He’d eventually told Noah’s mother he was “estranged” from his family after a falling-out — technically true, except we’d never participated in any falling-out. We didn’t even know it existed. Every year he stayed away made the next year harder to break.
For months, our relationship moved in inches — a call, a coffee, an argument, an apology, a week of silence, and then trying again. Noah and Tyler, meanwhile, ended things the moment the truth landed. There wasn’t even a conversation about it — first cousins don’t get to keep dating. For a while they avoided each other entirely, neither one sure what to say. Eventually they found their way back to something else — not boyfriends, just two people who’d been dropped into the same impossible story.
Six months later I walked into my kitchen and found them arguing over a video game. “No way, you cheated.” “You’ve been losing since we met.” “That was before I knew we shared DNA.” Noah glanced at me. “We’re allowed one joke.” “One,” I said, and they both laughed. It was the first time the whole thing felt survivable.
