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I sometimes thought my entire existence had been a love letter to the man in front of me, which was a ridiculous thing to even consider, knowing that I’d first met him when we’d been barely eighteen. University and all that.

Youth. What a crazy time that had been.

Still, I felt like I had known Bastien Dewaert my whole life. I’d seen him at his very best, the most confident of charmers. I’d also seen him at his lowest, when he’d believed everything around him had crumbled. The loss of his grandparents. Heartbreak. Failed exams. Years of studies that looked like they would have been for nothing.

I knew how he’d felt in every single one of those moments because I’d felt exactly the same. His highs had been my highs. His lows? The worst memories of my life.

Yet here we were. Life truly was ridiculous, because this love letter of mine to Bastien? It was a constant narrative at the back of my mind, where I would stare at him and wonder if I was truly blessed or a massive idiot.

Right now, I felt like the latter.

We hadn’t seen each other for months, which was fairly normal for two grown-up professionals. We both lived in London, a few Tube stops apart, but that didn’t matter. We’d made time in the past. Caught up. But life always had other plans.

For me, that included taking on a new practice, and I’d barely had the time to do my own laundry in the past months. For Bastien, this year, like the last, had included Juliet. And a marriage proposal.

Add to that a yappy little dog, constant house hunting and this clusterfuck of a stag-do. Yes. My life had been a walk in the park this year. Bastien’s? God knows what the man was thinking. Currently, he was sporting a white veil, a tiara and a bit of a black eye from an earlier encounter with a lamppost, and he was dancing, shirtless, I might add, on top of the bar in the incredibly dull Scottish venue we were in. A bar slash pub slash budget hotel in Edinburgh. City of all that history.

Chest glistening with sweat, that blonde mop of hair swaying to the music, eyes closed as his body shook with the beat, he lost the stupid headgear as he twirled around, the white fabric floating to the ground behind him as he just laughed. And, of course, his insulin pump and infusion site were neatly strapped down with surgical tape. I’d helped him earlier, ensuring everything would stay in place. To others, with everything he was, he might have been quite a sight. To me, he was just Bastien, and I would, as always, cross my arms and watch him until he fell off the goddamn bar. Then I would have to find his shirt, sober him up and drag him home.

Nothing ever changed, did it?

The place stank of stale beer and urine and was full of mediocre drunks, overpriced fast food tempting the patrons from across the road, just like the suburbs of London. I wondered why we’d even bothered with the flights and hotel and all that jazz. We might as well have stayed at home.

At least in this hovel of a bar, we could crawl straight back up the purple carpet at the end of the lobby and fall head first into our room at the end of the night.

I was going to crawl back up there very shortly, because this? This was one hundred percent up there with one of the worst nights of my life.

I hated pubs, clubs, all the cheap and nasty places like this.

I hated Bastien’s stuck-up friends from the finance industry. That Kieron with his annoying voice and the way he looked down at me, despite me towering over his wanky arse. I hated Sanjit and Anil and Oliver and Will.

The constant streams of texts from Juliet. Man, I hated those.

Yes, because I was that friend. Good old reliable Jakey. In control. Solid. Dependable. Organiser of events. Passer-on of relevant information. In charge of ensuring Bastien was behaving himself, and that there were no strippers, and had he checked his insulin pump? Yes, he had. No, there were no strippers. His behaviour? Well…

I was also the designated keeper of secrets.

I wasn’t going to tell Juliet about the inebriated gaggle of women currently smoothing their hands up and down Bastien’s sweaty chest. Nor was I going to relay his current state or the fact that he was being an absolute twat letting those girls write their phone numbers on his arm. For fuck’s sake, Bastien.

He was a handsome bastard, though. His messy blonde hair was always a little too long. His body, lean and trim, glowed with a recent dose of fake tan. We had a wedding coming up, remember? Two weeks, to be exact. He had a suit. I had a suit—one I had been forcibly fitted for under Juliet’s watchful eye.

I wasn’t painting her in a very good light here, and the truth was that Juliet was a lovely human being. She was kind and extremely good for Bastien, kept him in check and fed and under control—things that had, in the past, been my responsibility.

Another way I had been replaced in his life.

I’d once been the centre of his world. Like he had been mine.

Now I was skirting around the perimeter, brought out when required for my excellent skills in the support department . Juliet’s words, and ones I actually agreed with. Best friend, relegated to the sideline in favour of married life and a future with a house in the suburbs, that goddamn dog and there had been murmurs of pregnancy tests.

All things that made me shudder to the bone.

Out of the things I hated about this night, the top of the list was staring me right in the face.

Bastien .

“Jakey,” he half slurred, his breath smelling of something sweet. I hated when he drank. “It’s diet tonic. Chill.”

