Fox says he expects me to let him know when we’re, um, getting started. I promise it will be soon as I just finished a period. I’m damn proud of him when he doesn’t get squicked out or act juvenile when I bring up menstruation. He says, “I’m a medical professional,” but he’s still Fox.
In the meantime, I’ve started fertility drugs. I’ve been conferring with Dr. Beaufort since I came to the decision to proposition my oldest friend to have sex with me. God, I cannot believe this is happening. Every so often, I need to pause and breathe deeply whenever the reality of it hits me. I’ve had several of these moments since Fox and I came to an agreement. It sounds so formal to say that when the entire negotiation was something out of an episode of Drunk History.
In any case, Dr. Beaufort continues to run tests on my hormone levels and track any menopausal symptoms. I’m told it’s still looking like menopause, if not just perimenopause—which means I still get periods but have all the markers of menopause. What a treat.
While I prepare to battle the barrage of oncoming night sweats, hot flashes, and extra sassy mood swings, I get to take synthetic hormones to boost fertility. On one hand, it could lessen and potentially wipe out the bulk of menopausal symptoms. On the other, it will likely be extra rollercoaster-y with the moods. Brilliant.
I just hope it doesn’t result in twins or triplets—or worse. It could, and I’ll accept whatever media headline-worthy number of babies I end up with, but the possible results ramp up my anxiety. I’m normally not so “tight-assed,” as Fox puts it whenever he catches me in the state. Really, it’s one of the reasons I usually have no problem hanging with the boys. I can roll with it. Or however you want to put it. But whatever this medication is she’s got me started on, I’m edgier, snappier, and more “tight-assed” than I’ve ever been. It’s fucking irritating. And exhausting. Maybe it’s not even just the meds. But when Nora starts advising me to have a nightcap daily, it’s probably bad. Even she’s worried about this mood-altering shit. It’s not even the good mood-altering shit. I digress.
According to calendars—which are very important in the fertility game—I’m about to head into a very fertile set of days tomorrow. With every hormone-induced anxiety, I swing by Fox’s house on my way home from the editing studio to drop the boom.
“Hey, is it baby making time?” he asks after opening the door.
“I bet you say that to all the girls you open your door to,” I say, pretending to play coy.
Flower shoves her head through the space next to his hip, looking vaguely like Jack Nicholson from The Shining. Except happier. And with a lot more panting and tongue. I grin at her and smooth a hand over her head.
“Don’t get all uppity about it,” he says, stepping back to let me in. Flower does the same. “You haven’t texted in a day or two.”
“I stopped by to let you know,” I say, nervously shoving my hands in my pockets as I slide by him. “Looks like we’re heading into ‘go time’ tomorrow. I thought we could chat about it before anything happens.”
He leads me to the kitchen where I settle in at the breakfast bar. Flower sits at attention next to me, assuming she may get a treat or a food castoff. “We’re going to have sex. Why do we need to talk so much about it?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not exactly the kind of hookup you’re used to.”
“So?”
“So what about kissing?” I ask. I don’t know why I have a shit-ton of crazy-ass questions about this. It’s not like I’ve never had sex. But with Fox, I’m overanalyzing every detail and possibility.
“What about it? We don’t need to kiss to make a baby.” He shrugs with that “what the fuck is wrong with you” look on his face.
I cross my eyes and make a noise like a constipated sea lion. “Thanks, doctor. What I’m saying is that kissing’s kind of like the warm up. You know?”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
This is the part in a TV show where everything goes silent, all attention on me under a glaring spotlight. Every eye in the house. Bated breath and all. Because the audience assumes I secretly want Fox’s baby because I’m in love with him.
Except no one else is here. And Fox isn’t even looking at me. Instead, he’s petting Flower, who’s now sitting on his foot, looking up to him—in other words, begging. And I’m not in love with him. For real.
“Do you often have sex without kissing?” I ask finally.
The audience is disappointed and I internally cackle at their thwarted plot.
Fox gives me the “don’t be stupid” look, which is my cue to retort, “Oh, did you need one of these?” I shove my hand in my pocket only to pull it out, middle finger extended.
He gasps exaggeratedly. “That’s so funny. I have two!” His hands dig into his back pockets before he slings double birds in my direction. I shove his leg with my foot.
“Be serious, asshole.”
“I’m not Sirius, I’m Harry Potter.”
