The Space Between

The first time I noticed it, we were at a barbecue at my brother's place. Sophia had worn this pale yellow sundress, the one with the little buttons down the front that she'd bought at a thrift store in Portland, and she was laughing at something Jake said. Not a polite laugh. Not the laugh she gave my brother's terrible jokes about tax law. A real laugh, head tipped back, hand on his forearm, fingers curling slightly against the sleeve of his worn leather jacket like she was holding onto something solid.

I was standing by the grill with a spatula in my hand, watching a burger patty go from pink to gray, and I felt it. That thing. That small, cold hand closing around my stomach.

Jake said something else, something I couldn't hear over the sizzle of grease and the sound of my niece screaming about a bee, and Sophia leaned into him. Her shoulder pressed against his arm. She was still smiling. She looked at him the way she looked at me when we were alone in the kitchen at two in the morning, making pancakes neither of us would finish. Like he was the only person in the world worth listening to.

"Flip those before they turn into hockey pucks," my brother said, elbowing me.

I flipped them. The smoke rose. I didn't say anything.

That was three months ago. Since then, I've catalogued every instance the way I used to catalogue building materials for work, before the economy went sideways and I started taking whatever jobs I could get. A running list in my head, updated daily, cross-referenced, annotated. The way she touches his shoulder when she walks past him at a party. The way she saves him the seat next to her at dinner, even when there are only six of us and the table is round and it doesn't matter where anyone sits. The way she says his name, Jake, with a softness she doesn't use for anyone else. Not for her mother. Not for her best friend Priya. Not for me.

I know how that sounds. I know.

Sophia is perfect. That's not me being a lovesick idiot. It's an objective fact, verifiable by anyone with eyes. She's a pediatric nurse at the children's hospital downtown, works twelve-hour shifts and comes home smelling like antiseptic and apple juice, and she still finds time to make dinner and ask about my day and remember that I hate cilantro. She has this laugh that makes strangers turn around on the street. She remembers birthdays. She sends cards. She once drove forty-five minutes in the rain to bring me soup when I had a cold, even though I told her not to, even though I was fine, and she sat on my couch and watched terrible reality TV with me for six hours and never once checked her phone.

She is good. Deep down, in the marrow, in the place where people keep the things they don't show anyone. She is good.

And she doesn't know.

That's the part that kills me. She doesn't know that when she touches Jake's arm, something in my chest folds in on itself like a wet cardboard box. She doesn't know that I've started counting the minutes until we leave places, until I can get her alone again, until I can have her back in the small world where she's mine and no one else exists. She doesn't know that I've been waking up at 3 a.m. and staring at the ceiling and running through the same loop of questions: Is it him? Is it me? Is it both? Is it nothing? Am I crazy? She doesn't know because I haven't told her. I can't tell her. What would I say? Please stop being yourself around my friend? Please be less warm, less open, less Sophia?

It's not her fault. That's what I keep telling myself. She's just friendly. She's just comfortable with him. They've known each other for two years now, ever since I introduced them at that rooftop party in June, and they just clicked. That's a good thing, right? Your girlfriend getting along with your best friend. That's what everyone wants. That's what normal people want.

I'm not normal. I know that too.

---

The garage is cold this morning. I can see my breath when I come in through the side door, a puff of white that dissolves before it reaches the ceiling. The space heater in the corner is doing its best, but it's losing. It's always losing.

Jake's already here. Of course he is. He's been here since six, according to the text he sent me at 6:15, which I read at 7:30 when I finally dragged myself out of bed. He's under the hood of a 2004 Honda Civic, a car that's older than some of the people who drive it, and he's got grease on his hands and a wrench in his fist and he's humming something. I don't recognize the song.

"You're late," he says without looking up.

"Traffic."

"There's no traffic in this town. You live eight minutes away."

"Eight minutes can stretch."

He grunts. That's Jake's version of a response. He's not a talker, not in the way Sophia is. He speaks in grunts and half-sentences and sarcasm. He's been that way since we were kids, since we were thirteen and building bike ramps out of scrap wood in his dad's driveway, since we were eighteen and he taught me how to change a tire on the side of the highway at midnight because I'd blown one and didn't know what to do and he'd driven forty minutes just to help me. He's the kind of person who shows up. He doesn't say much about it. He just shows up.

I hang my jacket on the hook by the door and walk over to the Civic. The engine's pulled apart, parts scattered on a towel on the ground, everything arranged with the kind of precision that doesn't match the rest of Jake's life. His apartment is a disaster. His truck is a disaster. But his work is clean.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask.

