink. Obviously.
“What do you mean, oh?”
“I don’t know, I’m just saying oh, is all.”
There went that eyebrow again, quirking before being replaced with a dubious look. “But why? Where is your mind tonight, sir?”
James couldn’t lie. Well, he could. And he did, regularly. But as was often the case when Ryan was in front of him, his brain was too preoccupied to come up with something good.
“Generally? In the gutter,” James admitted, causing Ryan to laugh. A full-throated laugh, his head tipping back briefly before leaning in to smother it all with his free hand.
It was like heroin.
James wanted to keep it going. Make Ryan laugh and laugh until he cried, chase that high. But again, his brain was just too preoccupied. There wasn’t even a good knock knock joke on the horizon.
Oh, was James in trouble.
“So anyway, I think we should work through those lines,” he said, not because he wanted to, no. But someone had to try and keep them on track.
“Should we now?”
Well, at least he had tried.
“Oh, I don’t know. Did you even bring the new pages?” he asked.
Ryan merely smiled, finally putting the bottle in his hand to good use to top up both their glasses.
“You didn’t, did you.”
“Well, okay. There is a chance my kitchen island might still be home to some fresh and important pages,” Ryan said, pointedly adding, “And yours?” when James shook his head.
“In my backpack still. I think.”
“Go get it, then.”
“In a minute.”
“A minute? Why? Why not now?”
“I don’t know,” James said. He did, though. Didn’t he? “But what are you going to use, if I’m hogging all the pages? And I will be, Ry. I have no fucking idea what they’ve added.”
“I don’t need them,” Ryan replied, words that should have sounded cocksure, but came out more sheepish than anything. “I’ve already . . . I read them on the way home from the studio, and—I’m good. At remembering, I mean. Mostly.”
“I knew it. Fucking actors—”
“Hey, Brando rarely knew his lines,” Ryan interrupted. Deadly serious, yet looking like he was about to crack, as was his way—the duality of Ryan, in pure technicolour.
“Your point?”
“I’m just saying.” Ryan shrugged, hiding his smile with his glass.
His eyes, though. His goddamn eyes, that fucking look. Adoring, warm, and more, so much more.
“No, I am telling you what I saw,” James had said to Rachel just last night, not long before she brought up frivolities like potential restraining orders. “I swear to Christ, Rachel—"
“He’s a genuine, sweet guy who is actually interested in what you’re saying,” Rachel had cut in, her saintly patience sounding as though it was on its last legs. “You said it yourself! Are you sure you’re not just projecting, and mistaking, I don’t know, affection with lust?”
“Look, I’ve taken my share of men to bed, so I do know what bedroom eyes look like, don’t tell me I don’t.”
“He’s an actor! And a straight one at that.”
“Are you actually saying he’s acting when he looks at me like that? What is the logic there?”
Rachel had paused then, clearly unsure of how best to follow her own proposed thread, before deciding to head down a different, though related, path.
“He’s famous, James.” As if that could ever be a gigantic deterrent for James when he had a singular focus. “Not to mention—he’s fucking married.”
Aye, there’s the rub, James had lamented just last night upon hanging up the phone, and most nights for the past few months, after coming home from set yearning like a teenage boy with a crush, an overactive imagination and a tangible dependence on his own right hand.
With Ryan a mere five inches away from him on the couch and looking at him like that, however, that small issue had quickly become a passing thought. Forgotten in the night, along with any semblance of rationality James had left.
He knew bedroom eyes. Fuck what Rachel thought. She’d only ever seen Ryan wear that look in the movies, and even then, it could not compare to reality.
James knew what he was seeing. And this time, it lingered. Ten seconds, more. Flitting away only when James was the first one to break gaze.
It was either that, or combust.
“Uh,” he said, like a fucking idiot, and didn’t elaborate.
There was a thought or four on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be realised, but he didn’t think he had it in him to see them through. Instead, he downed his drink and reached for the bottle.
“You don’t happen to have any candy on hand, do you?” Ryan asked out of nowhere, unpredictable in his predictability. He was forever searching for something to occupy his mouth. Twizzlers, gum, Hi-Chew. Whatever else he could squirrel onto set to satisfy his oral fixation. He gestured one of the pizza boxes. “I need something sweet after . . .”
