So. That happened.
I’m lying spent and sated on Mia’s bed. Above us her ceiling fan spins on high, quickly cooling down my sweat-slicked body, and the glare from its lightbulbs blends with the muted daylight peeping in between the closed blinds to create a glow that seems cloudy and artificial. And that just adds to my sense of having come untethered, of having only a vague idea of what day or time it is—or where I am and why.
I slant a sideways look at Mia where she’s resting an arm’s distance from me. She’s on her stomach with one arm folded under her head and her injured hand on the pillow, and she’s watching me with eyes that are unblinking, unfathomable, and glassy with afterglow. Her half-dry hair is tangled and mussed, her cheeks flushed.
Naked and uncovered, she seems entirely unselfconscious. And that—more so than all that porcelain flesh and round ass and long, shapely legs—is the most attractive thing about her. How comfortable she is in her own skin. How little she cares about being measured and judged.
She’s so beautiful it makes my bones ache. Pretty and perfect, like one of those dolls people might keep in curios and on high shelves, there to be admired but never touched—and definitely never to be played with.
Maybe that’s why it felt so good to play with her.
Now, though. Now there’s definitely regret. Regret mixed with a healthy dose of despair, because I know I’d do it again. It’s a sensation similar to having overindulged—on food, alcohol, or whatever—and hating yourself afterward because you feel like shit but know it’s pointless to swear you’ll never do it again. Because it felt too fucking good. And it was worth it.
I’m not even mad at her. Yeah, she started this. She pushed and pushed, taunted and teased, ignoring my emphatic objections. But I’m a goddamned adult. There was a point when I could’ve made myself walk away. Not sure when that was exactly, because I definitely tried…and failed spectacularly.
Shit.
Focusing my gaze on her again, I find myself wanting to reach out and touch her. Cup her cheek, brush my thumb along the contours of her face, bury my fingers in her hair. Something stops me, though. It’s as if there’s a barrier that separates me and some hidden danger, and I don’t even want to know what it is. Actually facing it is unthinkable right now.
So instead I ask, “How’s your hand?”
Her forehead puckers, and her eyes go squinty, like she’s considering it. “Achy.”
“More or less than before?”
“A little more, I think,” she answers, sounding hesitant. “I really don’t want any more hydrocodone, though.”
Probably a smart choice, but I don’t like that she’s in pain. “Got any over-the-counter stuff?”
“In my medicine cabinet,” she replies with a nod.
I vault out of bed and pad across the carpet to her bathroom. First thing I do is pluck my boxers off the floor and pull them on, and then I look in the mirror-covered cabinet. It’s well-stocked with medications for a variety of minor ailments, which isn’t surprising. Mia doesn’t like being uncomfortable, not when she can help it.
Grabbing her bottle of ibuprofen and a small tube of antibiotic ointment, I set them on the sink while I thoroughly scrub my hands under the faucet. As I return to the bedroom, I find that she hasn’t moved at all. Silently, I edge around the bed to where she’s lying, twist the cap off the small container, and shake a couple of pills out into my hand.
While I open the water bottle on her nightstand, she rolls over, visibly shivers, and pulls her sheet over herself as she pushes up on her elbows, which is really too bad. The sight of naked Mia definitely threatens my sanity, but it’s kind of hard to remember why that’s a problem right now.
She thanks me and washes the pills down quickly, and when I pick up the antibiotic cream, she shoves her pillow up against the headboard and sits upright.
“You need to use this three times a day,” I tell her as I toss the tube down on the bed.
With a smirk and dancing eyes, she replies, “Thank you, Dr. B. I know that.”
Of course she does. My lips twitch but don’t split into a smile.
Her gaze lowers, raking slowly down my body and back up again, and she’s not even trying to disguise the appreciation that’s glittering in her eyes. Heat flares in my stomach and flows down to my crotch.
Goddamn. Has she looked at me like that before and I just missed it, or is this a new thing? Because I’m pretty sure if she doesn’t stop, I’ll have no choice about fucking her again. Right now.
Reaching out my slightly unsteady hand, I wait for her to offer me her bandaged one. She does, and then I start to peel away the tape holding in place the gauze bandage between her thumb and forefinger.
“We’re gonna do that again at some point, right?” she says suddenly, her voice husky…and cautiously hopeful.
My lungs constrict, but I don’t look at her, concentrating on my task—or at least pretending to. “I don’t know. Are we going to be more responsible about it?”