"Timing belt. Water pump. The usual." He straightens up, wipes his hands on a rag that used to be a t-shirt, and looks at me. "You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. You sleeping?"

"Some."

He doesn't push. That's another thing about Jake. He doesn't push. He'll ask once, maybe twice, and then he'll let it go. He'll wait. He'll be there when you're ready to talk, and he won't make you feel bad about the waiting. I've always admired that about him. I've always thought it was a kind of wisdom, the ability to shut up and let people come to you.

Now I wonder if it's just indifference. Now I wonder if he's been waiting for me to say something so he can feel better about whatever's happening, whatever I think is happening, whatever might not be happening at all.

"You want coffee?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He walks over to the little table in the corner, the one with the ancient coffee maker that's stained brown from years of use, and starts a pot. I watch him. His movements are easy, unhurried, the movements of a man who's comfortable in his own skin. He's always been that way. Even when we were kids, even when everything around us was falling apart, Jake was steady. His dad left when we were fifteen. His mom worked two jobs. He raised his little sister practically by himself, made her lunches, helped her with homework, walked her to school. He never complained. He never asked for help. He just did what needed to be done.

I met Sophia at a party. Did I already say that? It was a rooftop party in June, one of those warm nights when the city feels like it's holding its breath, and she was standing by the railing looking out at the lights, and I walked up to her because I couldn't not. She was wearing a blue dress and her hair was down and she was holding a glass of wine and she turned to look at me and smiled and I forgot every word I'd ever learned.

We talked for three hours. We talked about everything. Her job, my job, the way the city looked from up there, the way the sky turned purple before it went black. She told me about her patients, the kids she takes care of, the ones who break her heart and the ones who put it back together. She told me about her father, who died when she was sixteen, and how she still thinks about him every day. She told me she wanted to travel someday, to see the ocean, to stand on a beach in Portugal and watch the sun go down.

I told her about my work. About the buildings I used to design, back before everything went sideways, back when I had a future that looked like something. I told her about the scar on my jaw, the one I got in a car accident when I was twenty-three, the one that still aches when it rains. I told her things I hadn't told anyone.

And then Jake showed up. He'd been at the party too, somewhere in the crowd, and he came over to say hi, and I introduced them. This is Jake, I said. My best friend. And Sophia looked at him and smiled and said, I've heard so much about you. And Jake said, Don't believe any of it. And she laughed.

That was the beginning.

---

The coffee's bitter. Jake always makes it too strong, uses too many grounds, lets it sit too long. I drink it anyway. We stand in the garage and listen to the heater hum and the wind rattle the windows and somewhere outside a dog is barking at nothing.

"You talked to Sophia lately?" Jake asks.

The question lands wrong. It shouldn't. It's a normal question. But it lands wrong.

"This morning," I say. "Before I left."

"She good?"

"Yeah. She's good."

He nods. Takes a sip of his coffee. Doesn't say anything else.

I want to ask him. I want to ask him what he thinks of her. I want to ask him if he's ever noticed the way she touches his arm, the way she leans into him, the way she saves him the seat next to her. I want to ask him if he's ever thought about her, really thought about her, in a way that isn't just friendly. I want to ask him if he's ever wanted her.

But I don't. Because I'm afraid of the answer. Because if he says yes, I don't know what I'll do. And if he says no, I don't know if I'll believe him.

"You gonna help me with this or what?" he says, gesturing at the Civic.

I set down my coffee and walk over. The engine's a puzzle, a collection of parts that need to fit together in exactly the right way. I've always liked puzzles. I've always liked the way things fit. It's why I became an architect, back when that was still a thing I could be. I liked the logic of it, the way a building was just a series of decisions, one after another, each one leading to the next. I liked the way you could look at a blueprint and see the future.

Now I fix cars. Now I do whatever work I can find, whatever pays the bills, whatever keeps me from thinking too much about the life I used to have. It's not bad work. It's honest work. But it's not the same.

Jake hands me a socket wrench. Our fingers brush. His hands are rough, calloused, the hands of a man who's been working with tools his whole life. I wonder if Sophia has ever noticed that. I wonder if she's ever thought about what those hands would feel like on her skin.

Stop it. Stop it.

We work in silence for a while. The heater hums. The wind rattles. The dog keeps barking.

"You ever think about the future?" I ask. I don't know why I ask. The words just come out.

Jake looks at me. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just. The future. What you want. Where you're going."

He shrugs. "I don't think about it much. I just try to get through the day."

"That's depressing."

"That's realistic."

I tighten a bolt. The metal is cold against my fingers. "Sophia thinks about the future. She has this whole plan. Travel, kids, a house with a garden. She wants to plant tomatoes."

