Page 41 of My Best Friend Is Broken
There’s a mug waiting for me on the counter, steam still rising from the dark liquid. He’s remembered exactly how I like it now. Strong enough to wake the dead, with just a splash of milk. Such a small thing, but it hits me in the chest with the force of how much I love him.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking the mug and letting the warmth seep through my fingers.
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us looking out at the gray London morning. I’m starting to think maybe he really doesn’t remember last night, that maybe I can let sleeping dogs lie and pretend none of it happened.
Then he takes a breath and says quietly, “Have you thought about what I said last night?”
I nearly choke on my coffee. Hot liquid burns my throat as I cough, eyes watering. So much for pretending it never happened.
“Liam,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I wasn’t delirious, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know exactly what I asked for.”
He’s still looking out the window, not meeting my eyes, but his voice is steady. Certain. And that certainty is what terrifies me most.
“You were having a nightmare,” I say weakly. “You weren’t thinking clearly.”
“I’m always having nightmares.” His fingers tighten around his mug. “That doesn’t make me stupid.”
The quiet hurt in his voice makes my chest ache. “I didn’t say you were stupid.”
“Then why won’t you consider it?”
“Because…” I stop, trying to find words that won’t sound like rejection. “Because you’re asking me to hurt you. To use your trauma against you. To become part of the thing that broke you.”
He finally looks at me then, and his blue eyes are so sad it takes my breath away.
“What if I’m already too broken to fix? What if this is the best I’m ever going to be?”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He sets his mug down with shaking hands. “It’s been weeks, Nicky. Weeks of trying to be normal, trying to heal, trying to be the person you remember. And I’m still falling apart at the sound of a security alarm. I still can’t sleep. I still see threatening men in every shadow.”
“That’s normal. Trauma takes time…”
“How much time?” The words burst out of him, raw and desperate. “How many months? Years? I’ve already lost so much time, Nicky. Nearly a quarter of my life is gone and I’m never going to get it back.”
He stops and takes a deep shuddering breath. “How long are you supposed to wait for me to become someone you can actually love?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. “Liam, I already love you. I love you exactly as you are.”
My guts are twisting. I’m not sure if we are talking about platonic love, and the uncertainty feels like the ground falling away beneath my feet.
He shakes his head, tears starting to spill down his cheeks. “No, you don’t. You love who I used to be. You love the memory of someone confident and whole and capable of being in a relationship without falling apart every five minutes.”
Relationship. He said relationship. Liam said relationship when talking about me and him.
“That’s not…”
“It is, though.” His voice cracks. “You look at me and you see someone who needs to be fixed. Someone who needs to be healed and made better before they’re worthy of love. But what if I can’t be fixed, Nicky? What if this broken thing is all that’s left?”
I set my coffee down and step toward him, but he backs away, pressing himself against the counter like he’s trying to disappear.
“You’re not broken,” I say fiercely. “You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
“Then why won’t you touch me?”
The question stops me cold. “What?”
