I’m going to ask him tonight.
The thought keeps popping into my head, as unwelcome and persistent as an earworm. It’s the same kind of urge that makes you buy something you don’t need and can’t afford. Or makes you snack when you’re not hungry.
Or makes you say something you know you shouldn’t.
I’m lounging on my couch with a bottle of Red Stripe in my hand, feet propped on the coffee table next to the empty box of the pizza we just polished off while watching an episode of House, M.D. on Netflix.
Beside me, just a few inches away, Jay is stretched out and relaxed, his eyes on the flat-screen. His tight-fitting black tee and khaki cargo shorts are standard attire for him when he’s not in his hospital scrubs, and because it’s his day off, his square-jawed face shows a shadow of scruff that matches the black of his short-and-tousled hair.
It’s Friday evening, and this is how we like to unwind. Nothing unusual there. Except tonight I’m antsy and uneasy, restlessness creeping under my skin, and as the mellow, melancholy music of the final scene fades into the end credits, it hits me that I can’t summarize what I just watched.
“Well, that was a bullshit episode,” Jay announces, reaching for the bottle of beer on the side table by his armrest.
“Was it?” I pick up the remote and hit the Stop button. “Guess I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
My best friend slants me a glance, looking exasperated. “It made no sense. Millions of people have mitral valve prolapse. Very few of them are even at risk of developing endocarditis. And the aneurysm stuff was ridiculous. The vascular study was negative, but they rush him into surgery anyway, just in case the study was wrong? That hospital must have some seriously good malpractice insurance.”
I let out a snort-laugh. Mostly to cover up the fact that I have no idea what he’s talking about. Because my mind was elsewhere. “I think we’ve discussed before how pointless it is to expect medical accuracy from a TV show.”
Jay’s lips soften in a self-deprecating smile, his pale eyes twinkling. “I just don’t think it’d be that hard for them to get it right.”
No, he wouldn’t, would he? I realize in a flash that his reactions and rants afterward are almost the best part for me, because it’s Jay being so…Jay.
I shrug. “They know the majority of their viewers won’t know the difference and the drama of it is more important for their ratings.”
“Which explains the BDSM angle?”
He arches his eyebrows at me, and something curls and then unfurls inside me. BDSM? Maybe I should’ve paid better attention. And am I imagining the traces of heat in his eyes, the hint of flirtation?
Yeah, that’s probably just me projecting.
“Right,” I agree. “Because sex sells.”
Jay keeps his gaze on me for another moment, and then he averts it, lifting his bottle back up to his mouth.
I’m going to ask him.
Is this the opening I’ve been waiting for? I definitely wouldn’t be going too far off topic.
My stomach twists, and I chicken out. Then I’m scrambling for what to say, finally blurting out, “Speaking of domination…Mario Kart?”
He gives me a teasing smile. “Sure. If you’re in the mood to be spanked.”
Oh, my God. My breath stutters in my chest. Was that intentional innuendo?
“In your dreams,” I somehow manage to shoot back, deciding it best to pretend he means it figuratively. Grabbing the remote again, I turn on the game while Jay plucks the Wii controllers out of the little side table drawer.
I want to ask him. How do I ask him?
As we press the buttons to set up our characters and choose the racetracks, a safer approach occurs to me, a way to test the waters. Casually, I say, “By the way, Angela, my friend from work, keeps asking me to introduce you to her.”
Jay frowns, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Why?”
“Because she’s seen the pictures I’ve posted of you on Facebook, and she thinks you’re hot.”
Which is more or less true. Angela, a nurse in the ob-gyn office where I work, likes to talk about hooking up with guys more than actually doing so, but I have no doubt she’d go out with Jay if given half a chance.
“She sounds kind of desperate,” Jay responds with a grunt. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” I reassure him, because my favorite coworker is a beautiful, outgoing, and fun woman—who really doesn’t need me to play matchmaker.
And Jay would probably already know what she looks like if he were on Facebook, but he’s not. He says that’s because there’s too much drama and ugly behavior on the social media site, but I’ve always suspected it’s somehow related to the reason he always goes all vague and evasive when I ask him about his family.