“What?” She sounds confused, and then she lets out a sigh and says, “Ooh. I’ve got an IUD and I’m on the pill. It’s like Fort Knox down there.”
I glance up and see her pointing a finger down the front of her body, her cheeks dimpling mischievously. She’s trying to be funny and disarming. It’s not really working on me right now.
“And when was the last time you took the pill?” I ask, arching my eyebrows.
Her expression looks blank at first. Then her eyes go wide, and she yanks her hand out of my grasp and scoots off the bed. “Be right back.”
Jesus. She’s exhausting. Maddening. As she disappears into the bathroom, I reach up and rub my eyes, way more disgusted with myself than with her. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask if she had a condom—which she most likely does. Making me forget such a basic thing…how does she do it?
She comes back out of the bathroom. Still naked. Her breasts bounce as she hurries back to the bed, and my dick stirs. All rested and ready to go again.
God-fucking-damn it.
After crawling back under the sheet and sitting up under it with her knees bent, she thrusts her hand back out at me.
“Not sure why I’m having to explain this to you of all people,” I say as I loosen the bandage enough to fold it back, exposing her stitches and the angry, red skin underneath, “but pregnancy is hardly the only risk.”
She blinks at me, and then her eyes shift from confused to incredulous. “Seriously?” she exclaims, a high-pitched squeal. “I don’t have any STDs, Jay. For Pete’s sake.”
She says for Pete’s sake a lot, just like her grandmother does. I’ve always thought it was cute. A part of what makes her her.
“How many of your patients who test positive for something are surprised by it?” I ask her while picking up the antibiotic, satisfied that I’m making a good point here.
For a while she only stares at me, tight-lipped. Then, in a strained tone, she asks, “Exactly how many guys do you think I’ve fucked?”
Aw, shit. I really would rather not answer that question. Since I’ve known her, she’s dated four guys…that I’m aware of. And I’d probably know if there were more, because, unlike me, she’s not big on keeping secrets. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t hooked up with other men. So I have no idea, really, and it’s something I’ve never wanted to dwell on.
“I don’t know, Mia. You told me you like sex.” I uncap the tube and squeeze a dollop of ointment onto my finger. “Well, I really like sunflower seeds, and I eat them at least once a week.”
She scoffs, a sound overloaded with disgust. “Okay. My ob-gyn recommends STD testing for all single women who are sexually active. I had my annual a couple of months ago, and I’m clean. How about you?”
Yeah. No. Not going there. No way am I telling her that shortly after starting my residency, I decided having a girlfriend was an extra stressor that I absolutely did not need and that casual hookups aren’t my thing. She’ll just think that’s something we have in common, and then I’d have to say, sure, but I didn’t decide the solution was to start screwing my best friend.
“All right,” I’m muttering. “Never mind.”
Gingerly, I spread the medicated salve over her sutures, bracing myself for her flinch of pain, but she stays still and quiet as I finish and cover the wound again.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says then, her voice carrying more of an edge. “Is this just a one-time thing or what?”
Heaving a sigh, it takes me a second to assemble my scrambled thoughts on the topic. “Is there any way it can be a one-time thing and we’ll be okay?”
When she falls silent, I drag my eyes reluctantly back to her face, which looks solemn.
“I wouldn’t be okay with it,” she says quietly. “That was fucking amazing, Jay. I’ll never forget about it, and I can’t pretend it never happened.”
It was amazing. My pulse kicks into a gallop, and another surge of arousal shoots straight to my groin. Amazing. Yeah, that about sums up what it was like to fuck Mia. To kiss her. To run my hands all over her smooth, soft skin. To taste her pussy. To be inside her.
I swallow the sudden excess of saliva in my mouth and say, “Then I guess you just answered your own question.”
“No, that’s how I feel about it.” Her gaze is direct, questioning.
I look away. The urge to tell her exactly how much I want her again builds in my gut and swells up into my throat, threatening to burst out of me.
Drawing in a calming breath, I answer, “I still think it’s a bad idea.”
After a moment’s silence, her voice sounds flat as she states, “So…it’s not going to happen again then.”
“I didn’t say that.” I give her a glance, gesturing into the air. “You know how in courtroom dramas on TV, a lawyer will jump up and yell, ‘Objection, Your Honor!’ and the judge says, ‘Noted’? It’s like that. I’m letting you know my opinion. For the record.”
She lets out a half-amused snort. “Okay, then. Noted.”
We fall silent again and stay that way for a long time. My mind jumps from one unrelated topic to another: going down on Mia, work, fucking Mia, hitting the gym later, the sounds Mia makes when she comes, and do I need to go grocery shopping today?
