My best friend's older brother

He was my best friend's older brother, which meant he existed in a category I had decided was permanently off-limits. Twenty-six, quiet, always leaning against the kitchen counter at parties like he'd rather be anywhere else. I was nineteen and very sure I was subtle about the way I watched him. I was not subtle.

The night it happened, it rained so hard the party emptied out early and I ended up stranded, and he offered me the couch with the flat, unbothered tone of a man who had already decided nothing was going to happen.

Nothing happened for two hours. We watched half a film and argued about it. Then he turned to say something and the sentence died in the air and he just looked at me — actually looked — and said, "You know you're not subtle, right?"

I said "I know," and he kissed me before I finished the word.

It was slow and then it was not slow. He was careful with me in a way that made it worse — checking in, asking, and I remember gripping the back of the couch and thinking, this is what it feels like when someone has wanted you for longer than they'll admit.

In the morning my best friend walked in on us making coffee in yesterday's clothes and just said, "Finally," and left. And that was that. It lasted four months. It wrecked me for about a year. I'd do it again.