Things You Said at 1 a.m.

Angela woke with a start and looked around her room.

Shadows moved across the wall, but she knew those shadows. They were the familiar dance of the trees in her yard and the fickle, gypsy wind.

And yet her heart pounded in her chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She gasped and sat back, hitting her head on the bed’s headboard. Rubbing the sting, she glanced over at the clock and saw it was 12:53 a.m. Who in the world would be pounding on her door that late? Who would wake her? Who would stop by at this time of night knowing she’d be alone?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She pulled back the covers slowly and tiptoed to her kitchen, sliding her cast-iron skillet out of the cabinet as quietly as she could. She’d be damned if she went down without a fight. Although, if she really thought about it, she doubted a criminal would knock first. But still.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Creeping to the door, she peered through the peephole, and then exhaled loudly as she saw the blond beard of a man she knew better than herself.

“You scared the crap out of me!” she admonished as she flipped the deadbolt and flung open the door.

“Sorry,” the man said, more out of routine than with feeling.

“What in the world were you thinking?” she continued, turning to walk back into the house. “I was asleep. If you wanted to come over, fine, but you have a key. Use it. Why the knocking? You woke me up, and I thought it was a criminal, and I’m all by myself. Creepy move, dude. Don’t ever do it again.”

Turning around, she opened her mouth to prompt him to promise, but swallowed the words when she saw he hadn’t moved from where he stood in the doorway.

“Paul? Are you okay?”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there.

She walked back over to him, but realized she still held the skillet.

He raised an eyebrow as she set it on the table in the foyer.

“Shut up,” she said to that eyebrow. “I told you I was scared.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, with a little more feeling.

“Paul, what’s wrong? Come inside.”

She pulled on his arms, and he let himself follow her inside and close the door behind them.

“Burnsy and I had a- had- a fight,” he said, his arm gesture tipping him toward the wall.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, flipping on the light and taking a closer look at him.

He shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness, but she still managed to see how glazed over they were. Add to that his slightly slurred speech, rumpled clothes and lack of balance and she all but had her answer.

What was weird about it, though, was that she’d never seen Paul drunk. Not really. Tipsy, sure. But rip-roaring drunk? Swaying on his feet drunk? Never. And she’d known him in college, too.

They’d met their freshman year in a bore-me-to-tears statistics class. He’d been “the” Paul Martin – local wonder boy – and she’d been the Texas girl – outsider and unfamiliar. But they’d sat next to each other by chance that first class, and he’d made her laugh out loud with some snarky comment she could no longer remember. They’d totally gotten in trouble, but it’d been worth it, because it was the start of friendship that meant everything to her.

Their connection was instant, and it hadn’t wavered, surviving different cities, different jobs and different girlfriends and boyfriends. They could go weeks without speaking and pick up right where they left off; and they could also talk every day for three weeks and never run out of things to say.

And while they’d taken a lot of ribbing about dating each other, it had never veered in that direction. They were friends. Best friends. Nothing more.

But things had been different lately. Angela had noticed it when Paul signed with San Jose.

She’d been living in Northern California for two years already when he’d joined the Sharks. She hadn’t thought anything of it – him signing with the team in her town – until her sister had commented, “I wish a man would move across the country for me.” Angela had argued that Paul had simply signed with the best possible team, but she’d started overthinking everything nevertheless.

He would open a door for her, and she’d wonder if he was just being polite or trying to impress her. He’d bring over takeout, and she’d wonder if he just wanted to hang out or if he wanted it to be a date. He’d pull her into a bear hug, and she’d wonder if he was just thinking about how much she loved a good hug or if he wanted to hold her.

It was exhausting.

Even worse? She found herself thinking of him in a new way. She began noticing the way his forearms flexed when he helped her rearrange her furniture. She found herself seeking out ways to touch him – a hug, a slap on the arm, a bad-reality-TV couch snuggle. She felt her heart rate pick up when he smiled at her.

So, to say things were already weird between them since he’d moved to San Jose was an understatement. Add to that that he was drunk and standing awkwardly in her house at 1 a.m., and it felt even weirder.

Taking pity on him, she turned out the light again.

“You and Brent had a fight?” she prompted.

“About you,” he responded.

“About me? Why did you fight about me?”

“He thinks I’m chicken.”

She stayed quiet – the weirdness nearly overwhelming as it grew.

“He thinks I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

“He thinks I should ‘stop wallowing in self pity, man up and make her yours.’ Direct quote.”

Silence.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“I think you’re drunk,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “I think I’m not having this conversation with you at 1 a.m. when you won’t even remember it in the morning.”

“But I can’t talk to you about this in the morning,” he said, suddenly serious, leaning toward her. “I haven’t been able to talk to you about it for a decade of mornings.”

“Paul,” she said as he shoved a hand in his hair and pulled.

“Angie.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

He tugged on his hair again, squeezing shut his eyes. When they opened again, he looked suspiciously sober.

“Fine,” he said, gesturing her toward the stairs. “But I think he might be right.”

