My Friend Tried To Give Me Away To Another Woman — But I Refused To Move

Part 1

Megan hooked one finger around the empty chair beside me.

Tapping the metal frame, she refused to make eye contact.

Sit by Heather.

She was trying to donate me to another woman in broad daylight.

The three of us were squeezed around a tiny wrought-iron table outside the cafe.

Megan sat on my left with her fingers locked tight around her iced latte.

Heather sat on my right, wearing the polite smile of someone dragged into an emergency plan.

I recognized the panic radiating from the left side of the table.

I had known it since we were teenagers.

Smile first, fix later, hide the damage.

Heather loves hiking.

Megan’s brightness made my teeth ache.

You love being outside.

You two could compare boots or whatever people compare when they voluntarily walk uphill.

Heather lifted her cappuccino, hiding half a grin behind the rim.

My eyes stayed fixed on the matchmaker.

For six years, I had looked away because she belonged to Craig.

For two months, since Craig cheated and she mailed back his key, I kept looking away to give her space.

But this was different.

This was a deliberate attempt to file me under somebody else’s name before I became a complication.

I like being outside.

A sharp breath of relief escaped my friend’s lips.

See, Heather knows all the trails out by the ridge.

I set my cup down on the saucer.

But I think you are misunderstanding why I agreed to coffee this morning.

Her fake smile held for one extra second.

We needed to talk about the chair restoration timeline for the Heritage Festival.

We did.

A heavy truck groaned past on the street.

Heather placed her cup down with precise care.

I leaned back against my chair.

I did not come here to meet Heather.

The planner’s smile slipped entirely.

I only came here for you.

Silence swallowed the tiny table.

Color vanished from Megan’s face.

She looked like she had stepped onto a porch board that finally gave way under her foot.

Clearing her throat, the unwanted date grabbed her purse.

I suddenly remembered a very urgent client call.

She stood up quickly.

Great seeing you, Brian.

Blinking rapidly, the abandoned friend stared at the empty space.

After he what?

But the escapee had already vanished into the sidewalk crowd.

Megan sank back into her seat.

That was incredibly rude.

It was honest.

Rude would have been pretending I was interested in someone else.

I know you like hiking.

She looked away first.

Facing down angry vendors and demanding church ladies was easy for her.

But affection aimed directly at her hit a place no clipboard could protect.

You just got hurt.

I am not asking you to jump into anything.

But I will not let you hand me off because Craig made you think every man wants something cheap.

Plastic crunched under her tightening grip.

Do not bring Craig into this.

He is already here.

He was here the second you put another woman between us like a sandbag.

Her voice dropped to a frantic hush.

We are not doing this on a sidewalk.

Then we will not.

But you cannot fix this by assigning me a date.

Anger thinned out into raw fear.

Underneath that defense mechanism was the girl I had loved before life taught her to keep a spare plan in every pocket.

Heather is wonderful.

She is kind, she is funny, and she has no relationship history with you.

That last one was the main qualification, wasn’t it?

Her mouth pressed into a hard line.

I could have told her the worst part right then.

Heather was my second cousin on my mother’s side.

Saying it would have turned her panic into humiliation.

Loving her meant protecting her from feeling small.

I have to go.

She grabbed her tote bag.

The florist is dropping off samples.

Standing up slowly, I gave her room to retreat.

I am not trying to corner you.

It feels like a corner.

Then I will step back.

But I will not pretend I came for anyone else.

She stared at me as if I were speaking a forgotten language.

Turning on her heel, she walked away fast.

My phone buzzed before she reached the end of the block.

A text glowed on the screen.

She does not know we are cousins, does she?

My thumbs moved quickly over the keyboard.

Do not tell her yet.

Retreating to my workshop at the edge of town gave me time to think.

The old tractor barn smelled of cedar dust and old coffee.

Sanding the curved back of a wooden chair occupied my hands until a station wagon crunched over the gravel.

My runaway friend stepped into the doorway using a cardboard box of stain samples as a shield.

We need to decide between dark walnut and cherry.

I set down my sandpaper.

Walnut.

Her pen clicked repeatedly against the clipboard.

I am sorry about the cafe.

I was trying to help you.

White knuckles betrayed her casual tone.

Craig made me feel stupid.

Like everybody else saw it coming and I was the only one arranging centerpieces around the obvious.

Then you kept showing up with coffee and extension cords.

I could not tell whether I was relieved or terrified.

I brought coffee because you forget to eat.

Staying late was required because those lights were too high for you to hang alone.

I noticed because I have been noticing you since we were kids.

None of that means you owe me anything.

Eyes squeezing shut, she took a shaky breath.

The festival is in four days.

I need twenty chairs finished by tomorrow afternoon.

A single nod was all I offered.

Yes.

And I need you not to say anything like that in front of Heather again.

I can manage that.

Gathering her samples, she hurried back to her car.

The next two days became a blur of sawdust and careful choreography.

Throwing herself into the Heritage Festival required emergency-level focus.

It was her first year managing it alone since the breakup.

Avoiding being alone with me became her new full-time job.

Delivering chairs meant facing three volunteers standing guard.

Fixing a hinge resulted in her suddenly needing to inspect the portable toilets.

Giving her space was the only option.

But I kept showing up anyway.

Friday afternoon brought the final breaking point.

Tightening the last row of bolts, I heard a clipboard hit the floor.

The event planner stood near the loading ramp with both hands pressed over her mouth.

A delivery driver waited beside a flatbed loaded with neon plastic floral arrangements.

Fresh white roses and herbs were nowhere to be seen.

These are not what I ordered.

The driver offered a lazy shrug.

Invoice says artificial tropical assortment.

Staring at the neon plastic, she looked completely destroyed.

For anyone else, wrong flowers would be annoying.

For this specific woman, it was proof she could not handle things alone.

Her phone slipped from trembling fingers and clattered under a table.

A small, broken sound escaped her throat as she crouched to retrieve it.

My boots hit the wooden ramp.

The delivery guy looked up at my sawdust-covered shirt.

You the husband?

Under the table, the woman I loved froze completely, her eyes wide with panic.

She waited in the breathless silence to see if I would finally walk away, or claim a place in her life she wasn’t ready to give.