The sound of a foot scraping against the brick tile of the kitchen floor pulled him from his thoughts. He slammed the faucet closed, probably a little too hard, and opened the dishwasher. He didn't need to look to know it was Cindy. Hell, it wasn't like it could be anyone else. But even if his place had been crowded with a dozen guests, he'd still know it was her. He could sense her, could feel her. Like his body was some kind of whacked-out compass that only pointed to her.

Yeah. Great. Just what he fucking needed.

She moved beside him, scraping off her own leftovers without looking at him. Ethan took another deep breath and stepped away, trying to be nonchalant about it, trying not to look like he was afraid to be near her right now.

"You didn't eat much."

"Neither did you." Her gaze flicked to his then darted away as she turned on the faucet. She turned it off right away and placed the plate in the sink, her sigh heavy in the silence surrounding them.

"Ethan, I—I think we need to talk."

Dread raced over him, falling over his shoulders with a heaviness that should have brought him to his knees. He swallowed and tried to smile then looked away. "Was my cooking that bad?"

"No. No, it's not about—"

"How about some dessert?" He moved past her, his hand closing around the handle of the freezer door so hard, he was surprised it didn't snap off. "There's some ice cream in here. And I bought some tiramisu from that Italian bakery at the Towne Center."

"Ethan, please. Stop." Her words were soft, almost pleading. He felt her hand brush against his arm, closed his eyes when she quickly moved it and stepped away. He took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. Then took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

Cindy was leaning against the counter, her arms braced behind her as she stared at the floor. Ethan crossed his arms in front of him, his fingers biting into the muscles of his biceps, and leaned against the refrigerator. The cold of the stainless steel seeped through his long-sleeve Henley. Good; he needed the cold, needed something to focus on, something to distract him from the overwhelming certainty that he had completely fucked up.

And that there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"I shouldn't have asked about this weekend. I'm sorry."

Her gaze slid to his, her eyes wide, the green filled with sadness. Ethan's heart slammed into his chest and his mind urged him to run away. He didn't want to hear whatever she was going to say, couldn't hear it if he wasn't here. But his feet didn't move; nothing moved, except for the steady thundering of his heart.

"It's not about this weekend. It's…it's about last week. What you said."

And fuck. There it was. He clenched his jaw, felt his teeth grind together with the force. He breathed in deep, through his nose, then exhaled. Forced his jaw to relax, forced himself to act like whatever she was about to say wasn't a big deal.

She kept watching him, the sadness never leaving her eyes. Was she expecting him to say something? Expecting him to make some kind of joke about it, to brush it off? If she was, she'd be waiting a long time. There were a lot of things he would do for her, but lie about how he felt wasn't one of them.

No matter how much it might hurt him in the end.

So he just stood there, his arms crossed in front of him, not moving. Not saying a word. Just…waiting.

Cindy finally looked away, but not before he saw the glimmer of moisture in her eyes. "Ethan, I—I don't know what to say."

"Then why say anything?"

"Because I have to. I can't…I'm not ready for anything but friendship. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I can't let you think—" Her voice broke and she looked away, the sound of her nervous swallow loud in the still room. "This…this thing, whatever it was that was happening between us—I can't let it go on. It's not fair to you, not when I may never be myself again. I…I told you before that I felt broken. And I can't do that to you, it's not fair—"

"Fair?" The word came out louder than he intended. Too loud, a hoarse boom in the stillness. Cindy jumped and looked over at him, her eyes wide. "Fair? You're doing this because you want to be fair to me. Because you're worried about me."

Her mouth opened and closed. A frown creased her face and she looked away. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other then finally glanced at him from the corner of her eye. And then, slowly, she nodded. "Y-yes. I don't want—"

"Yeah, I get that. All noble and selfless and shit. Perfect. Just fucking perfect."

"It's not like that!"

"Isn't it? Did you bother to ask what I thought? I mean, what the fuck, Cindy. You think I just tossed the words out at random because the mood struck me? Do you really think I haven't thought about what you went through?"

"No, I don't. I don't think you realize—"

"Then you're wrong. I do realize." He pushed away from the refrigerator and moved toward her, each step deliberate. He didn't stop until he was in front of her, until their bodies were separated by nothing more than a few inches of electrified air. He captured her gaze with his own, held it with a strength of will he hadn't realized he possessed.

"You were right about one thing: we are friends. I did some research on MDD, I understand what you were going through—"

"You can't, it's not the same—"

"And I know exactly what might happen. I know you might never have another episode. I know you could slip back into the depression tomorrow. I know it can last for a few weeks or months or even years at a time. I know that. And guess what? It doesn't change a thing about how I feel. Not one. Damn. Thing."

"Ethan, I—I can't. I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not fair—"

"Stop. Just…stop." He took a step back, needing to distance himself, needing to gain control of the storm of emotions battering him. "You don't want the same thing? Fine. You want to stay friends or tell me to get lost? That's fine, too. But don't tell me it's because it's not fair to me. At least give me that much."

