52. Out of Control

52

OUT OF CONTROL

Asher

She can’t be right.

Can she?

No. There’s no way. I glance at the computer, at all the information in front of me. Info I didn’t have when I was a teenager. Info I couldn’t access when I was driving my dad to the hospital. This isn’t about control—it’s about helping. These articles, these studies, these plans—they’re good. They’re useful.

This is what I do. I drove my dad to the hospital without a license. Got him there in time. Saved his life, they said. With Maeve, I helped with her neck pain. Surely, I can help with her wrists.

Right?

In the dark, before dawn, it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like helping. She’s wrong. I don’t need to control everything.

But how did this conversation go so off the rails? I was supposed to slip downstairs, find some info to make sure she’s safe, cook her breakfast, and ask her to stay. For real. Tell her I’m madly, truly, deeply in love with her.

But instead? She finds me here—a strung-out mess before the sun even rises. This isn’t her falling for me. This is how friends stage an intervention.

I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m not trying to control everything,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. If I were trying to control things, I would’ve done a better job than this.

I look up, and she’s nodding, but it’s like she’s accepting my answer rather than believing it. “Okay. Maybe you’re not ready yet.”

Fuck ready.

This is not how things were supposed to go. I push away from the counter, pacing, my hand scrubbing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, Maeve,” I say, but I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.

What was I thinking, letting her see these habits? Why wasn’t I more careful? I knew this might happen when we lived together. I knew she might see the real me. And now she has—and she’s trying to help me instead of falling for me. How could anyone fall for a guy…who needs help?

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “I’m supposed to help you. That’s what I do. I help people. I fix things.”

I don’t need to be fixed. That’s not how my world works.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she says softly. “You don’t have to be amazing every second. You’re allowed to be human, Asher.” Her words are careful, like she’s trying to ease me into something. “I just want you to see what it’s doing to you. ”

What it’s doing is breaking my heart. Because there’s no way these words are coming from a woman who’s falling in love with me. My chest tightens. I need to get a grip. I need to pull myself together before I can even think about saying anything to her. “I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”

She’s quiet for several seconds, clearly thinking. “It’s six in the morning,” she says, her voice steady. “I know you need some space. Why don’t I take the dog for a long walk? I can go back to my apartment, too, if you need that. I can stay with Leighton. The couch spring doesn’t scare me.”

Sweat beads on the back of my neck and my pulse spikes. “Okay,” I say distantly, taking the out she’s offering for now.

She nods, spinning around and heading upstairs, probably to get ready to walk the dog.

I shove both hands into my hair, pressing my palms hard against my scalp. She’ll be ready in five minutes. Five minutes to figure out how to fix this mess so she doesn’t leave. Maybe I can make her eggs the way she likes, brew her a chai latte, drive her to work. Then google how to pull this back from the brink. There has to be something—someone who knows what to say or do to stop her from walking out of my life before I go on the road.

I can get this…under control.

I freeze mid-thought. Control. There it is again. I want to control her reaction to my control problem.

The realization slams into me, harder than any hit I’ve taken on the ice. I drop my face into my hands, frustration brewing inside me as she comes back downstairs. And when I look up, she’s already heading for the door, about to walk away. I can’t be both a hot mess and a jerk. I can’t let her actually take me up on the offer for space—it’s not fair to her.

This is uncharted territory, but I take a deep breath and step into it.

“You don’t need to go,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d intended. “Because you’re right. I’m trying to control everything—even us.” I look away, the admission burning through my whole body, hurting my lungs, my bones, my breath. But I have to say it. “I’ve been pushing this into romantic territory, and I haven’t been listening to you. That’s not how best friends treat each other. And I’m sorry for that.” I’m shaking my head, amazed at the absolute mess I’ve made of…everything. This is like blowing every play in a game. Another breath. She watches patiently, waiting. “Maeve…I need to figure out what the hell is going on in my head. So, maybe I should leave instead.”

Her eyes widen. Her lips part. But after a few seconds, she says, “This is your place though.”