Her yawn disrupts my thoughts, and I look back at her just as she lays herself and her pillow back down on the bed.
“Hand hurting less yet?” I ask.
“Not really,” she replies, her eyes dropping. “Still waiting for the drugs to kick in.”
“You won’t know until you’re ready to start using it again if there’s any nerve or muscle damage. I think you’ll be fine, though.”
“That’s good,” she mumbles sleepily, eyes drifting shut.
“Do you need me to do anything before I leave?” It’s kind of a roundabout way of telling her I’m taking off, but it’s not like she’s paying attention anyway.
“Nuh,” is her garbled response. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
No shit. I almost smile. Instead I realize I should point out one more thing. “I’m on night shift starting tonight, for the next two weeks.”
“’Kay.” She turns over on her side, flinging her arm up to curl above her head. “See you later.”
I could stay. Slide back into bed next to her, wrap my arms around her, and hold her while she sleeps. I could do that.
Do fuck buddies snuggle?
Twisting my lips in disgust, I jump up off the bed and go to the bathroom to grab the rest of my clothes. One steamy flashback after another hits me while I’m in there, and I get dressed in a big damn hurry. My scrub top is still on the chair in her bedroom, and I head back in there to fetch it.
As I turn the doorknob to leave, I hear her stirring in bed. Glancing back, I see her with her head lifted off the pillow, but I can’t tell if her eyes are actually open.
“Thank you, Jay,” comes her slurred voice. “You’re the best.”
Her head falls back on the pillow, and I’m standing there in the doorway watching her and thinking that this, this is not the way you’re supposed to say good-bye to your best friend. Who you just had sex with. Who says the most devastating things, in the simplest ways possible.
You’re the best.
I try to be. She has no idea how hard I try.
Even with stopping at my post-office box to get my mail, it only takes fifteen minutes to drive from Mia’s place to mine, a small studio apartment that occupies the rear corner of a one-story house in a quiet residential neighborhood. I park my truck by the curb, get out, and walk up the grass-and-rosebush-lined driveway to the wooden gate that leads me down the side of the house to my door.
When I found out I’d landed the residency spot, I started looking for somewhere to live close to the hospital, not wanting to waste my precious spare time on a commute. This place was perfect—affordable despite the fact that it was already furnished, which was a huge plus for me since I had no interest in investing in furniture only to have to put it in storage when I leave the country in just a few years.
The owners, Ron and Grace, are an elderly couple who decided to convert that part of their home because it was the only way they could afford their rising property tax. They seemed hesitant to rent out to a young single guy—probably fearing wild parties and other shenanigans—but when I told them I was about to graduate from med school and what my work schedule would look like as a resident and how I mostly just needed a place to sleep, they warmed up to me pretty quickly.
And it’s turned out well. My landlords are not of a social bent, so I rarely see them, and they make very little noise, which is great for when I have to sleep during the day.
I suppose I could be living somewhere nicer if I were willing to have a roommate. Which I’m not. My last experience with that kind burned me on the whole idea of sharing living quarters again. No, Fuckface didn’t do anything to me personally, but the fact that I was his roommate and friend for three years before I found out what a dipshit he was made one thing obvious: sooner or later, all the people in your life end up disappointing and disgusting you.
First thing I do after unlocking the door and entering my apartment is open the blinds and let the sunlight spill in, illuminating the small and narrow but airy space with its no-fuss furnishings.
Then I consider getting in the shower, because those minutes I spent in Mia’s tub this morning definitely didn’t count as cleaning up. A spark of lust ignites at the memory, and I realize I can still smell her—on my face and on my skin—and I don’t want to wash off her scent. Not yet.
After wrenching off my scrub top, I toss it down on the queen-size bed, which sits on a raised part of the dark tile floor, and then I fetch a bottle of water out of the fridge in the small kitchen nook before settling down on the couch to look at my mail. Absently, I riffle through it, making a trash pile for the flyers and other advertisements, setting aside a bill to pay later.
Then I get to the last envelope. Which has my name and address in a familiar, sharp-angled scrawl with a Texas return address and a stamp that says, “Mailed from a state correctional institution.”
I sit there for a while, the envelope quivering in my unsteady hand. These letters arrive once a week, and I usually throw them away without a second thought. Lately it’s become more difficult to do that, though.
