By Tuesday, everything had changed.

I had now made out with my best friend and seen her wrapped in a towel. I was in the kitchen having a midnight snack, when the door to the bathroom in the hallway opened and she emerged, skin glistening, towel wrapped so tight and low on her chest, her soft perky tits pushed up and squeezed together, humming to herself as she strolled the six feet to her bedroom door. Instead of scampering and shrieking “don’t look at me I’m naked!” as I would have expected, she took her sweet ass time and even turned her head to look me straight in the eyes while combing her fingers through her silky wet hair.

If it had been anyone other than her, I would have known immediately and without question that she was either giving me an invitation or hard-core teasing me. But Gemma doesn’t do that kind of thing. At least she didn’t used to.

Five years worth of denied attraction suddenly showed up uninvited in my pants and it wasn’t going to go away without a fight. 

There weren’t enough math problems in the world to keep my mind occupied after that, and the hundred sit-ups I did in my room did nothing to make the monster boner subside, so I also did something I’d never done before: I left the door to my en suite bathroom open, got into my shower and jerked it to a filthy fantasy of my housemate tiptoeing in and joining me, and I didn’t even bother to keep quiet when I came like a rocket.

I had not seen her since then. She was probably fast asleep at that point. Part of me hoped that she was, and part of me hoped that she wasn’t.

Also, I was officially a naturalized American citizen.

The ceremony was held at the convention center. There was no pomp and circumstance, just a big American flag hanging from the ceiling and a big screen for the video of a bunch of notable US landmarks edited together with a soundtrack that sounded an awful lot like the theme for The West Wing. I found it all very moving. Or, I guess I should say that I was moved.

I received my certificate of naturalization and had to turn in my permanent resident card—the green card that Gemma Kelly married me for. Now that I was surrendering it, it felt like that part of our life was really over. I felt…melancholic. Until I thought about how fucking great she looked wrapped in a towel and how amazing the next part of our life could be if I had just dropped that mug of peppermint tea I was drinking in the kitchen, strode across the house to her room, pulled that towel off of her toned curvy body, and licked and sucked every wet inch of her until she begged me to fuck her and never ever stop.

These were not the kinds of thoughts that I should have been having about my best friend, especially while holding such an important government-issued document.

I’d had my assistant clear my schedule for the afternoon, and no one else was home to celebrate. Everyone else was at work, of course, Gemma was on set. She had been getting in late, going to work early as she said she would, so we hadn’t had time to talk about things. I didn’t know if she was really planning to move out, or when. I just knew that I didn’t like coming home when she wasn’t there.

She had left out a cupcake on the counter before she’d left that morning, with a note written in red white and blue ink: Congratulations, Walker! I guess America is stuck with you now. xo

I knew that she had gotten the cupcake at a bakery in Culver City, near the lot where she was working. She would have had to drive there on her lunch break yesterday. She got my favorite flavor—coffee toffee. I ate the whole thing in two delicious bites, and each time I took it into my mouth I imagined…The opposite of getting a call from my mother right at that moment.

But that’s what was happening. I swallowed and reached for my water bottle as I answered.

“Hey Mom.”

“Is it over? The ceremony?”

“I wouldn’t be answering the phone in the middle of it. Yes, I’m home.”

“So—you did it! Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” My parents weren’t exactly thrilled that I hadn’t returned to Toronto after graduating, but they were supportive of my endeavors nonetheless. I was lucky that way.

“So that’s all done then. The whole process?”

“Pretty much. I just have to send out my passport application. I’m paying extra for a quicker processing time.”

“And how’s Gemma? Do you have…plans?”

“Regarding?”

“Are you going to be…you know…making any changes to your current situation?”

“We haven’t really had time to discuss it.” It was a half-lie. We hadn’t discussed it to my liking, anyway. “I’m in no rush.”

“Oh, good!” She sounded so happy, you’d think I’d just told her I’d bought her front row Michael Bublé concert tickets.

“Why?”

“I just mean, well, you know. She’s so good for you.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m good for her too. I think.”

“Oh sure, of course. I like her. Your father did too, when we came out for your marathon. And she’s not seeing that out-of-town boyfriend anymore, right?”

