It was stupid of me to think I could have Connor. We had known each other for years, had weathered plenty of all-nighter study sessions and work-related fire drills together. If Connor thought of me as anything more than a friend, he’d had ample opportunity to make that known. Our relationship had remained strictly platonic, aside from that one drunken kiss.

It had been four years ago, the night we finished the last of our law school finals. Too many of us were crammed into our friend Betsy’s tiny apartment, giddy with having survived law school and drunk on cheap beer. Things had started innocently enough: Connor and I had been sitting beside each other on Betsy’s cat hair–covered couch, as we often did, when his leg brushed against mine. Normally, I would have adjusted to give him more room, but that night everything felt different. School was over; the possibilities were endless. And so I kept my leg where it was, our denim-clad thighs touching. Connor’s leg pressed more firmly against mine, and he threw his arm along the back of the couch, resting his fingertips on the back of my neck. He gently traced small circles on my skin, and I was so thrilled I nearly blacked out.

I shifted slightly so that we were sitting even closer, our arms now touching, and he abruptly rose from the couch. Immediately, I felt sick, sure I had misread something and had weirded him out. Stupid, I thought to myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is why no one likes you.

But then Connor’s hazel eyes met mine and he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly before walking to the bathroom. I glanced around the room, and once I had confirmed that no one was paying attention, I stood and followed him. My hand on the doorknob, I paused. What if I had imagined his silent message? What if he was just using the bathroom for its intended purpose? I almost backed away, but the magic of the evening compelled me to twist the knob.

The second I did so, Connor thrust open the door and grabbed my arm, pulling me inside and shutting the door behind me. Suddenly we were kissing, his tongue colliding with mine and his hands on my body and all I could think was It’s happening, it’s finally happening.

But then someone was trying the knob, and we broke apart, panting and smoothing our clothing back into place. Without a word to me, Connor opened the bathroom door and loudly said, “Thanks for getting that out of my eye, Harrell.”

He didn’t look at me again as he strode back into the thick of the party, falling easily into a conversation about baseball with some of our classmates. I stood there, unsure what had just happened, unable to process the knowledge that Connor’s tongue had been inside my mouth, and that it no longer was.

Look at me, I thought desperately. Just look at me and give me some sign that we’re in this together.