Right. I didn’t drink much myself—another trait of having been Bastien’s best friend most of my adult life. He had a tendency to go a bit wild when he shouldn’t, so I didn’t. Hence, the two of us together was a good combination that usually created enough drama and laughter for a decent night out.

I had no idea where we had gone wrong here, because Bastien was a mess, and I was, irrationally, bitchy.

“I’m gonna go,” I said in a voice too loud for my liking.

“Come on, Jakey!” That was Kieron, also drunk with some blonde hanging off his arm despite the long-term girlfriend at home. I’d met her on occasion at parties. And weddings. I shuddered again.

“Why you leaving?” Bastien whined, now draped over my shoulder and wiping his sweaty face on my shirt. “Stay. It’s my stag night.”

He was surprisingly coherent. He didn’t look it .

“Yeah, Jakey, It’s Bash’s stag do. You can’t just leave!”

Yes, Kieron, I can. Bash. Bah. Everyone called him Bash; I was the only one who constantly full-named him. Because I could. Because I was Jake, and he was Bastien, and we were…

No. We had been . Now we were grown up, no longer codependent roommates who had shared each other’s lives long past graduation and first jobs and summer holidays.

We no longer did, and never would again.

I turned around and left them both draped over the bar, propped up by the gaggle of girls, who shrieked in delight as Kieron threw out some offhanded comment about me being a party pooper and a goddamn loser.

I didn’t hang around. Instead, I went to the men’s room, which was exactly where you would have expected it to be in a grotty old pub just off Rose Street. Down a dirty set of stairs, a faded Scottish flag tacked to the wall, stalls smelling of weird soap and urine, some kind of air freshener lingering in the thick air that still pulsed with the beat from upstairs .

Quick piss and off to bed.

Unfortunately, I was sharing a bed with Bastien, having booked a cheap budget hotel and all that. They were sold out of twin rooms, so a double it was. Nothing Bastien and I hadn’t done before, as I said. Roommates. Best friends. Survivors of the Great War of University Education.

Me, a physiotherapist. Bastien, your man in finance.

We were adults. Grown-ups. Fully qualified in the thing called life.

I didn’t quite believe my own narrative there, because I was nothing of the sort. I may be able to sort out the lingering aftereffects of a torn ligament. A broken knee, rehabilitation after a hip replacement? Absolutely my jam.

I couldn’t mend a broken heart, even if someone put a gun to my head.

Overdramatic? Me?

Jacob Sawhurst. MCSP HCPC AACP. Too many letters to remember after my name these days. I had qualifications. Skills. Worked far too hard and was, as always, too hard on myself. I wanted perfect results, but dealing with human beings meant that nothing was ever perfect.

I reminded myself of this, over and over again, standing with my hand flat against the filthy tiles, trying to empty my overfilled bladder into the urinal.

At least I was alone down here, my only companion being the music from upstairs with its faint thudding against my brain. I craved quiet alone time. Just a few minutes so I could get myself together and have a good cry or something—some kind of release of all the pent-up frustration that this weekend had brought.

I wanted Bastien back, the way he’d always been. Kind, funny, ridiculous and unpredictable, and mine.

Not this weird propped-up, shiny and artificial version of the man I had—

Fuck, Jake. Get a grip. Bastien had changed. Of course he had. It was all part of growing up and maturing, and now he was getting married, and I was still standing here trying to empty my bladder. I couldn’t even manage that.

“Where’d you go?” And here he was, the man of the moment, leaning against the doorframe, giving me a small smile. Confidence seemingly oozed from his pores, but I could read him better than anyone. He was frazzled. Terrified. Messy.

Always messy.

“I’m right here, having a piss,” I deadpanned, washing my hands more carefully than I probably needed, soap and all.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said. Honesty, right there. He usually was honest with me. He knew better than to skirt around the truth.

“I can’t…” I had to stop and breathe. “I can’t do all this bullshit, Bastien. You, your mates, all the drinking and fuck. Look. This is not my thing, at all, and you know it. I’m going.”

“I have your key.”

I was surprised he remembered having lost his and then borrowing mine to change his shirt. Whatever.

He stepped closer as I slid my fingers around his waist and into his back pocket, retrieving said key. Then I turned around because yes, too close. Not that Bastien had any idea of personal space. Sober Bastien did. Drunk Bastien was standing behind me looking over my shoulder, his chin against my back, hands on my arms, fingertips moving down until they reached my exposed skin.

He breathed, in and out, and closed his eyes for a moment.

I had no idea what he was thinking, apart from that he wanted me to bend to his demands and stay with him, pretend everything was fine when nothing was.

