Life's Too Short (The Friend Zone #3)(29)

He needed plants and candles.

I started a load and came back into the kitchen. “God, your apartment is palatial.”

I peeked over his arm to look at what he was cooking. He was braising potatoes with some rosemary in a pan. It smelled so good my stomach growled.

“Why not get a bigger unit?” he asked. “Seems like you could afford it. You’re obviously very successful.”

I put my back to the counter next to the stove and leaned. “I donate most of my money. That’s why I live small. I keep only what I need—plus a little so I can have fun. And wine,” I added.

He poured a splash of merlot over his pan with a sizzle. “Right, I read that on your Wikipedia. You donate to ALS research.”

So he’d been looking into me.

Which meant he knew.

He could watch any one of my videos and get the general gist of what I was about. I talked openly about all of it: my 50 percent chance of having the mutated genes that cause ALS. My inability to test for them. My desire not to seek treatment if I was sick. It was all in there. Maybe not dumped into a single episode, but sprinkled pretty generously around. Not to mention all the articles about me and my Wikipedia page. If he did even the barest of lawyerly due diligence, which it sounds like he had, he’d get a crystal-clear picture of what my life was.

And now I could see where this conversation was going, and I needed it to stop. I didn’t want to get into a casual discussion about my possible terminal diagnosis. I wanted to enjoy this dinner.

I wanted to forget the death creeping into my hand.

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Can I ask you a favor?”

He gazed over at me. Warm, green gorgeous eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about…anything that you learned on my channel. Ever. It’s just…being around you feels like a break. Like, you’re not my crazy family, and you’re not part of the YouTuber world or ALS side of my life either, and I like that.”

He held my eyes a moment. “Sure,” he said. “This has been a bit of an escape from reality for me too. I get it.” He did an impressive flip of his potatoes. “So what wine did you bring?” he asked.

I smiled and got the bottle and held it out for him to see.

“Nice,” he said, grinning at the label. “Were you saving it? That’s a great year.”

“I never save anything,” I said, grabbing the bottle opener on the counter. “I enjoy things as soon as possible. I burn the expensive candle, I use the fancy rose-shaped soap, and I drink the wine, even if the only thing I’m celebrating is the fact that it’s Tuesday.”

He turned down his burner. “Well, I’m glad for my sake that you do that. I’ll definitely appreciate it. Here, let me.” He took the bottle opener from me, which I was fumbling, and opened the wine. Then he took two glasses from a cabinet, poured, and handed me one.

“Thanks.” I swirled the liquid and put my nose into the glass and breathed in. “If you like wine so much, you should visit Tuscany. Have you ever been?” I looked around his apartment for frames. “Where are your vacation photos? Are they on your laptop or something?” I put a thumb over my shoulder. “Because if you have a backup photo album, I’m gonna need to see it to look for dick pics.”

He snorted. “I don’t have a backup album. I don’t take vacations.”

I blinked at him. “Ever?”

“I drove out to L.A. for a week a few years ago, but I was there for a work conference.”

“So that’s all you do? Work?”

“Pretty much.”

I stared at him a moment. “Why?”

He shrugged, leaning against the counter. “It’s not easy for me to take time off. The firm needs me. I’m a partner. And I don’t mind the work. The money’s good.”

“Do you need it?” I asked.

“What?”

“The money. Do you need it. Like, is there some goal you’re working toward? Pay off your student loans, get out of debt? Saving up for something big?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t have any loans. Mom paid for my college. And the income from this building is decent. I just work to work, I guess.”

There was something a little tight about the way he said it.

“What?” I asked.

He looked away from me. “I don’t know…”

“What? Tell me.”

His eyes came back to mine. “I like what I do. It’s fulfilling. And rewarding. It’s just not…” He shook his head and pressed his lips into a line. “I just can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. Maybe because I just broke up with someone.” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s probably that.”

I tipped my wineglass at him. “You suffer from One Day Syndrome.”

He wrinkled his brows. “What?”

“One Day Syndrome. You live your life like there’ll always be one day to do all the things you put off. One day you’ll take the trip. One day you’ll have the family. One day you’ll try the thing. You’re all work and not enough play. Money can’t make you happy unless you know what you want, Adrian. So what do you want?”

He shook his head at me like he’d never considered the question before. “I don’t know.”