It’s Christmas and my family are deep into that holiday cheer bullshit and as much as I hate to admit it. I feel like something is missing. It nags the hell out of me. I know what, or shall I saywho, it is but, fuck if I want to acknowledge it. Chloe picked up Bree the next morning because I’d unwittingly signed myself up for three days of holiday hell.
I reach for my phone then draw back. I refuse to check it. Bree has me over here babysitting my phone and looking for a text or call like a whole bitch. Scoffing, I get up from the table and stop pretending to play Monopoly. I’ve gone bankrupt a long time ago. I take a sip of the tequila sunrise I’m pissed at myself for making.What kind of Brokeback bullshit am I on?Making a drink because I miss the girl who loves it. I immediately pour it out to redeem some of my man points.
It’s almost 9:00 P.M. What the fuck has she been doing all day?
“Just call the woman already,” my dad says around a bite of cake.
I was too busy sulking to realize he’d left the game to follow me.
“What are you talking about?” My denial is as weak as I am right now.
“You miss Bree.”
“I just saw her yesterday,” I hedge.
“Cut the bullshit, Ollie.” I look up at my dad. The betrayal. He never calls me ‘Ollie.’
“Now that I have your attention, I need you to understand something. Falling in love doesn’t make you less than a man; it’s how you handle it. If you miss her, tell her. You say you saw her yesterday, but you’ve been antsy since she left. You look like you’ve lived the longest twenty-four hours of your life.”
“I’m not in love, Dad.”
He shrugs and shoves another piece of rum cake into his mouth. “Suit yourself.”
My phone pings and it’s a picture of Bree wearing a reindeer ears headband with the caption ‘Merry Christmas.’
I’m grinning like an idiot when my eyes meet with my dad’s again. He tilts his fork at me and walks off without another word.
* * *
Bree is a rule follower. I know that. She works in the Science field which requires rules and regulations. I’m aware of that as well. But, what I can’t take are the words that come out of her mouth only a week into January.
“That was the last time.”
“Huh?” I heard her, but I didn’t hear her.
Bree adjusts the dress I’d warned her against wearing in my presence.
“That was time number twelve.”
I run over the past few weeks in my head. It’s been twelve times already? I withhold the internal panic when I realize, I’d stopped counting, but she didn’t. More so, had I known that’ll be the last time, I would have taken longer, made her scream louder, and made her cum harder.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “There were times where you’d jump me two or three times a day. It added up fast.”
Sliding into my jeans takes longer than it ever has; I’m stalling to formulate a response. I can’t really be mad at Bree. These are the rules we agreed to follow in the beginning.
“What will do you when you’re horny,” I challenge with a head tilt.
“You, Mr. Dixon, taught me the proper way to masturbate. Remember?”
Her response is equally arousing and frustrating. I have nothing. There aren’t any loopholes to work in my favor. I initiated every fucking time because I was so hungry for her. I feel like someone who went to a restaurant only to find their favorite meal is no longer on the menu.
“True,” I agree to save face. “Well, congratulations on completing my crash course in fucking,” I joke, although I feel no mirth.
Bree rocks to her tippy toes and kisses me like she wants more. I’d be happy to give it to her if she asks.
She beams up at me once she pulls away. “Now, the friendship portion of our relationship can begin.”
