It wasn’t like I’d been surprised that some girl would come up to him and he’d be kissing her, his hands on her, and probably promising to hook up with her later. It’d been a wake up call for me.

A hard one that had hurt.

But I wasn’t going to be the girl that he had on the side and everyone knew it but me. I’d seen that exact scenario happen with too many of my girlfriends, and as charming as Chandler was, I wasn’t going to fall into his trap.

I hadn’t seen him since Thursday morning, and was having mixed feelings about my friendship with him. Then, seeing him at the bar, it’d made me happy. For a few hours anyway.

For the next week or so after Becca’s birthday party, I tried. I really tried to be comfortable with and around Chandler. But the reality was it just confused me when we went out about town, or visited sites or just hung out watching a telenovela with Maria. We’d even met her new boyfriend and as a result, she was gone most evenings and even weekends. That left a lot of downtime with Chandler and me at the apartment. Alone.

He didn’t go out a lot either, and to his credit, he didn’t bring girls home anymore. He’d gently asked me a couple times why I’d bailed on him that night, and I’d made up some stupid reason that he’d finally accepted without question. He was also honoring my dumb pact and I was wishing he wouldn’t, which was even dumber.

The thing was that I really enjoyed spending my time with him and he genuinely seemed to reciprocate. We were actually friends. Even Becca had noted a change in Chandler that she didn’t understand and that we spent a lot of time together.

We weren’t at that part of divulging all our deep, dark secrets but our conversations were genuine. He talked about his basketball, telling me all kinds of funny stories about his teammates and friends back in Chapel Hill. He bounced off his thoughts about what he might do after he graduated a year from now, if he’d try and work his way into the NBA or just play for one of the European teams.

I talked about my family, my studies and my own aspirations to go into marketing and PR, but I avoided telling him about my depression. And he avoided talking about his family. But we were learning little bits about each other that made it clear we had a lot of little things in common. It was just the big things that we couldn’t talk about. The things that defined us, at least, in parts. To anyone else, we acted like a couple. Minus the sex.

When Maria had noted one night, just to me, that she thought Chandler and I made a wonderful couple, it hit me. Right to my heart.

I couldn’t keep doing this: being friends with Chandler.

And it just got worse.

Chandler made me feel special with his smiles and laughter, and our conversations.

I went for cool neutrality and civility.

I had to take Ambien every night just not to have dreams about him. I actually looked forward to being numbed by my meds during the day.

I started to spend less and less time with him. At some point, I could tell I wasn’t faking it that well when I was around him since I’d find him watching me too closely or asking me if I was ‘okay.’ Whenever I said I was fine, which was every time with a bright smile and quick answer, he’d get quiet. Real quiet. What made it worse was that he tried to cheer me up. I wondered where asshole Chandler had gone, it was weird.

But even in my numbed state, I knew we were impossible.

We wanted opposite things. Not to mention his likely rejection if he found out about my depression. It was patently obvious that the playboy in him would never go away because that’s how he wanted things. Chandler had already decided his ways and I could tell from the way he’d stated things that no one and nothing was going to change his mind. I could easily like him even more because despite everything, he was a good guy and I’d never felt so comfortable talking about stuff to him. He listened, and he had answers and a response—some I didn’t like—but he stood by them. I could respect his decisions. I didn’t have a choice other than to not let him hurt me.

By mid-May, I started to avoid Chandler all together. He let me but not without a fight, at first.

In hindsight, I was silly to think I’d be able to friend zone him. But it was equally silly to believe I could truly have a man like him all to myself. I knew I had to sever ties before I got more attached even as I knew it might be too late.

Sure, Chandler was sexy as all hell. Quite possibly the sexiest man I’d ever met and he would probably try to wear me down just for the game of it. I thought, perhaps, getting to know him would lead me to discover the human flaws about him, but in the end, they only drew me in closer.

Becca’s birthday night was the pinnacle of us trying to get closer to one another.

After another week, he finally got the point. We both seemed to avoid each other in Doña Maria’s apartment as much as we could. I’d wake up early and be in bed early; Chandler would wake up late and stay out late. The encounters we did have were during the family dinners where Doña Maria would insist on us both attending. Which we did, for her sake.

Chandler was the same attractive man, but he didn’t have the same flame in his eye as he did before I finally shut him down.

I truly felt I was just being realistic. Just because I thought I had a little connection with Chandler didn’t necessarily make it so. After Scott and what I’d had to deal with, I just needed time to myself and think shit through since it was obvious Chandler wasn’t going to change his colors and I wasn’t egotistical enough to think I could. We are who we are and I wasn’t going to set myself up for any heartache when I could avoid it. I wished I had with Scott. Live and learn, right?

