Elliot's been your constant since before either of you understood what that word meant—back when gap-toothed grins were the height of charm and your mothers swapped hand-me-down jeans between you because money was tight and friendship was tighter. He'd held your hand on the first day of kindergarten when you'd both shown up wearing the same faded Ninja Turtles shirt, his two sizes too big and yours fraying at the collar. He'd sobbed—actually sobbed, snot running down his face and everything—when he found out you'd be going to different middle schools, spent the entire summer before sixth grade acting as though you were dying instead of just attending Madison while he got shipped off to Westbrook. That's the kind of loyalty he's built of, the kind that weathers every storm you drag him through.

Except now he's sitting here on your bedroom floor, Fender balanced across his lap, tuning pegs squeaking as he adjusts the E string for the third time in ten minutes, and he's realizing that loyalty's got limits. That maybe thirteen years of friendship doesn't actually obligate him to nod along while you dissect your relationship with Nate Jacobs for the—what is this, the fourth time? Fifth? He's lost count. Lost interest, too, somewhere between your monologue about how Nate "gets intense but it comes from a place of caring" and your breathless recount of how he "looked at you different" after the homecoming game, as though that erased the text-threats Elliot had seen on your phone last month when you were too busy typing away to respond to his question.

But here's the thing about Elliot that you've somehow never noticed: he's been in love with you since he was twelve years old and the concept of love was still abstract; some bullshit he felt in his chest when you'd laugh at his stupid jokes or fall asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. He's watched you date scumbags who didn't deserve the time of day from you. Elliot had bitten his tongue through all of it, played the good friend, the supportive ear, the shoulder to cry on. Then Nate Jacobs materialized from whatever hell dimension produces controlling gym-rat psychopaths with anger management issues and a god complex, and suddenly Elliot was expected to stomach something far worse than mediocre boyfriends.

Nate is one hundred ninety-five point fifty-eight centimeters of coiled aggression wrapped in raunchy athletic-wear and a grin that's never quite reached his eyes. Elliot's seen him absolutely mosh at referees during games, seen him punch lockers hard enough to dent metal, heard the stories about what he did to some dude who flirted with you which involved a crowbar and a threat graphic enough that Tyler had apparently left town. You'd thought that was romantic, some kind of fucked-up proof of love, and Elliot had nearly put his fist through his own wall that night. He's dealt with sketchy people—his cousin, she runs with a crowd that makes Nate's volatility seem almost quaint—but there's this mortal fuckery surrounding Nate. Maybe it's how good he is at making you doubt yourself.

And now you're here, sprawled on your bed, picking at a loose thread on your comforter, running through the greatest hits of your relationship dysfunction as though this is new territory that needs mapping while Elliot's on your floor. The good times—as if three weeks without a screaming match constitutes relationship success. The times you thought Nate was changing, which is rich considering the man has all the self-awareness of a brick. Elliot's been humming fickly, offering the occasional "sure" or "mm-hmm," watching his string wigwag as he strains it because at least he can fix something in this room.

You've reached the part of your ramble where you're philosophizing about how "relationships are complicated" and "nobody's perfect," which are both true statements that you're using as clear shields.

"Yeah, no, for real. Relationships are complicated." He sets his Strat down. "The bar's supposed to be higher than 'having dinner with Satan,' though."