"Tomatoes are good."

"She wants to see the ocean. Portugal, she says. She's never seen the ocean."

"She'd like it."

"Yeah."

Silence. The heater hums. I think about Sophia standing on a beach in Portugal, the wind in her hair, the sun on her face. I think about her standing there alone. I think about her standing there with someone else.

"You ever think about getting out of here?" I ask.

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know. Somewhere else."

Jake sets down his wrench. He looks at me for a long moment, and I can't read his expression. He's always been hard to read. That's another thing about him. He keeps things close. He doesn't show his cards.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

"I'm just tired."

He nods. He doesn't push. He picks up his wrench and goes back to work, and I do the same, and we don't say anything else for a long time.

---

Sophia's apartment smells like cinnamon. She's been baking again, muffins this time, the kind with the crumbly top that she knows I like. She's wearing an oversized sweater, the gray one with the holes in the sleeves, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she's got flour on her cheek.

"You're early," she says, kissing me on the mouth. Her lips are warm. She tastes like coffee.

"I finished up at the garage."

"How's Jake?"

The question is casual. It's nothing. But I feel it in my chest, that familiar folding, that wet cardboard collapse.

"He's good. Same as always."

"He works too hard. You should tell him to take a break."

"He wouldn't listen."

She laughs. "No, he wouldn't." She turns back to the counter, where the muffins are cooling on a wire rack. "I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight. Something stupid. Something with explosions."

"Sounds good."

"Or we could go out. There's that new Thai place downtown. Priya says it's amazing."

"Whatever you want."

She looks at me. Her eyes are warm, hazel, the kind of eyes you could fall into. She's beautiful. She's always been beautiful. But it's more than that. It's the way she looks at you, like you're the only person in the world, like she's really seeing you, like she cares about what she sees.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I don't know. You seem quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"I know. But this is different." She walks over to me, puts her hands on my chest. "You can talk to me, you know. About anything."

I know. That's the thing. I know I can talk to her. I know she would listen. I know she would try to understand. But I also know that once I say it, I can't take it back. Once I say it, it becomes real. Once I say it, she'll know that I've been watching her, cataloguing her, keeping score. She'll know that I've been jealous. She'll know that I've been small.

"It's nothing," I say. "Just tired."

She studies my face. She's good at that, at reading people. It's part of her job, part of who she is. She can tell when a kid is scared even when they're smiling. She can tell when a parent is lying even when they're saying all the right things. She can tell when I'm not telling her something.

But she doesn't push. She never pushes. She just kisses me again, softer this time, and says, "Okay. But I'm here. Whenever you're ready."

And I love her. God, I love her. I love her so much it hurts, so much it feels like there's something inside me that's too big for my body, something that's pressing against my ribs, trying to get out. I love her and I'm terrified of losing her and I'm terrified that I'm already losing her and I don't know what to do.

---

We watch the movie. It's stupid. Things explode. Sophia laughs at all the right moments and throws popcorn at the screen and curls up against my side like a cat. I put my arm around her and try to be present, try to be here, try to stop thinking about the way she touched Jake's arm at the barbecue, the way she leaned into him, the way she said his name.

But I can't. I can't stop thinking about it. It's like a splinter, small and sharp, buried under the skin. I can't see it but I can feel it. Every time I move, it aches.

After the movie, she falls asleep on the couch, her head on my lap, her breathing slow and even. I watch her for a long time. I watch the way her eyelashes flutter, the way her lips part slightly, the way her hand curls against her chest. She looks peaceful. She looks happy. She looks like someone who has no idea that anything is wrong.

And maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe I'm making it all up. Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there, connecting dots that don't connect, building a case out of nothing. Maybe I'm just jealous, just insecure, just the kind of person who can't believe they deserve something good.

I think about Jake. I think about the way he looked at me in the garage, the way he asked if I was okay. I think about the way he's always been there, always been steady, always been the kind of friend you can count on. I think about the way he's never once given me a reason to doubt him.

And then I think about the way Sophia looks at him. The way her face changes when he walks into a room. The way she brightens. The way she moves toward him without thinking, like a plant turning toward the sun.

I don't know what it means. I don't know if it means anything. But I know that it hurts. I know that it keeps me up at night. I know that it's changing something in me, something I can't name, something I can't stop.

Sophia shifts in her sleep. She mumbles something. A name. I can't quite hear it.

I hold my breath and wait.

She doesn't say it again.

---

The next day, I'm at the hardware store. I need a new drill bit, the old one's stripped, and I've been putting it off for weeks. The store is empty, just me and the guy behind the counter, a kid with acne and a bored expression. I'm walking down the aisle, looking at the shelves, when I hear a voice.