Through the rest of May, we barely spoke. With Chandler and I barely on speaking terms, my mood had nose-dived and even Dr. Han had started showing concern during our Skype sessions. I was glad that I was an adult and she couldn’t tell my parents without my permission. I wouldn’t hear the end of it. I was back on Ambien again to help me sleep and my meds kept me nicely calm and wonderfully numb. I put my nose in my books and finally started to pick up some more Spanish.

I also spent as much time out of the apartment as possible, hanging out with Becca and making new friends at the university and from our program. My Spanish had really flourished and even Doña Maria was impressed when we conversed. I’d also stopped going to bars, not just because of my meds. The luster of liquor and that scene was gone. Becca, when she was going out with Le Ral, was always bugging me to go out with them but I hated being the third wheel and just watching them make out and be all lovey-dovey depressed me. Plus, Le Ral would always talk about basketball this and that, and this game they played against that university and so on—and it always included some sort of story about Chandler. Apparently, he was pretty damn good but I’d never gone to see him play. With his moves off the court, I had no doubt he was doubly savvy on it.

There were several field trips that were part of the program and I traveled as much as I could since I had no clue if I’d ever come back to Spain once this program ended. I knew if I did, I’d just have Chandler’s ghost always there to remind me of the one thing I didn’t get to do. I didn’t travel outside of Spain too much, but there was plenty of time in the future.

My parents and brother were loving all the pictures I was posting on my weekly social media accounts and in my emails. Not once did they ask how I was handling my depression so I guess I was really faking it well when we talked. I didn’t feel depressed, not like times before, which was ironic since I knew my mood was at an all time low. Admittedly, my meds helped me focus on school and made it a little easier to stop thinking so much about Chandler. What I was feeling…was sad. Not depressed sad, just wishing things could be different.

And I finally went on that date with Javier, and while I didn’t find myself attracted to him, Chandler was right: he was very happy to help out a brown-eyed American girl with her Spanish. I wasn’t sure what Chandler was up to, but while the late night visits from ladies hadn’t continued, he was back to his night owl ways.

In no time at all, it was June. In two weeks, I’d be back in Chicago and Chandler back in North Carolina for summer training camp.

It was the first Sunday in June, and I woke up early for some reason. I headed to the kitchen to start some coffee.

When I stumbled in, I smelled the fresh aroma of the coffee already brewing and heard the percolation of Doña Maria’s coffee maker. I expected to see Maria but that wasn’t the case. What I did see, however, was something out of a Tumblr page devoted to sexy morning wakeups.

Chandler stood with his back to me, facing the window so that his body was lit up by the early morning sun. He wore dark grey sweatpants with no shirt, the muscles of his olive skinned back and neck on full display. His hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to the side, the light glinted off his strong jaw. I’d never noticed how broad his shoulders were—okay, that was a lie, I’d noticed—but I had to take the time to admire his perfect body as I moved my eyes up his back. The only movement he made was occasionally breathing, which seemed to tense his back muscles.

I said nothing, watching him like a creep, again, for a full thirty seconds until the coffee beeped. Right before he turned around, I spoke, so he hopefully wouldn’t realize the extent of my gawking.

“Good morning,” I said in an even tone.

He squinted at me without smiling. “Morning,” he answered, returning my businesslike tone. He reached for his cup, drew another from the cupboard and handed it to me. As he did, his eyes examined me, staring at my hand and running up my arm and my chest before finally landing on my eyes. Something was different about him today, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what that was.

“You’re up early,” I added as I filled my cup. I motioned for Chandler to hold his cup closer and I filled his as well.

“Yep,” he answered curtly, giving me nothing to work with.

“So…why are you up early?”

“I leave today.”

A surge of anxiety went through me unexpectedly.

“Where are you going?” I asked, a dumb question that I probably knew the answer to.

“Going back to college. Summer league for senior year starts in Chapel Hill for me next week.” He nodded toward his bags, which were all ready to go in the living room already.

Of course I’d known Chandler would leave sometime. And I’d been consciously avoiding him for weeks. So why did I feel suddenly awful, desperate even, now that him leaving was a reality?

“You know,” I said. “I don’t think I even friended you on Facebook.”

Leaning on the kitchen counter to half sit, he shrugged. “Not on it. Coach says it’s a good way to stay out of trouble.”

“Instagram?”

“Nope. I don’t do social media.”

“Hmm. Well, how are we going to stay in touch?”

“Why would we stay in touch?”

That one stung. I didn’t know how to react, so I took another sip of coffee and let the hot liquid burn my throat.

“Because we’re friends.”

“You’ve been avoiding me for a month and now we’re friends again?”

“What about the friend pact?”