With a twist of my lips, I add, “Unless you have something against dating single moms.”
Jay throws me a squinty look. “She has a kid?”
“She has two. And two ex-husbands.”
“Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes, “I’m not that brave. Not looking to meet anyone, anyway.”
He’s not? I suppose I knew that, because as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t even been on a date in a really long time.
And for some reason, I feel like this was exactly how I wanted him to respond to this topic.
On the TV, the countdown begins, and then our vehicles take off down the racetrack to the sound of revving engines and fast-paced music. I navigate the track with little effort, because we’ve played this so much that the motions have programmed themselves into my fingers, and I’m pretty sure it’s the same for Jay.
This is our drug of choice on weekend evenings. While other people in their mid-twenties are out partying, we stay in and play video games that we take way too seriously. Is that weird? Maybe. But at least we’re being weird together.
Ask him, ask him, ask him.
Well, it got me nowhere to mention Angela—whose talk about Jay was the first thing that put this idea into my head—but maybe I can still get there from here?
I’m winding up my courage with a quiet, deep breath while my cartoon character on the screen keeps pace with his, and then the words tumble out. “I actually realized I get annoyed when she talks about wanting to meet you. Which reminded me of this article I read online about a study done at a college in Canada that showed men and women can’t be just friends.”
“Uh-huh,” Jay says, smirking with his eyes still glued to the TV. “I thought we’d had this discussion already, too. You were supposed to stop believing everything you read on the Internet.”
“I don’t,” I retort, turning my controller along with the curves and bends in the track. “But that’s not the point. It was a scientific study. I just thought it was interesting.”
Jay snorts. He does that a lot. “How exactly are horny college students interesting or even relevant to anything?”
“It made me think about it, that’s all.” I’m trying so hard not to sound defensive. He can smell weakness like sharks smell blood. “I mean, we’ve been friends for, what…six years?”
For a while the only sounds in the room are the frenzied bleeps and dings from the TV speakers. I have no idea if he’s thinking about the answer or if he’s just concentrating on the game. We’ve reached the trickiest part of this track, and I’m right on his ass. If I can just get a useful weapon to take him out, or if he’ll make the tiniest of mistakes, I’ll pass him and take the lead.
“More like five,” he says eventually. “The first year you were dating Fuckface, and we weren’t exactly friends back then.”
“Right.” Fuckface is my ex, Matt Nolan, who was Jay’s dorm roommate and best friend when we met. Matt, my ex-boyfriend from college who cheated on me and pulverized my heart, so yeah, he earned that nickname and then some.
But Matt has nothing to do with this conversation.
This conversation that I probably should end now while I still can. Before I say something that can’t be unsaid.
The thing is, I have a really hard time not speaking my mind. It’s a genetic condition that I inherited from my grandma. Jay never believed me when I used that excuse…until he actually met her.
Ask him. Now.
I swallow hard. And then I say, “So in those six or seven years or whatever, have you ever thought about having sex with me?”
The couch cushions bounce. He’s clicking furiously on his game controller, as if he lost his grip for a second. I don’t dare look at him, even though I’m dying to know how he’s taking it. Maybe I can just play it off. Idle curiosity, right? I mean, if friends can’t ask each other questions like that, what’s the point in being friends?
The pizza really isn’t sitting well. Shouldn’t have had pepperoni. I always regret pepperoni, and then I forget. What do you call that? Selective memory?
I sneak a sideways glance at him. Well, I try to be sneaky about it, but he catches me. Because he’s staring at me. He’s completely still, rigid even, and he’s looking at me with his mouth set in a thin line, a blank look in his eyes.
His pale eyes that sometimes look blue and other times look gray, but always sharp and direct—soul-burrowing eyes, gleaming with an intense intelligence. They’re a perfect reflection of his personality, those eyes, and meeting his gaze can be a lot like looking at the sun. Usually I can only do it for a second before I have to turn away.
“What the hell, Mia?” He’s looking back and forth between the TV and me. “Are you serious?”
Somehow we both manage to stay on course. Shaking my controller to get the speed boost while my character’s making a jump, I decide I might as well go all in. “Yeah, I am. Because the other thing the article said was that most men in the study were attracted to their female friends, and they thought the attraction was mutual. But most of the women were not attracted to their male friends, and they had no idea the men actually wanted to have sex with them.”
