“‘Let’s just cuddle, Carrie,’” she says in a mocking voice, doing a damn fine imitation of Jamey. “‘I just love waking up next to you and watching you sleep,’” she continues, face twisted with fury. She takes a big sip of wine.

Her cheeks are pink with rage, eyes red-rimmed and nose sniffling, and God help me, she’s turning me on.

“He said that shit to you to hold off on sex?” I’m blown away. What guy has a hot woman like Carrie, ready and in his bed, and prefers to cuddle?

Oh. Right.

“He did! And he never mentioned anything like, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m gay.’”

“Until today,” I add.

And she bursts into tears, grabbing a Giants throw pillow and clutching it to her breasts.

I’m jealous of that pillow. Go Giants!

“No one will ever love me again!” she wails.

Now, a voice whispers in my ear. Tell her now. Say something. Say anything.

“And YOU!” She actually points at me.

“What about me?” Can she tell? Women can read minds, you know. I have four older sisters. Don’t try to tell me they can’t.

“You knew Jamey was gay and didn’t tell me!”

I cross my arms over my chest, pretending my heart isn’t trying to claw its way into the ceiling light fixture. “I didn’t know.”

“You suspected.”

I can’t argue with her. She’s right.

I shrug.

“That’s it? I get a shrug? Men. You’re all the same.” The Giants pillow hits me in the face. I catch a whiff of her perfume, a mix of her shampoo, some lotion she uses at work, and her unique scent.

“No,” I say carefully, forcing myself to stop thinking about her scent. “We’re not. For instance, Jamey is gay and I am not.”

I’m really not.

“How do I know you’re not gay?” she says in a vicious tone. ”Apparently, I have no gaydar! Maybe you’re gay. Maybe Zeke’s gay. And what about Henry?”

“He’s married to Jemma.”

“All the good ones are taken!” Her hands go up in the air like she’s at an evangelical revival.

I give her a look. She scrunches up her face, searching the room with her eyes, like a DEA agent on a drug bust.

“Where’s the Thai?”

“On its way.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. I pay the delivery dude and return. Carrie’s already got the television on. She’s halfway through an episode of a house flippers show, her wine glass empty, the pint of ice cream in her hand.

She’s using an entire Reese’s Cup as a spoon.

When you are the youngest brother in a family with four older sisters, you see a lot of break-ups. There’s screaming and crying, cursing and condemnation. Lots of burning of things — letters, cards, Polaroids, diaphragms.

Pro tip: those don’t burn. Trust me. And they smell really bad when you try.

But eventually, all that anger turns to one thought: Why me?

When guys get dumped, they drink heavily and recover by finding a piece of ass.

I wish Carrie were a guy.

Wait. That sounds wrong.

I hand her a carton of shrimp Pad Thai and grab the quart of Tom Yum soup. I take a sip.

“You’re not going to slurp like usual, are you?”

I pause. “I don’t slurp.”

She points to the television screen with her chopsticks. “I can’t hear the show over your mouth noises.”

My eyes cut to the screen. It’s a commercial for some plantar fasciitis foot wrap.

“God forbid you miss that important message because I am eating my dinner.”

“Slurping. You sound like a walrus at a water fountain when we get Tom Yum soup, Ryan.”

“No, I don’t.” But I slurp loudly on purpose, then look at her, eyebrows up.

“I’m sorry.” She puts the carton of food down and covers her face with her palms, scrubbing her face, her fingers sliding into her messy hair, rubbing her scalp. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

NOW, that damn voice screams. NOW!

I reach for her, my hand shaking. The wall between us is voluntarily broken on a regular basis. I’ve hugged Carrie. I’ve touched her hand, slung an arm around her shoulders, worked with her on fixing a leaky faucet or helped her move something heavy, our bodies brushing against each other in safe spots.

She’s fallen asleep against me on my couch, and I’ve leaned against her while we watch shows.

It’s not impenetrable. That wall, I mean.

It’s just, you spend years not crossing that line and the moment it’s time, the breach takes on gravitas. Meaning.

Intensity.

Just as I’m about to touch her jaw, a half second before I cradle her sweet face in my hands and pull her to me for a kiss I start, a kiss I want, a kiss I plan to turn into more, she pulls away, my fingertips brushing her back instead.

She comes in for a hug, all platonic, chin tucked down and into my shoulder before I can make a move to kiss her.

“You’re different. I’m sorry.”

“Different?”

“You’re one of the nice guys.” Her shoulders relax, her voice muffled against my shoulder. As she breathes, the heat from her mouth warms the cloth of my t-shirt.

Inches. I’m inches away from kissing her, from telling her how I really feel.

Fuck Jamey.

Fuck being nice.

It’s time to be real.

Slowly, achingly, I shore myself up inside, knowing this is it. Do or die moment. I’m about to show her how I really feel and two minutes from now, we’ll either be closer than ever, or —

I can’t think about or.

“I’m so glad I have a real friend like you, Ryan,” she says, sighing into my neck. “You’re so sweet. Maybe I should take you to Jenny’s wedding as my date.” She laughs, then her breath evens out, body language clear. This hug is firmly in the Friend Zone.

Friend. All the bad words start with F.

My eyes fly open. I tense, all the muscles I’ve just willed into action going cold at her suggestion.

“Urg?” I say. No, it’s not a word. I’m beyond words.

“I know, right? No one would believe it.” Her laugh feels like fingernails raking my balls.

I’m speechless.

She pulls away and hits my chest pretty hard. “But next time I’m dating a gay guy, say something!” Her eyes are nervous as she moves away from me, grabbing her chopsticks like they’re a shield, digging through her carton for a shrimp. “None of my friends in high school told me my boyfriend my senior year was gay, either.”