Word Count: 1193

Paris left the store before Chris could say anything else to successfully confuse him, and he walked determinedly across the little parking lot to Ross’s car, throwing his things into the back before climbing into the passenger seat and jerking his seat-belt into place. He could see Ross watching him out of the corner of his eye, but Paris didn’t provide any sort of explanation, merely sat stiffly in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused out the front windshield.

Ross pulled out of the parking lot and began driving before saying anything to him. “You okay?” he asked, his voice a careful mix of nonchalance and concern.

“I’m fine,” Paris said, lifting his shoulders into a careless shrug. He couldn’t help thinking that his own voice sounded a bit brittle, and he hated that even more than he hated the confusion, because it meant it affected him enough to be noticed by other people.

“You don’t seem fine,” Ross observed. “Was there a problem with that Chris guy?”

“None of your business.”

If Ross was deterred at all by the sudden change in attitude, he didn’t show it. “Just wondering why you look so upset,” he said.

Paris wanted to deny it. He wanted to pretend as if it were all okay, as if it didn’t bother him when Chris became so unpredictable, as if it didn’t hurt to remember how easy things used to be between them, only to see how difficult things had become in the last two months. They were always fighting or bickering or having tense conversations. Things usually settled; it never got so out of control that they couldn’t stand to face one another again, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen again, and that didn’t stop it from hurting so much. Paris could hardly bear it.

“Chris is my ex,” he explained, seeing no reason not to. He didn’t have to divulge the whole messy story for Ross to understand why he was so sensitive about the topic.

“Oh. Well, that explains a lot.”

Paris snorted, but even to him it sounded more like a sniffle.

When he thought about it, he knew he wasn’t really that angry that Chris had acted like a jerk. It made things awkward, sure, but it wasn’t like Chris had never been a jerk to anyone before. Paris was pretty sure there were the makings of a complete a** beneath Chris’s good-boy façade; he simply required the right people and the right circumstances to bring it out. Paris couldn’t really fault him for it considering it was a trait they shared. He couldn’t say with any certainty that he wouldn’t have acted the exact same way if he’d walked in to see some pretty girl flirting with Chris, even if it was something as innocent as messing with his hair.

But then when he thought about it like that, he knew he’d only give into the jealous impulse because he still liked Chris, and he wondered why Chris would even act like that in the first place unless there was a part of him that still liked him back.

He told himself it was stupid to think that. Chris hadn’t given him any other indication that he still shared an attraction.

If he was angry about anything, it was that he couldn’t figure out the answer to why everything still mattered—why he couldn’t seem to let go. Why did it hurt so much? Why was he incapable of moving on? Why didn’t he say “yes” to Ross? Why didn’t he simply return to how things use to be? It had been easier back then, and infinitely less confusing.

It was foolish to keep holding on, to keep thinking about what it had been like with Chris as if it could ever be that way again.

“So he’s the one the cookies were for?” Ross wondered. Paris could see him again in his peripheral vision. Ross quickly spared a concerned glance in his direction before his gaze refocused on the road. “What, do you go home every night and bake something for him to eat at work the next day?”

Paris didn’t respond.

His silence was all the answer Ross needed.

“You realize that’s insane, don’t you?”

“I don’t really see where the problem is with that,” Paris tried, though even he could admit how desperate it made him appear, and he hated that all the more, because he’d been doing it all along and only now noticed how fanatical it was.

“Wow,” Ross breathed, shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad, Paris. How long were the two of you dating?”

“Four or five months, I guess, if you count the dates we went on before things got serious.”

“And were words ever exchanged?”

Hesitantly, Paris peered over at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean heavy words. You know, like… starts with an ‘L,’ ends with an ‘O-V-E’?”

When his face grew warm, Paris didn’t know if he was angry that he would have that sort of reaction about something so ridiculous, or if he was mortified that Ross would even bring it up.

“No!” he said, nearly sputtering. “No, it wasn’t anything like that! We were just… we just dated! He helped me out a lot when I was going through some bad things! That’s all!”

He had never, ever looked and Chris and thought anything about love. He’d felt need with him, and want. He’d felt acceptance, safety, and a new sense of self-worth that he hadn’t ever truly experienced before. Chris had introduced him to new things, had made him realize for the first time that there was more to him than what he’d shown people before, that he was more than just some dumb, skinny kid who went around using and being used. Chris had made it okay to dream. He’d made it okay to want things and expect more.

Chris had made it okay to hope.

“That’s all, huh?” Ross wondered, sparing him another quick disbelieving glance. “Seems like it’s more than that to me. I guess now I know why I never had a chance. Can’t say I blame you, though. He’s a pretty good-looking guy.”

“You’re wrong,” Paris said.

“What? He’s not good-looking?”

“No, of course he is! You know what I mean,” Paris argued. “You’re wrong about… about the other thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“You are.”

“Sure. Okay…”

“I mean it, Ross.”

“You always mean it, Paris.”

Paris frowned and turned his head to glare out the passenger side window, tightening his arms over his chest for warmth, safety, and comfort.

“But you know,” Ross told him, “just because you mean it doesn’t make it true. Sometimes what you mean is what you want to be true.”

He could have denied it more. He could have continued to argue. He was sure, if he’d wanted to, that he could have come up with plenty more to say in response.

But he didn’t, because he didn’t think it would be worth it.

And because a tiny, quiet, scared part of him deep inside wondered if maybe Ross was right.