“I hate seeing you drunk.” I sounded like a middle-aged housewife. He let a little giggle slip like he could read me as well as I could him. He hated getting lectured, and that’s what I constantly seemed to do these days.

“Hey,” he started, moving those fingers gently up and down my arms, prickles everywhere, manipulating me to do what he wanted. And I would, because that’s the way we rolled. “Look, I know. I know everything you’re saying. And to be honest with you? I don’t care about all this either, but I wanted to just have a night out with you. I want you here.”

“Why?” I sounded weak. Being this close to Bastien was no good for me. It was one hundred percent a very bad idea. His nose digging into my shoulder, arms now around my front, hands grasping the fabric of my shirt like he was hugging me from behind. I had no idea when he’d moved or when I’d somehow…done this. Stepped too close. My body was reacting like it always did, trying to move away, regain some control. My forehead hit the filthy mirror in front of me as Bastian clung on.

“Because you matter. I don’t give a shit about anyone else. They’re just workmates. Colleagues. People I need to have here because it’s what’s expected, ain’t it? Can you just stay? Another hour? Have a glass of that fancy wine you were on about earlier?”

“Fancy wine,” I muttered. Nothing fancy about wholesale cheap plonk, which was what was served in dives like this. Probably watered down for good measure. I didn’t trust anything around here, least of all myself, because now his hand was on my face, fingertips stroking down my cheek, over my stubble. I wanted to swat him away, make him go away . Skin. Too much skin.

“I know,” he said. “It’s a bloody shitshow. That axe-throwing place? What was that? Rage room? I wanted some actual rage in there. Instead, we had six hungover blokes sat on the floor. Didn’t even have coffee. We all needed coffee.”

“You had enough coffee at breakfast.” I smiled. I had to because he was right. “Today was crap, wasn’t it. Really shite.” I’d booked it, and I’d fucked up. I should’ve taken up Juliet’s offer of help to get this right, engaged the professional event organiser she’d suggested but then, I was the best man, and this was the stag do. My job.

“Totally. We should have demanded our money back.”

He smiled. I did too. Too close. Too much him.

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was just the overwhelming fear of what we’d become. Or perhaps the stench of the place had done something to my brain.

“Jakey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

I didn’t know what was okay and what wasn’t. Where I was or who I was or where I was going from here. And in the end, I don’t think it mattered.

His hands were back on my shoulders, the sudden strength of him holding me firmly in place.

I didn’t resist. By that point, I think I had lost the ability to function. I found myself chest to chest with the man… this man, and he just looked at me. Straight on.

We were the same height, him and me. Eye to eye.

“Stay with me.” A small sad smile pulled at his handsome face. “Just for a few minutes. Just you and me. Let’s just hang out like we used to. I need that, Jakey. I really do.”

Those words should’ve made me snap back into Jakey mode. I should’ve given him a hug and dragged him back up to the bar, ordered him some water and checked his blood sugar levels, made sure he was okay. I should’ve done all my best-friend duties and kept all those promises. Too many promises that I suddenly wondered if I could keep them.

This person I found myself being, it wasn’t me. I didn’t do this, no. No, Bastien, and I didn’t do this. We didn’t do…whatever this was. And whatever it was, it was doing something to my insides. Insanity shooting through my veins. Desperation. A healthy dose of anger. Fear. Sadness. Grief.

The love, all that love—it was right here, deep cuts inside my heart. Hurt. Pain. I had no idea where it had all come from, or so I tried to tell myself, but I knew. Love made you do weird things. Bastien had told me enough times. Love made you make bad choices. Mistakes.

Love. Fucking love.

I didn’t even know what that word meant anymore. His face was too close to mine. His breath was hot on my face. Love. A fucking lifetime of it . I leant in that last inch and smashed my mouth on his, kissed him with everything I had.

It was a one-time thing. The last thing. I was losing him anyway.

Love. Bloody insane.

He should have pulled away or perhaps pushed me away. Added a good mouthful of abuse for good measure.

He did neither, and that was the worst thing of all. He clung to me as I slammed him into the bathroom fixtures, grabbed my hand and slapped it onto his arse as he kissed me back, matching the fever in my veins. I lifted him up onto the filthy sink, his back against the mirror, pressing myself against him as his legs clamped around me .

What were we doing? Bastien Dewaert’s arse stuck in a filthy porcelain bowl, my hands on his bare back, his chest against mine. I suddenly caught my reflection in the mirror…and froze.

What had I done?

What the hell had I done?

I couldn’t even look at him as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a single fuck the only word I managed to release.

I had loved him my whole adult life, and this was how I had let it end?

My life had been one long love letter to the man— this man—who I pushed away.

Love. What a fucking shitshow that had turned out to be.