James had something in mind that he wanted to put in Ryan’s mouth, and it was definitely not candy.
“Um, I—yeah, let me just . . .”
Without another word, James sleekly pulled himself up from the couch and stumbled towards the kitchen, the dexterity of his feet having been partially overtaken by smooth, expensive whiskey.
There was a distinct lack of treats in his Airbnb, which he blamed entirely on the fact that he spent most of his awake time on a movie set, and not on him eating an entire bag of M&M’s in one sitting on Wednesday night, or taking what candy remained in his stash to work on Thursday—like he often did—just in case anyone of interest happened to stop by and could be coaxed into lingering with some sugary snacks. Not naming names, of course.
In the end, he turned up one lollipop and a half empty packet of British choc-chip cookies that were not nearly as sweet as the ones back home, but somehow almost preferable for that reason.
It would have to do.
“Sorry,” he said as he re-entered the living room, brandishing his findings in both hands for Ryan to see. “My Twizzlers have all been donated to some friends with fucking addiction issues.”
“What’s that?” Ryan asked before tearing his gaze away from his phone to look. “Is that a Chupa Chup?”
“It is,” James confirmed. He wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from. There was a decent chance a previous guest had left it. God knows he would never buy it. He wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl. “Do you want it?”
“I’ve not had one in forever,” Ryan said, holding out one polite yet slightly insistent hand and throwing his phone onto the couch with the other. He smiled when James handed him the lollipop, then paused, adding, “You sure you don’t want it?”
“No no, by all means. It’s yours.”
“Thanks.”
James set the packet of cookies on the coffee table before flopping back down onto the couch. Leaving about four inches now between them. Ryan either didn’t seem to notice or care.
He was too busy working open the lollipop, his brow furrowed with concentration. One of the many reasons James had left his Chupa Chup times well in the past—it was a herculean effort to get into the bastards sometimes.
“Do—do you need a hand?”
“In general? Usually,” Ryan replied. “For this, though?” He didn’t finish that thought. There was no need; the wrapper had now been defeated.
“Of course you’re good at unwrapping a fucking lollipop,” James muttered. “Add that to the loong list of things Ryan can do with ease.”
Ryan didn’t respond, as was often the case when someone pointed out his vast skillset. Instead, he just shifted in his seat, eyes cast to his hands for a half second, before moving on from the entire situation and popping the lollipop in his mouth.
It should have been adorable. And maybe it was. But when he turned to again share another look, all James could focus on was the shift of Ryan’s long eyelashes against his skin, the probing contemplation that was too heated, too devastating, and the way his lips moved around the lollipop stick as he sucked. The sound he made.
James had enjoyed too much whiskey to think anything other than Jesus Christ as he stared, too tipsy-warm to look anywhere else but Ryan’s face. His goddamn eyes, that fucking mouth.
And then it was over, Ryan drawing the lollipop out, licking his lips to chase the taste.
“Strawberry,” he noted with a grin. “I was always more of a cola man, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Without a second thought, James kissed him.
"You know,” James would start in one of those fantasies where everything went right and he was able to come out on top in more ways than one, “I have jerked off to you in, I think, four of your movies over the years. Not that I’m counting.”
“Oh yeah?” Ryan would respond, immediately flattered, curious and, of course, turned on. “Which ones?”
“Let’s see . . . Blade Runner, The Fall Guy, Blue Valentine and The Nice Guys.”
“Really? Not Crazy, Stupid, Love?” Ryan would ask, in the same tone that he once said to Margot Robbie: “Not Elephant Man?”
Of course, James would never admit that he recognised the tone, because then he would have to tell people how he occupied his free time while on YouTube lately, seeking out videos of Ryan with the same fervour of a man searching for his specific kink on a porn website.
“No.”
“Because most people would probably say that. Or Drive.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No, you’re not,” Ryan would agree as he stared into James’ soul in that arresting and devastating way of his. “Alright, I need to know: why those four?”
