Gordon’s POV
The cracks appear slowly at first. Then all at once.
Simon cancels our Tuesday night—family emergency, he texts, with a string of apologetic emojis that do nothing to soften the disappointment.
His parents are fighting behind closed doors again—something about a creditor call that went badly, about numbers that don't add up no matter how many times they recalculate.
The gym is bleeding money faster than they can patch the wounds, and Simon is caught in the middle, trying to hold together a business that's been in his family for three generations.
I tell him I understand. I do understand—family comes first, especially family in crisis. I'm not going to be the selfish boyfriend who demands attention when the people Simon loves are drowning.
But Thursday gets canceled too. And Saturday. And suddenly it's been nine days since I've seen him for more than a passing moment at the gym, and every text feels like it's coming from someone who's slowly pulling away.
Miss you, I type at 2 AM, staring at my ceiling.
Miss you too, he responds an hour later. Soon. I promise.
Soon never comes.
I see them through the restaurant window on a Wednesday evening.
I'm walking home from the pharmacy, bag of sleep aids clutched in my hand because insomnia has become my nightly companion, when I glance through the glass front of that Italian place on Main Street.
The one with the white tablecloths and the candles and the prices I've never been able to justify.
Simon is sitting at a corner table. Across from him, backlit by candlelight, Naomi Chen looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread.
Her hand rests on his arm—casual, possessive, the touch of someone who's done this a thousand times before. Simon's smile is strained, doesn't reach his eyes, but it's present. He's leaning toward her, listening.
He didn't tell me about this dinner. He said he was helping his parents with paperwork tonight.
I stand on the sidewalk for longer than I should, watching them through the glass like some pathetic stalker in a bad movie. A couple brushes past me, shooting annoyed looks at the man blocking the sidewalk. I barely notice.
I'm too busy cataloging details—the way Naomi's laugh makes Simon's shoulders relax, the way she refills his wine glass without asking, the way they look together. Natural, easy, like a photograph from a life that makes sense.
I go home, but I don't sleep and don't text him. Instead, I corner him at the gym the next morning.
"So." I keep my voice level, arranging my face into something that hopefully looks like mild curiosity rather than the jealous spiral I've been drowning in for twelve hours. "How was the paperwork last night? Get everything sorted with your parents?"
Simon freezes mid-rep. The weights clang as he sets them down too fast, and I watch guilt flicker across his features before he can suppress it.
"Gordon, I can explain."
"I saw you." I sound more sharper than was intended. "At Vincenzo's with Naomi. You told me you were doing paperwork."
"I was going to do paperwork." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "But then Naomi called, said her father had some questions about the gym's financials, wanted to discuss options over dinner. I didn't plan it—it just happened."
"Things don't just happen, Simon. You made a choice. And you chose to lie to me about it."
"I didn't lie. I just... didn't tell you the whole truth. Because I knew you'd react exactly like this—jealous and suspicious and convinced I'm about to run back to my ex."
"Am I wrong to be suspicious? You've canceled every date we've had for the past two weeks. You barely respond to my texts."
I step closer, lowering my voice so the other gym members can't hear.
"And now I find out you're having candlelit dinners with the woman who wants to buy your family's business and apparently your loyalty along with it."
"It's not like that." Simon's jaw tightens. "Her father is offering to invest. Real money, Gordon, the kind that could save the gym, save my parents' retirement, save everything my family has worked for. Am I supposed to turn that down because you're uncomfortable with who's making the offer?"
"I'm not uncomfortable with the offer. I'm uncomfortable with the lying. I'm uncomfortable with watching you smile at her through a restaurant window while I'm walking home alone because you told me you were busy."
"I smiled at her because she was being nice, and because I'm trying to keep her father interested in helping us. That's it. There's nothing romantic happening—I swear to you, Gordon, I have not touched her, I have not kissed her, I have not done anything that crosses a line."
"And her hand on your arm? That's just business too?"
"She's a tactile person. She touches everyone like that—it doesn't mean anything."
He reaches for me, and I step back before he can make contact. Hurt flashes across his face.
"Gordon, please. You have to trust me. I'm not going back to Naomi. What we have—it's real. It's the most real thing in my life right now. I'm just trying to save my family's business, and she happens to be the only person offering help."
I want to believe him. I want to believe that the dinners are just business, that the smiles are just performance, that the easy rapport I witnessed through that window means nothing compared to what we share in secret.
But I've watched Simon's face when Naomi laughs at his jokes. I've seen the way his shoulders relax around her, the way he doesn't have to explain himself or justify his existence. She offers something I can't—a solution that doesn't require him to rebuild his entire identity.
A future that makes sense to his parents, his friends, the world that's always told him who he's supposed to be.
Naomi is the easy answer. I'm the complicated truth.
"Just tell me next time." My voice comes out tired, defeated. "Don't lie, don't make excuses. If you're having dinner with your ex-girlfriend, I'd rather know about it than find out by accident."
"I will." He finally manages to catch my hand, squeezes it once before letting go. "I'm sorry, Gordon, I should have told you. I was just trying to keep everything separate—the business stuff, the family stuff, you. I didn't want to drag you into the mess."
"I'd rather be dragged into the mess than shut out of it."
He nods, promises to do better, kisses me quickly when no one's looking, and goes back to his workout like the conversation is closed.
It doesn't feel closed—It feels like a wound that's been bandaged but not cleaned.
***
The real bomb drops three days later, at a family dinner I couldn't avoid.
Dad insisted on a Sunday meal—real food, real conversation, quality time with both his children. Lily came under protest, her silence at the table somehow louder than any words.
I push pasta around my plate and try not to think about Simon, about Naomi, about the slow-motion disaster I can feel building beneath my feet.
Then Dad mentions it—casually, like it's nothing, like he's just making conversation.
"Oh, I ran into Mrs. Hale at the grocery store yesterday. She was in such a good mood—said Simon's been looking so happy lately. Apparently he's reconnected with his ex-girlfriend, and the whole family is just thrilled about it."
He beams at both of us, oblivious to the grenade he's just detonated. "Isn't that nice? I always liked that girl. Naomi, I think her name was. Very polished."
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. Simon's been looking happy, reconnected with his ex-girlfriend, the whole family is thrilled.
That's not what he told me. That's not what any of this was supposed to be.
I look up, numb, and Lily's eyes are already locked onto my face.
Her expression shifts in slow motion—guilt first, raw and unmistakable, like someone caught in a crime they thought they'd gotten away with.
Then something like grim satisfaction, the look of someone watching a plan unfold exactly as designed. And then, finally, horror. A horror that looks almost like regret, like she's only now realizing what she's done.
She knows something.
I don't know what, but the weight of her gaze feels like a confession. Like she's been carrying a secret that's about to detonate, and she's watching the fuse burn down with a mixture of triumph and terror.
"Gordon?" Dad's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine." The words come out automatic, meaningless. "Just tired."
Across the table, Lily looks away first.
But not before I see it—the guilt she can't quite hide, and the knowledge that whatever's happening with Simon and Naomi, my sister has played a part in it.
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