Free Platonic by Kate Paddington Page A

imposing two-story Victorian, Mark finally checked the text that had pinged onto his phone hours before.
    I love you and I’m counting the days.
    He read it and then read it again and felt like throwing up, though he wasn’t prepared to think about why. His fingers itched with the need to respond, to say I love you back, to thank Daniel, to beg him to leave, then to wait, then to forget him again. Just a little bit longer.
    He shook his head to try to clear it and then deleted the message from his phone forever. Inside, he didn’t bother turning on any lights, just stole a beer from the fridge, put his McDonald’s on the coffee table and settled in front of the TV.
    Daniel didn’t send him another message until after he’d flown back to New York.
    ***
    The weeks after Thanksgiving were harder than the weeks before. His classes seemed pointless and he couldn’t make time for his friends. His father was suddenly home all the time, watching him work at the big wooden desk in the second study and constantly correcting his college admissions essays and applications. He was applying to too many schools, but that was the one thing his father wouldn’t critique. He had to keep his options open because he hadn’t lived up to expectations, and his father was no longer sure he would make the cut for Stanford or Harvard or Yale.
    He kept working, though, rewriting rewrites of essays for schools he didn’t care about and swallowing any emotion his father elicited. He had a stupid fight with Rita Sutherland, one of the few friends he still had, and that spilled over until all his friends were keeping their distance. He dropped out of every single club and team he was on because he didn’t have time and saw no point. And then suddenly all his college applications were in.
    He had time to breathe but couldn’t, and Daniel was calling and leaving messages, emailing and wanting to know what was wrong. Mark had no idea how Daniel had even noticed anything was wrong; he never had before. So he sent Daniel a long email, too many feelings spilling onto the computer screen in justifications of and allowances for his behavior and for his pain, for screwing everything up, thoughts that all contradicted each other and wouldn’t make sense. Mark wrote things he hadn’t said since the night before Daniel went to New York.
    Don’t wait for me.
    New York is more important than me.
    Enjoy it.
    And then:
    What happened over Thanksgiving was a mistake. It hurts so much.
    He sent it and cried, and when he got to school the next day Rita slapped him across the face so hard that it should have hurt. Rita was still Daniel’s friend too, even though she was stuck in Illinois and Daniel was off in New York. She was a fiercely intimidating woman, physically tiny but voracious for life. She kept her olive skin flawless and her black hair up in a tight bun at all times, came to school every day of the week wearing red lipstick, with her eyes darkly made-up, and she was passionately protective of her friends. She planned to go to New York the following year and she still spoke to Daniel every day, listening to every story he had to tell with eager anticipation.
    She slapped Mark in the hallway, making a scene, and demanded, “What is wrong with you?”
    Defeated, all Mark could offer was, “I’m trying to do what’s best for him.”
    Mark didn’t think too much about any of it after that, and Daniel didn’t send him another text or email until the lead-up to Christmas. Then an onslaught of messages from Daniel, texts and emails and voicemails begged him for some sort of contact, but Mark couldn’t give him any.
    He drove to the O’Shea residence one day after school, a week before Daniel was due back, and knocked on the door with his head already hanging. Daniel’s father Greg answered, surprised to see him, his voice just as gruff and standoffish as ever.
    Still, when Mark explained that he just wanted to collect some of his old books, he was