“Right.” This was weird. My Mom never talked to me about girls. Like, ever. “What are you trying to say, Mom?”

“I’m just saying…”

“You’re not saying anything, actually.”

“Exactly. I know you don’t like to talk about these things. I was just giving you my two Canadian cents. They’re only worth about one and a half American pennies, so…”

“Mom. If you want to say something, just say it.” Maybe if someone says it out loud I can actually let myself think it.

“I just think you’re so cute together. The way you were at the wedding.”

“Marriage ceremony.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. You’ve been so ambitious for as long as I can remember, Theo, and we’re so proud of what you’ve accomplished, of course, but…You can’t run all the time, sometimes you just need to stay in one place and be with someone. And she’s a good someone. That’s all. I’ll let you go. Muah!”

“Mom?”

She’d hung up on me. My Mom hung up on me.

After Fitness Nerd made me a high net worth individual, I hired a personal business manager to handle my finances. It wasn’t easy for me to hand over the responsibility to a stranger, but I didn’t have the time or mental bandwidth to do things like pay bills or stay on top of the stock market once I had a growing company to run. My lawyer helped me find a guy that I liked and I had him sign a nondisclosure agreement about my situation with Gemma. He immediately tried to get me to do a post-nuptial agreement, as I’d expected he would.

He wanted it in writing that she would only get half of what’s in our joint bank account plus the car that I bought in our name, if and when we divorce, and none of my other assets. I wouldn’t even consider it. If anyone deserves half of everything I have, it’s Gemma Kelly. But she claimed she didn’t even want that. I believed her.

I just didn’t want to divorce her.

I was thirteen when my parents divorced, so “divorce” isn’t just a word to me like it is to Gemma, whose parents are still together, whose parents’ best friends are still together. My parents became friends again by the time I had graduated high school, after things had ended between my Dad and his girlfriend. My Mom eventually had the kind of career that she wouldn’t have been able to focus on as the wife of an investment banker. But I still haven’t forgotten how hard it was for her to get over the end of the marriage. It sucked for me too, and even though my Dad seemed happy with the woman he left my mother for, I saw how messed-up he was about it.

Even if ours was, by most people’s definition, a “fake marriage,” and the three years I spent with Gemma can’t compare to the seventeen years my parents were married, that wouldn’t make it any less of an ending. The divorce would be real. Just the concept of it was creating tension. Or was it the concept of us having sex with each other that was creating the tension? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was—there are two ways for me to relieve tension. Gemma was at work, so I couldn’t do it the preferred way, even if she were open to it. So that left going for a long run.

As much as I love and respect my mother, sometimes you do just have to run—to clear your head, or to focus on one thing. It’s not always about distance. Sometimes I feel closer to things when I’m running because I don’t have any technological distractions to keep me from thinking about them.

It was way too sunny and warm to be doing this now, but I only had a two hour window before I had to get on a video conference call with Palo Alto, so I sprayed on sunscreen and drove to the Silver Lake Reservoir with a liter of coconut water and a brain full of Gemma.

I was breaking in a new pair of running shoes, and I wasn’t sure if they were quite right for me. But I always give things a week, to figure out exactly what it is that’s not working. Whether it’s a product I’m developing, or a new eyeglasses prescription, or a girl I’m seeing. How long would I give it to see if it could work with Gemma? If what could work, exactly?

I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Departed. I was like a cop who’s been so deep undercover for so long that I didn’t know who I was anymore. Was I a guy who’d always been attracted to her but was pretending to be her platonic friend, or was I her platonic friend who was finally realizing just how much I wanted to do dirty sexy things with her?

Bottom line: I wanted to do dirty sexy things with her while somehow not losing her as my best friend.

Is that even a thing?

I needed to make it a thing.

But I knew I shouldn’t change lanes without signaling first.

In geek speak: You can’t just hide that friend-zone app in your operating system and then update it to a new version that includes a dating option—it has to be uninstalled so the new version of the program can work. Teasing her like I had on Sunday morning after a drunken make-out session—that was a rookie move, but I knew I would be able to recover.