A peek at Jay shows him with his attention on the game, jaw clenched and slowly shaking his head. “I’m gonna change your Wi-Fi password.”
“Sure. Because that’s the only way I can get on the Internet. Could you just answer the question?”
“No.” He sounds sullen. And then he erupts. “Motherf—ahhh!”
He’s taken a turn badly and is falling off the track. My character zooms into first place, only seconds away from the finish line. I can’t help but throw him a triumphant grin as I win.
With a glare at me, he tosses his controller aside, gets up, and stomps off. The bathroom door slams shut, and I roll my eyes. Still, in all fairness, I can’t judge. I would probably have thrown an equally embarrassing tantrum if our roles had been reversed. We’re both sore losers.
Jay comes back out of the bathroom—a powder room for guests that lets me have a master bath attached to my bedroom, the main reason I chose this apartment complex. I like my private stuff private. The open floor plan, vaulted ceiling, and oversize kitchen with a small solid-surface island didn’t hurt, either.
As he goes to the kitchen, I pick up his controller and press the buttons to see the final game scores. My fingers feel kind of numb. Maybe we can just pretend this never happened? The conversation, that is. Beating him…that I reserve the right to gloat about for the foreseeable future.
I don’t want to forget about it, though. I’ve been itching to talk about it for a reason.
I hear my fridge smack shut, some rummaging in a drawer, and the clinking of metal on glass. Jay saunters back into the living room carrying another bottle of beer, and the leather creaks as he throws himself back down on the couch.
A knot of tension settles between my shoulders. “Was that the last one?”
He pauses with the beer halfway to his mouth and, looking sheepish, holds it out to me. “I’ll share it with you?”
“You’re so rude.” My tone doesn’t reflect it, but I’m genuinely annoyed. Why, though? It’s not like he hasn’t raided my refrigerator before. I don’t care, and he knows that.
“You’ve got a real job,” he points out, moving the bottle up to his lips. “I’m still a starving resident.”
Can’t really argue with that. I got my APRN certification last year, and now I’m working as a women’s health nurse practitioner. It pays well—really well—much better than Jay’s second-year emergency medicine residency at the university hospital, but it’s on the tip of my tongue to comment that he’s hardly making minimum wage. I’m not looking for a fight, though, so I don’t.
Plus he has a brutal student loan payment that leaves little extra for unnecessary stuff. Like alcohol.
And honestly, I really don’t give a crap about the beer. I’ve got enough self-awareness to recognize that I’m irritated for an entirely different reason.
“When you start raking in the big bucks,” I say lightly, “I’m going to expect some payback.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner. Someplace fancy, with tablecloths.” He flashes me his quick, lopsided smile—that I’m-too-charming-for-you-to-really-be-mad-at-me smile. Grabbing a coaster from the small stack on my coffee table, he sets the bottle down. My heart does a little happy flip. He’s not a coaster kind of guy. He thinks they’re for ridiculous, overly fussy people. But when he’s at my place, I never have to remind him to use one.
Snatching his controller back from my hands, he asks, “Ready to play?”
“No, I’m done.”
“Okay.” He shoots me an inscrutable look. “Another episode of House then?”
“Nah.” I pick up my universal remote and flick the power button. “I want to talk about this.”
Jay scowls at me for a second, and then he looks at his wristwatch. The sleek stainless steel Omega watch was a med school graduation present from his uncle, and it’s a beautiful, expensive watch, but still. He never leaves his cell phone out of reach long enough for him to really need a watch, and right now he’s just using it to make a point.
“It’s getting pretty late,” he says. “I’m working tomorrow. Yamada asked me to switch shifts with him.”
Funny. He wasn’t in a hurry when he wanted to keep playing video games or when he suggested watching TV. If he thinks I’m going to let this go that easily, he’s smoking something. “Are you secretly attracted to me?”
He finally turns his full attention on me. No more evasion. If only he wasn’t giving me the stink eye to trump all stink eyes in the history of the world. Coldly, he asks, “Why are you doing this?”