I haven’t actually opened one of them in twelve years. Twelve times fifty-two is a lot of letters tossed straight into the garbage. They used to be the highlight of my week. From the age of thirteen, when my dad first went to prison, until that day two weeks after my fifteenth birthday when I sat down on a library computer—which is where I had to do my homework that required a computer, since my mom didn’t own one—and did a web search for my dad.
And discovered the truth.
Until that day, he was my hero, and I loved him fiercely and unconditionally. Didn’t matter that he was hardly ever around. Those rare occasions when he did come home for a visit were my happiest memories. He’d take me to the beach and teach me how to bodysurf. We’d go to the movies, where he always got me the biggest popcorn bucket and the biggest drink, and when I had too much of that drink and he had to take me to the restroom in the middle of the movie, he didn’t get mad like my mom did.
More than once, he let me skip school so he could take me to Disneyland for the day. And whenever he was in town during baseball season, we’d go see the Angels play. One time he bought us tickets for field-level seats, and he ended up catching a foul ball. I remember getting so excited I almost wet myself. He gave me the ball, and I treasured that baseball more than anything else I owned—more than the Nintendo 64 he sent me for my birthday and more than the Adidas Superstars he’d bought me just because.
Only as an adult did I realize he probably paid for most of that stuff with drug money, since he often augmented his income by selling instead of just using. And only as an adult did it occur to me that it was probably easier for him to be the the fun parent, the favorite parent, when he only had to be a father two to three weeks a year.
Not that I’m trying to justify my mom’s behavior. Sure, with not even a high school diploma to her name, an absentee and drug-addicted husband, and a kid to take care of all by herself, she definitely had the cards stacked against her. But that doesn’t excuse the partying, the leaving me to fend for myself for as far back as my memory stretches, and the never saying a single word to me except to tell me what a worthless piece of crap I was and how I’d ruined her life.
Never, not even once, did I hear her say anything negative about her husband. He went where there were construction jobs, she’d tell me, and he was working hard to support his family. Never mind that she probably didn’t see much of that money, because she was always broke, and she must have known that most of what my dad made was snorted, smoked, or shot up his arm.
Putting my legs up on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles, I stare at the envelope until the writing blurs. A bone-deep exhaustion drapes itself over my shoulders and sinks like it’s weighed down by rocks, down into my gut and lower, all the way down to my toes.
She still says he’s innocent. To this day, she won’t admit that the crime she told me he’d been accused of wasn’t the whole story. They’d broken into that family’s house when no one was home, she said to me. No one got hurt. The story changed a lot. Sometimes my dad was set up or tricked by his meth-head buddy. Other times she’d claim he wasn’t even there, that he was identified by mistake.
I’m still not sure if she’s a delusional lunatic or just a lying fucking cunt.
The only reason my dad has my address is because she gave it to him, and that’s why I have a PO box, because I don’t want either of them to know where I live. Maybe someday I’ll find the motivation to change my phone number, too, cutting the cord once and for all. She only calls a couple of times a year—usually because she wants to “borrow” money—but why do I allow her to have any part of my life, no matter how small? I don’t owe her shit.
And finally opening one of his letters, after all this time. Why am I even considering it? Like my life isn’t complicated enough already?
Maybe it’s just morbid fascination. I’m curious where his mind’s at right now. It’s like emotional rubbernecking.
It’s definitely not worth it, though. Jumping to my feet, I pick up the trash pile and return to the kitchen to throw it all away, my dad’s unopened letter along with it. And that’s exactly what I did to that foul ball, too, that day I learned the truth. I tossed it in the garbage—and never spent a single moment regretting it.
Mia doesn’t know about any of this. Not about my parents or how finding out what my dad did messed with my head and had me making some seriously bad decisions…which had equally bad consequences.
And yeah, now that I’ve had sex with her? I’m feeling more than ever that my lie of omission about this is wrong. But telling her about this shit now, after all these years? I can’t do it. Just the thought of it makes me want to vomit.
I go to the closet next to my bed to find some workout clothes. If I don’t get to the gym today, this tension will get the better of me. And the next two weeks of night shifts will beat my ass down.
Getting laid will help, too. When will I see Mia again? I want to text her and ask if I can come over tonight before work, and that’s not good. That’s not good at all.
Picking up my phone anyway, I see that I have a message from Josh, a friend from med school. Want to shoot some hoops tonight? 6 o’clock at OC Fitness, his text says.
I immediately reply with an affirmative.
Basketball with the guys seems like a smarter choice than running back to see Mia like some horny and lovesick fucking puppy.