In entrepreneur speak: I was going to approach this as I would if I had a startup that needed to pivot from its initial business plan, to kickstart growth. I needed to keep it simple, focus on the key feature of my new approach, and clearly show how I stand out above any competitors. As if that weren’t totally obvious. Still, I needed to research my target customer.

After running about two miles, I did something I hadn’t done in years—I stopped mid-run to make a phone call.

Chloe answered almost immediately. “Hey! Did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Get what? Oh my God. A piece of paper that states you’re an American citizen.”

“Oh yeah, I did.”

“Fuck yea, America! Right?”

“Yee haw.”

“Are you okay? Why aren’t you more excited?”

“I’m totally excited.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I paced around and said “hey” to a couple of joggers who were passing me from the opposite direction.

“Oh my God, are you out running? Did you stop mid-run to call me? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I was just…Fuck. I just wanted to casually ask you something about Gemma.”

Silence on her end.

“Hello?”

“Yup. Cool. What’s up?”

She sounded like she was trying really hard not to sound excited. Like she’d been waiting for this conversation for years. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. I heard her shut her office door.

“I was just wondering if she’s mentioned anything about dating-type stuff to you lately.”

“Holy fuck it’s happening! Oh my God it’s happening! Yes!”

“Did you just fist pump?”

“No. Yes. Fuck you. I’ve been waiting for this all year—God you’ve taken your sweet ass time about this you prick. It was the Ben guy, wasn’t it? That’s what tipped the scales.”

“What scales? There are no scales.”

“It knocked you on your ass.”

“I am definitely not on my ass.”

“Ahhhhh! This is huge. What are you going to do? You better not fuck this up, homeboy. Just be cool.”

“I am cool. You be cool.”

“I WILL NOT BE COOL!”

“Can you just answer my question?”

“No! I mean no, there’s no actual dating situations to speak of. She wants to. She’s ready. She’s so ready.”

“She is? So she’s talked about wanting to date other guys?”

“Yeah of course. Have you seen her body lately? She’s been working out and exfoliating and self-tanning and moisturizing. Did you see how big her hoop earrings were on Saturday? That’s earring-speak for my vagina is open for business—wide-open!”

I should not have made this call.

“But obviously her vagina would prefer to do business with you, Theo.”

“Why do you say that?”

After a brief pause, wherein I could literally hear her eyeballs rolling around in their sockets, she said: “Jesus. If you honestly don’t know, maybe you don’t deserve her.”

And that was all I needed to hear. “Chloe—don’t tell her we had this conversation.”

“Sistuh, please. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

She hung up on me. It was the second time I’d been hung up on by a woman that day, after discussing Gemma. It was like they wanted to get off the phone before anyone said anything that would mess this delicate situation up.

I started jogging again, determined to do another full lap around the reservoir before thinking about Gemma again. I made it about ten steps, then gave up. I didn’t give up on the run, I gave up on not-thinking about Gemma. I was resigned to a lifetime of it.

Since we’d kissed, I had decided not to have sex with anyone except Gemma. Which would have been a lot easier if I were already having sex with her. But I didn’t want to be hypocritical in wanting her to refrain from having sex with anyone other than me, while I was still going out with other women.

I know. Somebody throw me a parade for being the greatest guy in the universe.

Being a man of honor should be enough of a reward in itself, but I was horny as fuck and I didn’t know if I’d be able to remain in the same room with her anymore without wanting to rip her clothes off. I didn’t even remember how I managed to be around her for years without imagining what it would be like to kiss her all over all the time.

I had been taking longer showers for the past couple of days because I couldn’t be naked without thinking about penetrating her from every possible angle, so my next water bill was going to be huge and my inability to deal with these feelings in some other way was detrimental to the environment. I. Needed. To. Do. Something. I just had to pick the right time.

I knew it was unfair to ask her to commit to me forever when she’d only been with one other guy and I’d been with more than ten, less than a hundred females—but I was one hundred percent willing to do whatever I could to ensure that she’d never miss having sex with anyone else. Whatever. I. Could. And lucky for us, I can do a lot.