"Jacob?"

I turn. It's Priya. Sophia's best friend. She's wearing scrubs, which means she's on her way to or from the hospital. Her hair is pulled back and she looks tired.

"Hey," I say. "What are you doing here?"

"Returning something. Sophia's idea. She bought the wrong size." She holds up a bag. "You?"

"Drill bit."

She nods. We stand there for a moment, two people who know each other but don't really know each other, trying to figure out what to say.

"How's Sophia?" she asks.

"She's good. She's always good."

"Yeah." Priya smiles. "She is."

Silence. The kid behind the counter coughs. Somewhere in the store, a radio is playing a song I don't recognize.

"Can I ask you something?" Priya says.

"Sure."

"Has Sophia seemed... different to you lately?"

The question hits me like a punch. I try to keep my face neutral. "Different how?"

"I don't know. Just different. She's been spending a lot of time with Jake."

The name lands between us like a stone.

"Has she?" I say. My voice sounds strange. Distant.

"Yeah. They've been hanging out a lot. She says he's been helping her with something. I don't know what." Priya shrugs. "I just wondered if you'd noticed."

I haven't noticed. That's the thing. I haven't noticed because I've been trying not to notice. I've been trying to pretend that everything is fine, that nothing has changed, that I'm not slowly going crazy.

"I hadn't really thought about it," I lie.

Priya looks at me. She's not stupid. She knows something's wrong. But she doesn't push either. She just nods and says, "Okay. Well. If you ever want to talk."

"Thanks."

She leaves. I stand in the aisle for a long time, holding a drill bit I don't need, thinking about what she said. Sophia and Jake. Hanging out. Helping her with something. What could he be helping her with? What could she need help with that she hasn't told me about?

I think about all the times she's been busy lately. All the times she's said she had errands to run, things to do, places to be. All the times I didn't ask questions because I didn't want to know the answers.

I pay for the drill bit. I walk out to my truck. The sky is gray, the kind of gray that presses down on you, that makes everything feel heavy. I sit in the driver's seat and stare at the steering wheel and try to breathe.

---

That night, I call Jake. He answers on the third ring.

"Hey."

"Hey." I pause. I don't know what to say. I didn't plan this. I just dialed the number and now I'm here, in the silence, trying to figure out how to ask the question I've been avoiding for months.

"What's up?" he says.

"I need to ask you something."

"Okay."

I take a breath. "Are you and Sophia... is there something going on?"

The silence stretches. I can hear him breathing. I can hear the TV in the background, some kind of sports thing, the crowd roaring.

"What are you talking about?" he says.

"I'm talking about Sophia. You've been spending a lot of time with her. She's been... different around you. I just need to know if there's something I should know about."

Another silence. Longer this time. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, a fist against my ribs.

"There's nothing going on," Jake says. His voice is flat. I can't tell if he's lying.

"Then why has she been acting so strange?"

"She hasn't been acting strange. She's just been helping me with something."

"What?"

He hesitates. "I can't tell you."

"What do you mean you can't tell me?"

"It's not my thing to tell. You should ask her."

"Jake."

"Ask her, Jacob."

He hangs up. I sit there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence, feeling like the ground has shifted under my feet. Something is happening. Something I don't understand. Something that everyone knows about except me.

I think about Sophia. I think about her smile, her laugh, the way she touches my face when she kisses me. I think about the way she looks at Jake, the way she brightens, the way she moves toward him. I think about Priya's question, the way she asked it, the way she looked at me.

And I think about the fact that I've been so afraid of losing her that I've been losing her all along. Not to Jake. Not to anyone. To my own fear. To my own silence. To the thing inside me that won't let me believe I deserve to be happy.

I start the truck. I drive home. Sophia is waiting for me, sitting on the couch with a book, and she looks up when I walk in and smiles.

"Hey," she says. "How was your day?"

I look at her. I look at this woman who is perfect, who is good, who is everything I've ever wanted. I look at her and I feel the splinter ache, the small sharp pain, the thing I can't see but can't ignore.

"Fine," I say. "It was fine."

She pats the couch next to her. "Come sit. I missed you."

I sit. She leans into me. She smells like cinnamon and soap and something else, something I can't name. I put my arm around her and hold her close and try to believe that everything is okay.

But I can't. I can't believe it. And I don't know what to do.

The question sits in my chest, heavy and cold. The question I'm too afraid to ask. The question that's been building for months, for years, for as long as I've known her.

What if she doesn't love me the way I love her?

What if she never did?

The question sits there, and I hold Sophia, and the night goes on.