-----------

When Angela woke the second time, the sunlight poured into her bedroom and the birds chirped outside her window. It was her favorite kind of morning, but she felt groggy and tired.

She hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after she’d made her escape back to her bedroom. She’d tossed and turned and thought about what Paul had said, what he’d admitted. Or what she thought he’d admitted. He’d been all but clear, though, right? She wasn’t misunderstanding his intent, right?
He’d shown up at her door to tell her he loved her. As more than a friend. Right?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Just a minute,” she called out, her voice hoarse, and then she scrambled out of bed, cringing as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She grabbed her brush and pulled her long hair into some semblance of order and brushed her teeth quickly before opening the door.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. The fakeness of her greeting made her want to start over.

“Good morning,” Paul replied, chuckling when he saw her face morph into a grimace. “I come in peace.”

She took the offered coffee gratefully, and then they stood there staring at each other.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly, blushing but holding her gaze. She had to admire that.

“Yes, I think we do.”

“Let’s sit out on the porch.”

She followed him down the stairs and back outside, both of them stutter-stepping a bit as they passed through the foyer, the night before flashing in their minds.

She hurried to the porch swing, leaving room beside her for Paul. But he leaned against the railing across from her and took a long sip of his coffee.

“About what I said last night,” Paul began.

“You said a lot last night.”

“I did. Early morning seems to be when I’m most free with words.”

“You were also pretty drunk. I think.”

“I may have had a few more than I normally allow myself.”

“A few more, huh?”

“Brent kept putting them down in front of me. I kept drinking them. He thought it would give me the liquid courage I needed. I let him think I needed it.”

“You didn’t need it?”

“My courage to tell you what I told you had nothing to do with alcohol.”

“You didn’t actually tell me anything, you know. There was just a lot of hypothetical ‘he said’ and ‘he thinks’ bullshit.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Angela brought the swing to a screeching halt. She really needed to oil the hinges.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since freshman year.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Lots of reasons. Mostly because it never seemed like the right time. Falling in love in college seemed restrictive, like one of us would have to give up something to be together. I didn’t want you to have to follow me around if I made it in the NHL. I wanted you to have the life you wanted.

“And then you had other boyfriends.”

“All of which you hated.”

“Naturally. But I had girlfriends, too.”

“All of which I hated.”

“Did you? I thought you liked Emily.”

“Emily was plenty nice. Didn’t mean I liked the two of you together.”

“Why not? Did you love me then?”

“I knew you could do better.”

“Can I? Because I know you’re better, but I haven’t heard you say anything in response to my confession that makes me think I have a good chance here.”

“Did you move to San Jose for me?”

“Of course. Did you really think otherwise?”

“I thought they made you the best offer!”

“They made me a good offer, not the best. I wanted to be near you, see if maybe it was the right time.”

“And you’ve decided it is.”

“It is. We have nothing standing in our way. I’ll play in San Jose as long as they’ll let me, and then I’ll be done. I’ll retire. And we can live wherever you want. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be together now. Unless, of course, you want to stay friends and only friends.”

“For the record, it’s bullshit that you kept this to yourself for so long, that you decided for me that I wouldn’t follow you for your NHL career. I should have a say.”

“And would you have followed me?”

“I don’t know! You never let me figure it out for myself.”

“Fine. I apologize for the past decade of keeping this to myself. I should have involved you, should have been honest. But we can’t change that. I told you I love you. This morning. Ten minutes ago. And you haven’t responded.”

“You know damn well that I love you, Paul.”

“Yes, as a friend, I do know that. But are you in love with me? Or could you be? What are my chances?”

“They do always say you should marry your best friend.”

“They do, and I agree. We should get married tomorrow. But are you in love with me?”

“And our kids would be ridiculously nerdy and cute.”

“Absolutely. Pale, freckled, dorky and fun kids.”

“At least four of them.”

“Four it is. But is their mother in love with their father?”

Standing, Angela moved to stand between Paul’s legs, setting their coffee mugs to the side.

Paul kept his hands on the railing, waited for her to make a move.

“Yes,” she said, framing his jaw and neck with her hands. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Then she kissed him, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the biggest, tightest, best bear hug she’d ever gotten.

It was perfection.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked when he broke the kiss to nibble down her neck.

“What?” he murmured against her skin.

“I’m going to have to start waking you up at 1 a.m. to get some honest answers. What else have you been keeping from me?”

Paul laughed and kissed her hard on the mouth.

“As long as you’re waking me up from beside me in our bed, I don’t really care what you do. I’ll answer anything.”

“Deal.”

“So are we really getting married tomorrow?” he asked, grinning as her jaw dropped.

“We have to wait at least until our parents can get here!”

He laughed again, pulling her into a hug.

“Oh, and for the record, I said ‘at least’ four kids, not four kids. I may want more.”

And then it was her turn to laugh as she walked back into the house and left him sitting on the porch, eyes wide and mouth open.

“We may have to have a 1 a.m. conversation about that!”

<b>The End </b>