Free Intimate Friends by Claire Matthews Page B

pretend that he wasn’t in love with her. Just the thought of it exhausted him.
    The entire last year had been exhausting. He and Jenny finalized their divorce, and less than a month later, Greg dumped Emma for that ridiculous real estate agent with the big hair and bigger chest. What an ass. Noah had stepped up to the plate, been the supportive friend, took her out, made her laugh. And then, one day, she met him for coffee at the Campus Grounds, and brought two large dark roasts to the table. She looked up at him, gave him a beautiful smile, and asked, “I always forget—do you take extra cream?”
    Do you take extra cream? It was so stupid, and random, but at that second, with the morning sun hitting her auburn hair, and her huge brown eyes fixed on him, the lock flew off the “do-not-allow-yourself-to-even-think-about-it” portion of his brain, and every feeling he ever had for her—feelings he never even realized he had for her—flooded over him like a tidal wave. Love, tenderness, desire—it hit him so hard he had to excuse himself, go to the men’s room, rest his forehead against the cool metal of the bathroom stall, breathing heavily, wondering what the hell had just happened. It left him exhausted and spent, as if he’d just run a hundred miles.
    And almost a year later, he was still exhausted, spent, frustrated…and madly in love.
    He rubbed his eyes again, plunked his beer bottle on the coffee table, and sighed heavily. It was way past time for him to face reality. She was leaving for London in a month. She’d be gone for two years. Two years. Just thinking about it caused a choking, vice-like ache in his chest. Every stupid, love-sick nerve in his body wanted to beg her to stay, tell her he loved her, make her see how good he could be for her—how good they could be for each other. But he knew what her reaction would be—pity and affection…or no, even worse, laughter and disbelief. She saw him as a friend. A good friend, maybe even her best friend, but a friend nonetheless. He knew her type—guys like Greg, who were strong and sophisticated, a little aloof, stylish, cool .
    He was none of those things. He was bumbling, shy, nerdy Noah. He brought sack lunches to work, had trouble matching his shirts and ties, and drove a tan sedan that had belonged to his grandmother before she died. He was as sophisticated as a Muppet.
    Lost in thought, he was surprised to hear the chime of his cell phone on the table by his feet. He glanced over and saw Emma’s text message:
    My passport finally came in the mail today. I look like a drug addict in my pic! :(
    She attached a snapshot of her passport to the message. A bark of laughter escaped Noah’s lips. It was definitely a horrible picture—the flash was too bright, her skin looked pale, and her hair was a curly, unruly mop atop her head. He grabbed the phone, started typing a zinger, and then stopped. Deleted. Sighed. Typed again.
    You’re beautiful.
    She was. Even in a horrible passport photo she was beautiful. Because he loved her. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing ragged, images of her boarding a plane to England causing a burning tightness in his throat.
    Ha! Are you myopic, or do you need to borrow money? Either way, I love you! ;) See u tomorrow!
    He knew she loved him. As a friend. He needed to accept that and get onwith his life.
     
     

 
    Chapter Two
     
    Emma leaned against the bike rack in front of the coffeehouse and stretched her calves until they screamed for mercy. She always treated herself to a latte after her long Sunday afternoon run, and today her brain was anxious for the sugar/caffeine double feature. She finished her stretches, entered the café, and made her way straight to the register, so engrossed in the smell and heat emanating from the barista station that at first she didn’t take in her surroundings. But as she turned to grab the ten-dollar bill from the pocket of her hoodie, she saw them.
    Greg. And Greg’s woman. The