The Love Hack

Ben

"Well, I need to get going. Long day ahead of me. I have to find a new cafe and start scouring the freelance job scene," Arty said, creating an easy exit for himself from the situation. There was a lingering awkwardness around us that just couldn't be resolved. He carefully maneuvered up from the bed, trying not to knock over any plates.

Arty had proposed it like something so simple– like switching from Folgers to Nescafe coffee– and not that we have sex tonight.

"Try not to fall in love with the barista," I joked, although my heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest and follow him out of the room.

"I can't make any promises," Arty started, a small smile creeping up onto his face, "but I will say that my standards have suddenly gotten exceptionally high."

"I for one think you have incredible taste," I commented, leaning back into my headboard as Arty cleared the plates from breakfast.

Arty paused in the doorway, balancing the plates in one hand while smirking over his shoulder in a way that made my stomach flip. "One might say that you're biased."

"Maybe," I said, crossing my arms behind my head in an attempt to look nonchalant, "But I'm also right."

Arty rolled his eyes with a light chuckle, and then disappeared around the doorframe. I wasn't surprised when I merely heard the sound of the dishes clinking in the sink before Arty disappeared into the bathroom. For all the uncharacteristically-Arty things that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, the one familiarity would be that he would refuse to put the plates in the dishwasher.

I lingered in bed as I heard the water begin to run through the bathroom door. I felt my chest tighten and I sat up a little straighter, running a hand through my hair.

I wasn't even sure he meant it. What if it was all just a test, an absurd suggestion just to see how I'd react? That would be such a typical Arty move.

The bathroom door flung open, and Arty shuffled out and into his room, closing the door behind him.

I had absent-mindedly picked at a fingernail. And then the next one. Until I had looked down and realized that I'd torn most of them down. I flexed my hands, trying to shake off the anxious energy looming around me. My nails were ragged, and it had solved exactly none of my problems.

Meanwhile, I could hear the sound of some random Youtube video filtering through Arty's door while he got dressed for the day.

What the hell was he doing? What the hell was I doing?

I wanted to barge into his room and explain to him all the implications of what he had suggested, all the ways it could go wrong and we could both get hurt.

But the other part of me– the part that had liked Arty for my entire adult life– wanted this to happen. Maybe Arty was right– maybe this would provide some clarity. It certainly was a point of no return. We could no longer pretend all the flirtatious comments and too-long touches were just friendly acts of affection.

I stood up, glancing back at my ruffled bed sheets, my stomach churning at the worst-case scenarios. Would we ever have a morning like this again? Would we still be friends? Would Arty move out?

But eventually, as Arty left the house for the day, I had settled into the idea that losing him may outweigh the cost of never knowing.

Tonight we would either fall into something incredible, or ruin everything.

***

I was supposed to be the level-headed one.

And yet the thoughts currently running through my head were clinically insane.