STOP ACTING LIKE MY HUSBAND

The trouble with denial was that Mason was very good at it.

He could explain anything.

He checked his phone every ten minutes because Adrian sometimes sent grocery questions. He noticed when Adrian came home smelling faintly of another man's cologne because Mason had an excellent sense of smell. He missed their shared dinners because eating alone was objectively depressing.

And he absolutely did not replay their wedding kiss in his head every time Adrian leaned over him to reach a high cupboard.

That was just an intrusive memory.

An extremely detailed intrusive memory.

"You're doing it again," Adrian said on Saturday afternoon.

Mason snapped out of his thoughts. "Doing what?"

"Watching me instead of your screen."

"I'm thinking."

"About the video?"

"Naturally."

Adrian tilted his head. "Your screen is black."

Mason looked. His monitor had gone to sleep fifteen minutes ago.

"Creative process," he said.

Adrian made an amused noise and continued sorting mail.

Mason wanted that sound back. He wanted to provoke an actual laugh, the kind that made Adrian tip his head back and forget to guard his face.

"So," he said. "Your friend Ethan."

"What about him?"

"What's he do?"

"He's an architect."

"Ah. Buildings. Very original."

Adrian set down an envelope. "Mason."

"What?"

"If you want to ask whether I'm dating him, ask."

Mason shrugged. "Are you?"

"We've been out twice."

"Two dates in one week? Fast construction schedule."

Adrian's expression cooled. "He's a good man."

"I'm sure he is."

"Then stop making him the punch line of jokes he isn't here to defend himself against."

That shut Mason up.

Adrian gathered the mail and turned away. Mason followed him into the kitchen before he could stop himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm being weird."

"Yes."

"It's just different."

"Things change."

"They don't have to."

Adrian put the envelopes on the counter. "Don't they?"

Mason looked at him. The kitchen was the same kitchen where they'd argued about dish soap, burned pancakes, and danced badly one New Year's Eve to a song neither remembered choosing. Nothing about it had changed, and yet the distance between them seemed enormous.

"I miss hanging out with you," Mason admitted.

Something moved across Adrian's face. Hope, maybe. Then caution.

"We still live together."

"You know what I mean."

Adrian took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I don't think you know what you mean."

Mason opened his mouth, then shut it.

"At the wedding," Adrian said, "you made me feel like I mattered. Not as the person who buys your groceries or reminds you about appointments. Just me. And then you spent the next morning making sure I understood it was an act."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me. That's part of the problem."

Mason felt as though the floor had dropped an inch.

"Adrian, are you saying—"

"I'm saying I'm tired."

"Of me?"

Adrian looked at him for a long time.

"Of pretending the way we live means the same thing to both of us."

The words landed harder than any accusation could have.

"I didn't know," Mason whispered.

"I know."

That was worse.

Adrian stepped around him, and Mason instinctively reached for his arm. Adrian stopped, looking down at his hand.

Mason let go.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to figure out what you want before you ask anything more of me."

Adrian walked away.

That evening, Mason ordered pizza for two. Adrian came home, thanked him politely, took one slice, and went to his room.

Mason sat alone with a large pizza and realized it was possible to have everything he'd asked for and still feel as though he had lost something irreplaceable.