“I have my reasons,” James would reply, aiming for mysterious before immediately revealing his hand—simply because he just could not deny Ryan a single fucking thing.
“Okay, so in Blade Runner, I got the urge after watching you get the shit kicked out of you. You were all bloody and broken and it worked for me, big time. And with The Fall Guy, there were two separate occasions, actually. First was after you had the shit beaten out of you and you were coming out of the water in slo-mo all bloody and bare-armed. Like a fucking whore, mind you. And second time was when you had those big alien hands, don’t ask—”
“Oh, I have to ask,” Ryan would cut in, but James would quickly move on.
“Nope. And then there’s The Nice Guys. I don’t remember actual specifics but—”
“Well, I’m sensing a pattern, so I’m going to assume—”
“Shit beat out of you? Maybe. Or it could just be the general pathetic aura you had going on. Those tight pants also helped. That, and March being the biggest bottom that unfortunately never actually got fucked on screen in cinema history,” James would say, causing Ryan to make a hand gesture that succinctly encapsulated the word duh. “And with Blue Valentine, it had to be before you lost half your hair. Sorry, but there are limits, Ry.”
“Did I get the shit kicked out of me in that one?”
“Emotionally speaking? Oh, absolutely. But in this case, it’s more about me totally imagining myself as Michelle Williams in that one scene though—you know the one.”
“I mean, who doesn’t?”
“So. Thoughts?” James would ask, and Ryan would raise that fucking eyebrow and stare him down, pretending to ponder before voicing the conclusion that he already had arrived at ninety seconds prior.
“I wonder whether you’re just into seeing me being brought down a peg or two?”
“No,” James would say, though perhaps there was some truth in the idea. “Maybe I just like to see you take it?”
And Ryan would ask, even though of course he already knew, his eyes saying he was ready and willing: “Take what?”
“Everything.”
Ryan tasted like artificial strawberry chased with whiskey, delicious, delicious. He made a noise that wasn’t quite a moan, but close enough, catching in his chest and shooting straight on through James to his cock, like lightning. Leaving him wanting more.
Fuck fantasy. For a moment or two, he almost believed that it was real. Everything, anything. But like all good things in life, it couldn’t last.
With a gentle hand—because he couldn’t be anything but gentle—Ryan pushed James away. Three inches, four inches, barely a little more. Not nearly far enough to end the moment entirely.
The temptation to lean back in for a second try was near overwhelming, and James almost gave in, uncertain of the reaction he would receive but nevertheless willing to find out.
But then he caught Ryan’s expression. The look in his eye. More than a handful of different emotions, battling it out for top spot on the surface: surprise, confusion, anxiety and more, much more.
Somehow, though, there was not even one hint of anger, and that enduring warmth still lingered. That fact might have been a lifeline, if James wasn’t distracted by Ryan’s deepening frown and the hand that remained between them. Holding James at bay.
He had fucked up. He had fucked up so badly.
“Shit,” he whispered, before finding his voice. “Fuck. Sorry, I’m—fuck—”
“It’s alright,” Ryan said, in about the softest tone imaginable for such a situation, even as his palm stayed pressed against James’ chest. No doubt just as keenly aware as James of how badly his heart was racing. “James, hey. It’s okay.”
“God, sorry, you’re just . . .” James trailed off, unsure of whether he should finish that thought, or just shut up completely, and leave. Walk right on out of the room to hide away with his upcoming breakdown, alone, where there wasn’t anyone staring at him like he was a skittish animal.
He was on his feet before he could think about actually moving, hand in his hair.
If only he were drunker. If only Ryan was drunk at all, drunk enough for this to be a haze tomorrow.
But the fact of the matter was that James was tispy warm at best, and Ryan was just too good—at everything. Holding his alcohol, pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t, looking so inviting on a random Saturday night.
“I'm sorry,” James repeated because it was basically all he had left in him, besides the truth that was determined to break free. “You’re . . . fuck.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re—you’re just so hot,” James said like an absolute idiot, regretting his words immediately even as he knew there was no stopping now. That was just how the truth worked. Once you opened that lid, it was impossible not to keep going back for more. Like a can of goddamn Pringles. “And sweet. You’re hot and you’re too sweet and it’s infuriating, and—and it’s a problem, Ryan. You’re a fucking problem.”
