The Pairing

by Casey McQuiston

If my first experience in Paris is Maxine falling for Kit right in front of my dick brioche, I might jump in the Seine.

The problem is, we’ve only ever been everything or nothing to each other. I don’t know how to start being something to him.

Save me, Baguette Husband.

And every time we hold our glasses together, every time the lip of his glass almost touches the lip of mine, I try not to think, This is the closest we’ll ever come to kissing again.

The truth is, I never stopped loving that person. I only stopped believing he existed.

“And it is winter, and I get—what is it called—when clouds make me sad?” “Seasonal depression,” Kit prompts. “Seasonal depression!

“Good night, Kit,” I say, instead of screaming into my pillow.

I love him. I don’t want to, but I do.

I have no room left in myself to hold it all. It has to overflow. And so, I kiss her. I kiss Theo because I’m in love with her. I always have been. I always will be.

“Are you alright, Theo?” Stig asks. “I’m great,” Theo says brightly, which means she’s angry, and when she’s angry, she breaks things.

Her boots pound against the stones, and my first thought is, good. Theo should always walk with heavy footsteps. She should leave deep tracks wherever she goes so everyone can know she was there, like a historical event. Archaeologists should put tape around her footprints and study them with brushes.