I’ve always had a bit of a savior complex when it comes to my friends. A few months ago I hit it off with Alan, who just moved to town for his new girlfriend. He’s a sweet guy, tall with large blue eyes, thick black hair, broad shoulders, and a vaguely European accent. Reserved, but funny and eager to laugh. We’d met at a bookshop and instantly clicked – soon we were hanging out twice a week, sharing projects with each other and exploring the city at odd hours. He started opening up to me about his relationship – it turns out his girlfriend had a bunch of problems that ended up with her constantly screaming at him, accusing him of cheating, and disappearing for days at a time.
I didn’t want to cross any boundaries, but one night I got a call from him after she had locked him out of their apartment. Apparently she accused him of cheating on her with me, and after a huge fit decided to go stay at her ex’s. At this point Alan and I had grown pretty close, and since I was his only friend here, I insisted that he come crash at mine for the night instead of looking for a motel.