He laughed, so coldly that it made my stomach lurch. His gaze cut to me, then right through me. “Friends…for a little while, Squirt,” he said, softly.

Squirt. I was actually going to miss him saying that. On instinct, I went on the defense. “And me avoiding you?” I scoffed. “Please. You’ve been avoiding me.”

His eyes seared through me as he took a sip of his coffee. “Fine. I admit I’ve been avoiding you somewhat. I know when I’m not wanted and I’m not into getting shot down every time we’re together,” he said, his voice flat. “But don’t act like you’re an innocent victim in all this. If you wanted to hang out you could have knocked on my door.”

I gripped the mug with both hands, letting the warmth spread through me. The hot mug was a very different sensation than how ice-cold Chandler was being right now. But I deserved it. He was right. The strain between us was all on me. I had to fight the tears back. Show no weakness, prove that I was indifferent because it was the right thing to do.

“So your flight is this morning?” I asked, opting to change the subject back to logistics.

“Flight leaves at ten. In an hour, Maria is taking me out to an early breakfast and then driving me to the airport.”

“I see,” I said. The awkward pause sank in. I thought about heading back to my room, or to the couch. But the truth was as awkward as things seemed, there was a certain magnetism that still pulled me to him. I wondered if he felt the same thing. I realized, it didn’t matter. He was leaving. This was over.

After a few moments had passed, Chandler chuckled lightly and shook his head. “You’re so fucking confusing, you know that?”

I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

He took a step toward me so that he was barely an arm’s length away. I could feel the heat emanating from his body. He spoke in a soft, gravelly tone. “You masturbate to me while standing in my doorway. You literally drop your panties and run. We make a connection—a real connection. I start to feel like I know you better than anyone I’ve ever met—and you run away. You’re standing here talking to me this morning, and you still won’t admit to yourself what your body already knows.”

My hands around the mug got tighter, so much so that the heat from it was almost burning me. “And what would my body already know?” I whispered.

His eyes dragged down my face and landed shamelessly on my breasts. “Your nipples are hard as can be right now. Seems to happen a lot around me.”

A shiver ran over my body. I actually looked down to make sure, and he was one hundred percent right. I was going to say, “It’s cold,” and make up some kind of excuse for it, but I knew that would be futile. There was no point in denying that looking at Chandler shirtless made my body warm. Plus, Barcelona in early June, was hot as hell. I just settled on the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”

Chandler took another step toward me and put his coffee down on the counter behind me. He wasn’t yet touching me, but he was alarmingly close. He took the coffee out of my hand. He took a sip of it, and smiled. “Mmm. Tastes like Amy lips.” He set the coffee down on the counter, and pressed his hips into me. My heart beat like crazy, my ass pressed up against the kitchen drawers. Chandler grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head so that I had to look up at him. “I want to taste every inch of you, Amy, not just your lips.”

“Oh God, Chandler,” I muttered. My hips—almost involuntarily, as if they had a mind of their own—began to move in slow circles rubbing against him through his sweatpants. Every time I applied pressure I could feel his erection get a notch harder against my stomach. “Is this what you want?” I asked, through hazy eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me until I opened my lips to him. I made myself a target. He put his hand on the back of my head and brought his mouth to mine. We pressed our lips together for what was probably minutes but seemed like hours, tasting the coffee of each others’ tongues.

“Fuck, Amy, I want you so bad,” he said, between breaths. “I want to lift you up onto this countertop and fuck you right now,” he whispered. “I could never be just friends with you.”

I closed my eyes, briefly, then stared at the rose tattoo on his chest. Chandler leaned away for a moment, his hands still on my hips.

“Chandler, I—”

We were interrupted by a sweet, sing-song Spanish voice. Chandler backed away from me as Maria entered the kitchen, eying us. “Buenos días,” Doña Maria said, all chirpy. “¿Qué están haciendo?”

Que están haciendo. I’d learned that somewhere along the line, and I knew what she was saying.

“We’re not doing anything, Doña Maria,” I said with a forced smile. “Coffee?”

“Sí, claro,” she said, and Chandler poured her a cup.

Chandler and I exchanged a look that I found myself unable to interpret. God, I wanted him so bad. Yeah, I might even have a one-night stand with him, if that was my only option. But a voice in me kept saying to hold out. For what, exactly, I couldn’t be sure.

Our goodbye after that was surprisingly anticlimactic. I kept thinking we would have a few more minutes together, alone, without Doña Maria watching us. But the truth was, she watched us like a hawk—the woman knew something was up.

After consciously ignoring him for some time, I wished we had more time—one more night together even.

But an hour later, I watched his sexy ass walk out of the door, and I didn’t have his Facebook, his Instagram, or his phone number.

I figured I’d never see him again.