It is said a man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Mostly, that is bullshit, but for me today, it isn’t. I got Emily off. The feel of her pussy around my fingers is cemented in my mind. Her pleasure echoes in my ears, eagerness sweet on my tongue. The passion I felt when I looked into her eyes—that familiarity again, like we have always been a thing. Except we aren’t a thing, because the last thing I need now is commitment, and apparently, she was only interested in getting off.
Sex is all Kate wants, too, but I’m not worried about Kate and me. Things don’t have to get complicated between us, because we are both on the same page. With Emily, I am questioning whether we are even in the same book. My mind alternates between losing her number and sending her flowers. Asking how she feels about what happened, and maybe asking her on a real date. But I try to shut down all the analyzing, because there is one thing I don’t question, and that is the domino effect a relationship with Emily would cause.
“Dude, are you listening?”
My attention jolts back to Deacon, grasping for pieces of what he said to construct a generic response. “Yeah, man. Sounds like it was a difficult case.”
His head shakes, the following silence indication he has given up on the topic. When he asked me to meet him at his parents, I figured it was for leisure—shoot some pool, get in some lifting. Instead, he has bombarded me with the intricacies of a current case, and I am lacking the energy and focus to care, and feeling guilty about what I have done.
“Anyway,” he says, “What do you think about the house?”
“I think it’s the one. You need to go check it out yourself, but yeah. If you like it, it’s a go for me.”
“Did you ask the realtor about the house next door? Probably don’t want to make an offer if they don’t have a plan to rebuild. How much would that suck—looking at a burned-down house out your bedroom.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow and ask. I am sure there is a plan.”
He reaches across the table, swiping his phone, fingers tapping on the screen. “Shit. You’d be surprised how many dumbfucks with nice houses don’t have insurance. I’m calling her. I don’t want to lose out on this deal if you think it’s the one.”
Words threaten to spill from my mouth, to ask him to hold off. It’s good that Emily was smart enough to offer an alias, but any mention of a female with me that day will have Deacon wondering why I have never mentioned her.
“Nancy!” he beams. “Deacon Sanders.”
Thoughts cloud me as he moves through small talk before jumping to the house concerns.
“... Yes, yes … That’s great news … How about tomorrow?” Quickly, his eyes cut to me, and I know she has opened her big, enthusiastic mouth about my girlfriend … my pretend girlfriend, that is. “Yeah, I’ll tell him … Sounds good … Talk to you soon.”
“Tell me what?”
His stare is incredulous before a slow grin takes over, and he punches me in the shoulder. “That you have a fucking girlfriend, dude! That’s fucking great. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Who is she?”
I swallow, a lump of guilt tacked to the wall of my throat. “It’s nothing. No big deal, anyway.”
“Nothing?” He dismisses me, his hand slapping me on the back, the sting burning in more ways than one.
Deacon and I have been friends since high school, despite him not going to J. Stewart. He has never done me wrong, and yet I haven’t paid him the same respect. I have fucked around with the girl he once loved, and probably still does. Our hands all over each other’s skin, tongues in each other’s mouths. And why? Because we have a connection and refuse to control it? Is that worth the betrayal?
“Dude, I wanna meet her. I don’t care if it’s nothing. I wanna meet the girl who was able to pull you out of your funk.”
He stands, his chair screeching across the tile as his parents walk in. His parents have always treated me like family, too.
“How are you, Brooks?” his mother asks. “How was Easter? We missed you.”
“Turns out,” Deacon says, closing the fridge, bowl of what looks like pasta salad in hand, “Brooks was, uh … preoccupied yesterday.”
“Ohhh,” Mr. Sanders says, pulling a piece of paper from a drawer and checking his wallet. “Good on you, son.” His smile is big, his expensive veneers bright in the kitchen light.
I lift a shoulder in nonchalance, my skin turning hot, and feel a mist of sweat above my upper lip. I can’t live like this. “I doubt I’ll see her again. It was just a … well, you know.”
A smile spreads across Dr. Sanders’s face. She smooths the fabric of her blouse before retrieving her purse from the counter and shrugging. “Sometimes a good lay is all you need.”
“Mom!” Deacon hisses.
My jaw drops in shock, the candidness of her contribution akin to comic relief.
“Forgive me,” she smiles. “We’ll be on our way. Meetings until seven, then entertaining until the wee hours.”
Mr. Sanders moves behind his wife, his palm resting on her shoulder, smile apologetic. “Have fun, kids.”
When they’re gone, Deacon pushes a spoon toward me and hungrily dips into the bowl with his own. He is ravenous, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. “This is so fucking good. Rita makes the best pasta salad. Ever. Eat some.”
“I’m good.”
“Dude, it has fucking bacon in it.” He picks up the spoon, waving it at me until I take it.
Our eyes stay fixed on our phones, and the pasta is so fucking good, just as Deacon claimed. I am bored and ready to go home, because no matter what Deacon says or suggests, I can’t pull my brain from the prison it is currently in. My conscience and heart battle with one other. My heart stays on Emily’s eyes—that watery blue I could get lost in. Her pussy—those smooth lips surrounding my fingers. I agonize over the fact that I have no texts from her since I dropped her off. On how much I have fucked myself, because even I don’t know my own intentions with Emily.
But my brain says it is good. To let it go. It is for the best.
Only, my heart knows I can’t.
Not just yet.