I shrug. “I just want to know.”
He sighs. Picks up the beer and takes a big swig, then sets it back on the table. Slouching down farther on the couch, he rubs his eyes and says, “How can I answer that?”
“Uh. With a yes or no?”
He lets his hands drop, and this time when he points his head toward me again, he just looks miserable. “If I say yes, everything will be awkward. We’ll slowly stop hanging out until we’re not friends anymore. But if I say no, you’ll get all butt hurt about it and wonder why I don’t think you’re attractive. I can’t win.”
Ugh. My leg twitches. I really want to kick him. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth? I’m a big girl. I can handle it, I promise.”
“No,” he snaps. “Jesus.”
I’m biting the inside of my cheek as I watch him reach for the bottle again. He tips his head back, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he downs the rest of the beer. So much for sharing. My blood pressure rises—the back of my head starts throbbing, and I’m breathing as if we’re at ten thousand feet.
Well, if I drop the subject now, he’ll win. I never let him win, not without a fight. My next thought is hard to vocalize, though, and while I’m saying it, I feel like I’m marching naked into a high school cafeteria: “But what if you say you have fantasized about having sex with me, and I say I have, too?”
For a few seconds, he just gives me this blank, intense look that sends a shiver down my spine. Then something flashes in his eyes, and my gut churns when I recognize it. He’s pissed. And when Jay is pissed, he gets mean.
“You’ve fantasized about having sex with yourself?” he bites out. “Isn’t that what your vibrator is for?”
My cheeks are burning. No, I’m not being bashful. This is Jay. I’ve asked him to buy me tampons before, for Pete’s sake. It’s just that I’m really not emotionally or intellectually prepared to actually have a fight with him.
“You knew what I meant,” I say as calmly as I can muster.
He opens his mouth, and my heart almost stops while I wait for him to say whatever’s on his mind. But then he just shakes his head, pushes up off the couch, and says, “I’m out.”
Oh-kay. I’ve screwed up this time, haven’t I? Screwed up bad.
I jump up and follow him to the door. Is it too late for damage control? “I’m not trying to ruin our friendship or anything.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He shoves his tanned, bare feet into his flip-flops.
“Are we still running on Sunday?” I ask as he opens the door.
Stopping right outside, he turns back. He rests his elbow on the doorframe and leans in, leveling a deadpan look at me. “Are you going to drop this topic?”
Am I? I suppose I should. This is my chance to let it go. He’s obviously willing to forget all about it.
But I can’t. I just can’t. Not when he’s standing there in the cascading light from the porch lamp, looking exactly like himself—tall and athletic Jay, dark-haired and pale-eyed Jay, the smartest and nicest guy I’ve ever known. My best friend, without a doubt.
My best friend, who I really want to fuck.
I swallow hard and answer, “Probably not.”
He sighs. His lips curl. Yup, he’s still angry. “I’ve got a long day at work tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
I keep the door open with my shoulder as he jogs down the stairs and strides away on the paved walkway, disappearing in the darkness. It’s humid out there tonight, and it smells like rain—a sweet and pungent aroma that we don’t experience a lot in SoCal, especially with the drought of the past few years. There’s a nip in the air, and it’s too cold for the tank top I’m wearing with my short jean shorts. Goose bumps start at the back of my neck and spread down my arms.
Come back. The words become a chant in my head. Come back, come back, come back.
Come back and kiss me.
Come back and tell me you want me.
He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t.
Now, what?
I wake up with a start and lift my head off the pillow, squinting against the gossamer light filtering in through the blinds. The sun’s up, but just barely. Which means it’s too early to get up.
Closing my eyes again, I let my head drop back onto the pillow, then turn away from the windows and tug my covers up to my chin with a happy sigh. Saturdays are great. No alarm. No work. No appointments, and no one expecting anything from me. I can do whatever I want.
And what I want is to sleep some more.
I go limp, wrapped in the cocoon of my bamboo sheets, my breathing even and slow. My brain is still foggy, ready to slip away again—ready to dream, to recharge. Life is good. Life is great. I have no worries, nothing to keep me awake…
Jay.
It feels like a lightning bolt striking my gut. I pop my eyes open, wide open, and with a thump, my pulse starts to race.