“I’m sorry?” Ryan replied after a beat. Bemused yet sincere, his hands slowly coming up to hover, looking still like he was dealing with a horse priming to bolt.
And wasn’t that just fantastic? James had kissed him without permission, then basically blamed him for the entire situation, and what was Ryan doing? Trying to pacify James. And what was the endgame?
Knowing Ryan, it would be them both sitting back on the couch and talking this whole mess through. Like adults.
God, James really had fucked up.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said, then tugged at his hair, so hard that it was impossible to miss. He was glad for it. The pain in his scalp, the shift in Ryan’s expression as he noticed. All of it. “Jesus. You’re not a problem. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to—”
“James—”
“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” James rushed out. Rambling. He was fucking rambling. “Shit. I really need to leave. I am so sorry.”
“This is your place, dude,” Ryan said, almost casually, though one hand was still hovering in front of his chest, and concern was looking like it had fought its way to the top of all those emotions he was carrying around.
It took James a second, preoccupied as he was, to process the words. Of course. It was his fucking place. Drawer full of blunt knives, meet your new roommate—when had his brain gone that downhill?
“Oh,” he said, then, “Can you . . .”
“You want me to leave?” Ryan asked, his voice turning hesitant halfway through.
Never. It was the absolute opposite of what James wanted.
“Can you?” he repeated before he lost his nerve.
For a moment, Ryan just stared, worrying his lip. Looking about as uncertain as James had ever seen him. And his eyes . . .
It wasn’t regret. It couldn’t have been. But it was something near enough. Guilt, perhaps. Which just wasn’t right, and James wanted to point that out, emphatically. Instead, like a chickenshit, he simply turned the other way.
“Yeah, I think . . .” Ryan started, then paused. “We should talk about this. Do you want to? Talk, I mean.”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Okay. Are you okay, though?”
“I’m fine. Don’t forget your shoes. Like, on your way out. Just—don’t forget them.”
James could see Ryan’s reflection in the television screen. The movement of his body that came with indecisiveness, and then the slump of his shoulders, the way he tipped his head back, defeated, before grabbing his phone and dragging himself to his feet.
“You know, it really is alright, I promise,” he insisted after a beat. No doubt hopeful that his words could make things better, instead of doing the complete opposite. Here was one of the sweetest men James had ever met, still so considerate towards his feelings, so worried, even after James had fucked everything. “Look, I’m not saying—”
“Ry, I need you to leave,” James interrupted, biting back the rest of the sentence—before I lose my fucking mind—when he turned and caught Ryan’s eye. No, there was being a bitch, and then there was being a bitch. “Please?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Ryan said, lip quirking as he scanned the room before locking back onto James like the fucking Terminator for one last bout of contemplation. “I’ll, uh, see you Monday.”
And that was that. James watched Ryan shuffle out of the room and listened to him move down the hallway, his muted footsteps pausing long enough for him to pull his sneakers back on. The door opened, quietly closed behind him, and then James was truly, finally alone.
He immediately hated it. To the point where he had half a mind to yank the front door open and call out to Ryan before he could even get halfway to the sidewalk.
But that was madness talking. What insane person would kick someone out of their home and then demand they come right on back in? And what would happen if James did do that? Would they talk? They would have to talk. Ryan would make them talk. James couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t do that. Not yet. Not ever.
Instead, unsure of what else to do, he flopped onto the couch, pulled out his phone and texted Rachel SOS before dialling her twelve seconds later.
“Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said by way of hello when she answered. Out the corner of his eye he spotted Ryan’s glass, a quarter full, with the lollipop partially submerged. A lost cause. James hadn’t even noticed the moment it had been abandoned. “But I think you were right.”
There was a pause, and then Rachel said, “What did you do?”
“It’s bad.”
“Tell me.”
“Rachel,” he started instead of laying it all out step by step, as was rarely his way. “I honestly feel like I just ruined the best thing I’ll ever have in my entire life.”
“Oh.” Rachel sighed. “So, it’s bad bad, huh?”