I glance around, flapping my arms in a half-hearted gesture at the kitchen. It’s never just been mine. For years I’ve been putting up artwork that reminds me of her. I’ve been learning how to make the drinks she likes. I’ve been making space for her before I even realized how I felt. But especially lately. “This place that I designed to make you stay. Hung your art. Encouraged you to move everything in here for appearances. Then, encouraged you to sublease your place. I even built you a studio so you’d like it better.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of every decision I’ve made in the name of helping, of controlling . “I wasn’t giving you a choice. I was controlling everything.”

“Asher, I wanted all that too. All that was lovely. The studio is amazing. There’s nothing wrong with that .” Her voice cracks, like something inside her is breaking, and the sound guts me.

Maybe there was nothing wrong with that , but it sure as shit feels like there’s something wrong with me.

I remember what she said nearly two months ago, the day she agreed to stay until the end of the season. I don’t want to lose our friendship.

I remember, too, when she said Sex is complicated.

And then I replay what she said just a few minutes ago: You’re my best friend.

And I didn’t listen.

I figured if I loved her hard enough, if I cooked for her, made the house feel like a home, created a space for her art, she’d love me back. If I showered her in the support she deserves, in praise and words, she’d fall just as hard.

But you can’t love someone into loving you back.

I’ve made promises, though—to her brother, to myself—to protect her. And maybe that means stepping back. Honoring the boundaries she’s tried to set, even if it breaks me. “You’ve said all along that our friendship is important to you, and Maeve, I don’t want to screw that up more than I have.”

“You’re not screwing it up. I swear you’re not,” she pleads, and she sounds desperate now, terribly worried. I step closer and hope she knows this isn’t her fault. “You’re amazing. You’re incredible. You’re…everything,” I choke out and that’s the closest I’ve come to voicing my feelings, even though now is not the time. “But I’m the problem. My head is a mess right now, and I need to figure this out before I lose more than I can handle.”

She swallows hard, closing her eyes, like pain’s passing through her, hitting her, but not knocking her down. But when she opens them, she says, “I get it. ”

And of course she does.

Ironic, how she thought she’d be too much for someone like me. But the truth is—it’s me. I’m the one who’s too much.

Fifteen minutes later, my travel bag is packed—hours before our afternoon flight to Seattle for tomorrow’s game—and I go out the front door, stepping into the blue light of dawn, leaving my car behind. Maeve doesn’t have one—they’re expensive, of course, but she also doesn’t love driving in the city. Duffel in hand, I walk down the block toward Beckett’s gym. But he might be there, and I can’t face him like this.

He’ll know something’s wrong, and he’s too close to the situation. The arena’s not open for another couple hours.

I could go to a coffee shop of course. But as my feet take me toward Doctor Insomnia’s, I groan. No way do I want to go there, with that name, right after Maeve suggested that that’s my issue.

Besides, my fingers have a mind of their own, and they’re scrolling for Miles’s number.

It rings. Long and foreboding. His phone’s probably on silent. But he answers on the fourth ring, with a groggy, “How much bail do you need?”

And that, right there, tells me everything.

This is bad.

“I need to crash at your place for a few hours.”

There’s only silence for three seconds, then he says, “Just texted you the address in case you need it.”

I remember it, but even so, gratitude for his friendship floods me. “Thanks.”

I call a Lyft, and after ten minutes of cruising through the quiet city streets as fog snakes along the hilly roads, and over the shrouded bridge along the horizon, we’re pulling up to his home in the Marina.

I thank the driver.

“No problem. And good luck in Seattle,” he says.

“Thanks, man,” I say, but it feels too surreal to talk to a fan right now.

It feels too surreal to talk to anyone. When I knock on Miles’s door, he opens it immediately. He’s dressed in sweatpants and his black glasses. Yawning, he gives me a quick once-over, shaking his head before he says, “You look like shit.”

Guy code for what the fuck is wrong ?

But I barely know where to start. I sink down on the couch, drag a hand through my hair, and say, “I feel like it too.”

At least I’m being honest.