“We’ve got to run through the rehearsal part first,” I tell them. “That’ll probably take forever. Then we get to have dinner, some dancing.”

“Sounds like fun. I like dancing.”

“Just save the first one for me?” I don’t know why I keep saying stuff like that. It’s only going to make things harder.

Wyatt smiles. “Of course.”

“What time is it?”

“No idea.” Wyatt rolls back over, grabbing their phone off the nightstand. “Nine sixteen.”

“Any chance you want to grab breakfast?”

*  *  *

I can’t deny that it feels like things have changed now.

Maybe the sex was a mistake.

No, scratch that.

Sex was definitely the mistake.

It feels like I don’t know how to talk to Wyatt anymore, and I don’t know what to do about that. It wasn’t like this with Josh, at all. We were fine the second we finished. We just got right back to watching whatever movie it was we were watching before it happened, and then the next time we were alone, it happened again, and again. Eventually, Josh asked me what we were doing, and that was when we agreed that it’d be no strings attached, strictly a friends-with-benefits situation.

Now, with Wyatt …

I don’t know.

And I desperately wish that I had the answer. Does anything have to have changed? Can’t we be normal with each other? What kind of conversations do we have now? What kind of conversations did we have before?

What do I do?

“Hey.”

I feel this light kick under the table, and I look across the table at Wyatt.

They really wanted what they labeled “purposefully bad breakfast food,” which meant that, in a city filled with literally hundreds of restaurants dedicated to amazing breakfasts and brunches, we ended up at an IHOP, where everything is sticky and the air is filled with the smell of cooked potatoes and too-sweet syrups.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” they say.

Because my stomach is in knots, and it feels like the second I swallow a bite, I’ll just throw it back up. “Just not hungry, I guess.”

I don’t know if Wyatt can tell that something is wrong, that part of me does wish that I could take it back, while the rest of me wants to repeat it all over again, to let them kiss me again.

“I love hash browns,” Wyatt says unprompted, proving their point by shoveling the rest of the hash browns on their plate into their mouth. Then they start singing “I love hash browns, I love hash browns” in this country accent that almost makes it sound like they’re mocking themself.

“Maybe you should sing that at the wedding,” I suggest.

They smile at me. “I doubt your brother would appreciate it.”