“Fox. It’s not like I get a play-by-play. I mean, shit, who has time to hear about all your poonanny?”
“Poonanny? Really, Soph?” His face is worth the price of admission. And by admission, I mean the ridiculous words like “poonanny” that I like to throw at him. Really, I don’t think I use these words with anyone else.
“Fine. All that ass you bangin’.”
He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s holding back. It’s like he can’t admit I’m funny. “My God, so much ass.” He pretends to bask in his own glory.
“I swear I’m not even sure why we’re friends.” I pick up an orange from the fruit bowl on the counter and throw it at him. He catches it easily and rips it open like a savage. The smell of fresh citrus is nice, and for whatever reason, it relaxes me.
He shifts into a ridiculous sorority girl voice and dramatically pretend-pushes his hair off his shoulders. “I don’t know either, Jennifer.” He extends the “er” so long, I want to put my fingers in my ears. “You’re selfish. And you don’t listen.”
My head falls forward, hitting the counter. I lie there for a moment, recollecting myself. Okay, I’m giggling. He’s an idiot who makes me laugh.
“So!” I bellow, redirecting back to the actual topic. I lift my head and lean on my elbows. “Sexy no kissy.”
“You’re rocking some cleavage, aren’t ya?” he says with his gaze on my boobs.
“Christ, can you hold a conversation with anyone with tits? I’m not sure how we’ve managed this before.”
“Well, now I know I’m going to fuck you, so I’m more inclined to notice these things.”
“You are a crazy ass, strange dude,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Sex. No Kissing. Answer me.”
His lips twist as he grumbles. “There have indeed been times when it’s been straight up sex and no mouth to mouth.”
“That just seems… wrong.”
He crosses his arms and shrugs, pursing his mouth in that typically nonchalant style. “Not really,” he says.
“Well, would it be too weird?” I ask.
“What?”
“The sex.”
“Why would the sex be weird?” he asks. “I mean, other than we’ve been friends since birth or whatever and we’re practically related—”
“Way to make it gross. Flower, bite him.” She tilts her head in question.
He ignores me, still speaking as if I’d never tried to interrupt. “—and have never tried to get busy before.”
I lean forward and smack him. Not too lightly.
“Abusive.” He rubs his cheek, his expression pricelessly fragile. Sarcastically so, of course.
“Without kissing,” I remind him. “Would it be too weird without kissing.” I huff, irritated at the circular motion of this conversation. “Forget it.”
“I will not forget it,” he insists. “I’ll kiss you, but—”
“But what?” I make a face, prepared to be offended. Or mostly just to make him think I’ll be offended. Which I might, if I’m being honest.
“I’m just thinking, would that ruin us somehow? We can’t ever un-kiss.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I’m not sure he’s joking. I’m stuck on trying to figure out his ridiculous thought before I respond. When I do, though, I can’t say all that much.
“Um.” I look all around, avoiding his eyes as the audience and I wait for him to catch up.
“What?” he asks.
Jesus. “We can’t un-fuck either.”
“Christ,” he mutters and scrubs his face with his hands. Leaning forward, he grips the counter. “Fair play. I think I’m still drunk from last night.”
“No, just dumb. And we kissed before. When we were kids,” I say. “Remember?”
“Like that counts,” he replies, annoyed at the idea. “It was experimenting, and we were horrible at it.”
I frown. “We were not,” I say defensively. “Just inexperienced. And it does too count. You were my first kiss, jerk.”
He waves his hand around like my justification is barely plausible. “Whatever. Still doesn’t count.”
“Fine. Regardless, kissing?” I ask to confirm.
“Sure.”
I growl momentarily to myself. “I honestly do not understand why it took this long, roundabout bullshit to get to an okay, we can kiss,” I grumble. “This is so fucking weird.”
“Should we practice the kissing? Maybe get the possible weirdness out of the way?” he suggests, suddenly looking really awkward. “I’m being serious now.”
“Oh, because your cock in my vagina will be totally normal if we’re all good with the kissing.”
“Fucking hell,” he groans as he stands and stalks toward his bedroom. “You’re an asshole.”
I trip into a cackling fit, thoroughly enjoying his sudden discomfort with being teased. “If you put it in my asshole,” I call after him, “then I have seriously misjudged the intelligence contribution of my sperm donor.”
He slams his bedroom door.
“I guess we’ll talk more later?”