Page 125 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

All the information. As if I made an investment based on an incomplete prospectus. As if she failed to disclose a material defect. Suddenly, five years of memories shift slightly.

The Winter Ball and the horror on her face when I asked her.

The relief when I immediately named someone else.

Every time she reacted too brightly when I mentioned a woman I’d supposedly gone out with.

Every joke about me eventually finding someone.

Every time she insisted dating wasn’t something she wanted badly enough to bother with.

Every time she shoved romance firmly outside the boundaries of what we were before I could suggest it belonged inside.

“Is this why you never wanted us to become something more than friends?”

She pauses a moment before saying, “I don’t know.”

“Reese.”

“Not exactly.” She pulls one leg underneath herself, turning more toward me. “It’s not like I sat around thinking, Miles and I can never date because I probably can’t have kids.”

“But.”

“But…” She looks down. “I think it was always there.”

I wait.

“Dating someone meant that eventually I would have to tell them. And then they would have to decide whether I was worth what they’d be giving up.”

I nod slowly as the stab of truth hits me. It was a defense. Something she built so slowly she may not have realized she was building it. Because if she never lets anyone get close enough to choose, no one can decide the cost is too high. My chest aches.

Reese swallows, then says, “My mom told me today that I have a habit of keeping track of what it costs people to love me.”

I don’t say anything. Because suddenly I can see that, too. Not only in relation to this. To everything. The way Reese apologizes when someone drives farther for her than she expected. The way she jokes about being a lot. The way she tries to turn every forgotten item into something funny before anyone else can be annoyed. The way she told me when she was crying against my chest that loving her costs too much.

“And I know she’s right,” Reese says, her voice wavering. “I know I’m doing it. I’m trying not to do it right now. But knowing I do it doesn’t make the things I’m afraid of disappear.”

I shift closer, and she looks at me.

“I’m afraid that right now all the things that I do feel funny to you because I’m your best friend. You find my keys. You remind me about things. You laugh when I leave my phone somewhere ridiculous.”

“I do.”

“But I’m afraid there’s a version of our life ten or twenty years from now where it isn’t funny anymore.”

I don’t interrupt.

“Where you’re tired of reminding me. Where you don’t want to drive back because I left something. Where spontaneity feels less like an adventure and more like me wrecking the plans you made.”

Her eyes are wet now. “And then there’s this.” She gestures vaguely toward herself. “Something enormous you will likely have to give up.”

I stare at her. And finally, I understand. “You think I only love you because I haven’t gotten tired of you yet.”

Reese winces enough that I know I hit the target.

“And that someday, I’m going to realize you come attached to all these other things and decide the trade wasn’t worth it.”

She presses her lips together for a moment, then whispers, “Yes.”