Right. Life is great, my ass. Sure, except last night I might have ruined the best friendship I’ve ever had.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. Why the hell did I do it? What did I expect to happen? That Jay would say, Yes, Mia, I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since the day we met…? And then we’d tear each other’s clothes off and have mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-changing sex? Right there on the couch. Mario Kart forgotten.
Jay has made a regular appearance in my fantasies for a long time, and even before it was deliberate and while I was still with Matt, he showed up in some involuntary nighttime dreams, too. For some reason, that memory always makes me blush.
And in daydreams, sex with Jay is always amazing. Maybe he actually sucks at it, though. Or maybe, in reality, after all this time being so comfortable as only friends, I’d feel like I was screwing my own brother?
No. Definitely not. I thought Jay was cute from the moment my boyfriend introduced him to me as his roommate, but I was so crazy in love with Matt at that point—even though I’d known him only a couple of weeks—that it didn’t mean anything.
And while Jay was around a lot the following year and a half, we didn’t connect and become friends until after Matt dumped me. Something just…clicked. I guess, without even really noticing, we bonded. In a strictly platonic way, of course, and that’s been great. I’m lucky to have found him.
So why, why, why did I decide to ruin all of that last night?
With a groan, I roll over on my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. I don’t want to feel like this. Don’t want to think about it. I start to bang my face into the cushiony surface, trying to knock the negative crap out of my head.
It doesn’t work. So I reach for my nightstand drawer instead, digging around until my hand closes around the familiar, oblong object. I’m awake early and have nowhere to be. Might as well take care of business.
Isn’t that what your vibrator is for?
That’s right, Jay. That is what my vibrator is for. My vibrator doesn’t do complicated. It doesn’t judge. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need anything from me except batteries. It exists only to make me feel good. Maybe I should rethink who I call my best friend, because my vibrator is a pretty amazing friend.
I flop over onto my back and shimmy out of my panties, leaving my lacy sleep tank on. When I press the power button and the buzzing starts, my muscles go liquid and all is right with the world again. It’s as if I have a Pavlovian response to that low hum—instant pleasure just at the sound of it.
Now nothing exists except the pulsations on my clit, the slow build, the pressure I keep light to make it last. Just me, making myself happy. Closing my eyes, I try to make my mind go blank. No thinking, only feeling.
But my imagination has different ideas. Suddenly, I can feel his lips on my skin, an open-mouthed kiss right where my neck meets my collarbone. He moves down, draws in a nipple, and my shuddering and gasping for breath is very much real.
The fantasy takes over, swallows me up. It’s not the purring head of the vibrator that’s rubbing against me, it’s Jay’s tongue. In my thoughts I’m looking down to where my knees are spread wide, where Jay is watching me intently while he’s mouth-fucking me, glacier-blue eyes locked with mine. My lower body is off the edge of the bed, and he’s kneeling on the floor, my feet braced on his shoulders. His biceps are flexing as he supports my legs, his fingers digging into my thighs—and oh, God.
I’m coming harder than I usually do like this. The climax shudders through me, shocks of electricity bursting from one nerve ending to the next, and I arch my back off the bed as it goes on and on…and on.
When the orgasm finally subsides, I release a shuddering breath and roll over on my side. Closing my eyes, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
Okay. So yeah, I don’t need a guy to get off. This way is definitely easier.
So I’m jeopardizing our friendship for what, exactly?
I just don’t know.
Somehow I manage to get out of bed without picking up my cell phone where it’s been charging on my nightstand. I need some coffee before I check and confirm that he didn’t text me in the middle of the night with an apology and a change of mind.
It’s probably not going to be a great weekend.
It’s 10:37 p.m. Is Jay still at the hospital? I have no idea. His shifts end at nine o’clock, but he never leaves until he’s wrapped up all his cases and written the reports. Which means the twelve hours he’s supposed to work often turns into fourteen or fifteen. Residency sucks.
My day was pretty uneventful. Went grocery shopping. Cleaned my apartment. Hit the gym in the late afternoon, and when I got home, my sister, Paige, called, so I talked to her for a while. My big sister is an attorney who’s married to another attorney, and this lawyerly relationship has spawned two kids so far, with a third on the way.