"You don't understand—"

"Yeah, I think I do." Ethan ran a hand over his face, trying to cover his sigh, trying to hide the disappointment in his eyes. He started to turn around, suddenly needing more distance. But Cindy grabbed him, her hand wrapping around his arm and holding him in place. Her eyes shone bright with unshed tears, fear and worry and anger mixing in their depths.

"You don't. You don't understand anything. And I'm giving you more than you know! Why can't you see that?"

"See what, Cindy? Tell me. Make me understand."

"My father killed himself. Because he couldn't cope. Because of whatever demons he had locked inside him. And I saw what that did to my mother, how a piece of her died that night. And I see how a little bit more of her dies each day when she looks at me, like she's expecting me to do the same thing." She dropped his arm and stepped back, her gaze no longer meeting his.

He took a step toward her, wanting to pull her into his arms, to comfort her. To reassure her. But she shook her head and he stayed where he was.

"I remember when he—when he killed himself. I know what it did to me. How it felt. The sorrow and the anger and the confusion and the fear. The betrayal. And…and the loss. And I can't—I won't—put anyone I know through that. I won't put anyone I love through that. I can't."

Ethan's heart slammed into his chest at the words. Was she saying—? No, he was reading into it. He wanted to move, to hold her in his arms and not let her go. To tell her it didn't matter, that none of that changed how he felt. That he'd be there for her, no matter what. But he couldn't move, could barely breathe through the emotion clogging his throat from her words—all of them. He watched, helpless, as tears fell from her eyes, watched as she brushed them away. And he still couldn't move, couldn't speak. Couldn't find the right words to say, didn't know how to make it better.

She turned around, her hand trembling as she ripped a paper towel from the wooden holder. Her shoulders heaved with a heavy breath then she leaned over the sink and turned on the faucet, splashed water on her face and blotted it dry.

"I—you should probably take me home. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Did your mother love him?"

She spun around, a frown on her face. "What?"

"Your mother. Did she love your father?"

"Yes, of course. That's why she was devastated by what happened."

"But she knew, didn't she? I mean before. She knew he was sick."

"Yes but—"

"But she stayed with him anyway, didn't she? Because she loved him."

"Ethan, it's not the same."

"You're right, it's not. You told me he was bi-polar. That's not the same thing. I looked it up."

"It's not that simple. And that doesn't mean—"

"But your mother still loved him. Had a family with him. She didn't turn her back on him, wasn't afraid to take a chance. Even though she knew." He stepped closer, held her gaze with his. "And you loved him, too. That didn't stop, did it? Even after—after he killed himself."

Tears sprung to her eyes again, hovered on her lower lashes. She blinked, but not before a single tear tracked down her cheek. She didn't try to brush it away, didn't even move except to narrow her eyes at him. "That's not fair, Ethan. You know it's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is thinking that people can just cut off how they feel because of what might happen. What's not fair is expecting people to stop caring about you because you're not perfect." He paused, wondering if he was going too far, wondering if he was pushing when he had no business pushing.

Wondering if he was destroying a friendship with his words.

"You want to stay just friends? Fine. We're friends. But do you think that means I'll stop caring? That Maggie and Dillon will just stop caring? It doesn't work that way. That's what friends do, Cindy. They care. And they feel. Are you just going to shut yourself off from everybody?"

Her frown deepened as she shook her head. "It's not—you're twisting my words. That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it? Because you can't have it both ways. You can't care about someone and expect them not to care back. Not if they're truly your friend. So maybe you want to think about that for a little bit."

He didn't wait for her reaction, didn’t give her time to respond. He simply turned around and headed back into the living room, pausing by the end table. He hesitated then muttered a curse before opening the drawer and pulling out a thin envelope. He removed one ticket from it and shoved the envelope back into the drawer. Was he being a fool? Probably.

Cindy stepped past him, her hand reaching for her coat. He watched as she shrugged into it, watched as she zipped it with trembling fingers. Color stained her cheeks and her eyes were rimmed in red. She finished zipping the coat then looked over at him, a fake smile pasted on her face.

"Ready whenever you are."

"Yeah, sure." He closed the distance separating them then shoved the ticket into her hand as he reached for his own jacket.

"What's this?"

"An airline ticket for this weekend."

"Ethan, I can't—"

"Hey, we're just friends, right? I already paid for it, you might as well go."

"I don't think—"

"It's just for a few nights. You don't have to stay in the same room. Hell, you probably won't even see me. I'll probably be fishing with the guys. Or something. You can just hang out with Maggie and take in some sun on the beach."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You already told me how much you love it down there. Go. Relax. Enjoy it." He took the ticket from her hand and gently placed it in the pocket of her coat. Then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, wondering if the smile on his face looked as sad as it felt.

"It's just a fun weekend with friends, Cindy. That's all."

"Yeah." She nodded and dropped her gaze. "Okay, sure. Um, friends."

Ethan stepped back and held the door open for her, following her out into the dark, frigid night.

Yeah. Friends. Maybe they'd both believe that one day.