And that’s why she called me, to tell me they found out my nieces are getting a little brother. Which is, of course, really exciting. But for some reason, Paige didn’t sound that enthusiastic. I guess by the third child, finding out the gender of the baby’s not that thrilling anymore?
That doesn’t sound right, though. In my job, I see women in various stages of pregnancy every day, and when a patient is clearly less than eager, it usually means she got knocked up on accident. There’s no way that applies to my sister, however. She only ever does things on purpose.
After saying good-bye to her, I shot off a text to ask Grandma what she was up to, since I had my phone out anyway and hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days. As usual, she answered almost right away. She’s highly tech savvy, Lily Waters, especially for a woman who’s turning eighty in just a few weeks—a birthday my family is throwing a small surprise party for, despite Grandma having declared she doesn’t want one.
We messaged each other for a while, and she told me she’s had a cold all week but that it wasn’t that bad and she was still going to play in her poker club’s big Spring Fling tournament tomorrow. Which made me smile. Guess I know where I got my competitiveness from.
After that, I heated leftovers for dinner and watched Netflix while I ate. I briefly considered watching House, M.D. without Jay, even though it’s a show we’ve been watching together. That’d be appropriate punishment for the way he ran out of here yesterday and how he’s ignored me today, right? But in the end I decided not to be that petty and immature.
I spent some time trying to figure out what to get my grandma for her birthday. Technically, we’re not supposed to give her gifts. She’s told us she prefers that we donate money to the Alzheimer’s Association instead. It’s a cause that’s been near and dear to her heart ever since my grandfather died of early-onset Alzheimer’s when I was eight.
Still, it’s a big birthday, and I want to get her something. Nothing extravagant. Just something…special.
So that’s where my mind is at as I’m lying on my couch, staring into space with the latest Liane Moriarty novel open on my chest.
I actually would call it a good day if I hadn’t been waiting—waiting, waiting, and freaking waiting—for him to text me. Like he said he would.
Waiting impatiently, getting more and more antsy, like I’m his girlfriend or something. Waiting impatiently, even though he’s been at work all day and possibly too busy to even eat or take bathroom breaks.
Texting me should be low priority. I know that. Really, I do.
I haven’t sent him a message, either. Resisting was about as hard as holding your pee after chugging a pitcher of brew. But I did it, and I’m not going to cave now. I’m not like a nagging girlfriend, after all.
Yay, me.
So instead I’m lying here, pondering and agonizing over why. I want Jay, have wanted him for a long time, but why am I suddenly acting on it?
Maybe it’s because I feel safe not expecting too much from him. He won’t be around that much longer. Two more years of residency, and then he’s leaving to go work with his uncle Warren at Relief International, a global humanitarian organization that provides aid in conflict and disaster areas.
That’s been Jay’s plan since high school and he spent a summer with his uncle in Ethiopia. He intends to be gone not just for several years but maybe indefinitely, and that’s why he’s avoided any serious relationships. At least I assume that’s the reason he said he’s not looking to meet anyone right now.
Or maybe that’s not why I couldn’t stop myself from bringing up this topic with him. Maybe, with just two years left, I’m finally realizing that I’m running out of time. Running out of time to find out if being that close to my best friend is as amazing as I’ve imagined. I want to touch him, to feel him, to know all of him—while I still can.
But the thought of Jay not being in my life anymore is one I can’t dwell on for long without feeling like I’m starting to suffocate. So I push it away, put my book down, and get up off the couch to get ready for bed.
I brush my teeth on autopilot. Change into sleepwear, crawl in bed, plug in my phone, and switch off my bedside lamp.
I lose my sense of time and have no idea how long I lie there, my eyes wide open in the darkness. Two minutes? Ten?
To hell with this.
I fumble around on the nightstand until I find my phone, tap the power button, and enter my passcode. Then I find my messaging app, select his name, and type: I’ll be at Three Oaks tomorrow morning at nine if you want to join me. Parking near the restrooms.
There. I hit Send, mute the phone, and turn off the screen.
Whether he answers or not, I don’t plan on losing any sleep over it.