But I don’t care how long his list is. As long as I can get him in my car, I’ll have his full attention.
I run a hand through my hair, which has gotten a lot longer and thicker in the last few years.
Long enough to get a good grip between your fingers. I grew it out the first year of my marriage, after I’d gotten a massage—-something I do regularly now, to also help alleviate my stress—where the tech literallygrabbedmy hair in her fist and pulled it. It hurt, but when she released it, it felt so damn good. I thought maybe my wife would be into it, that maybe she’d do it if she was pissed off enough and it would be a win-win situation, but she just told me that was “weird” and no guy wants to have his hair pulled.
Why the hell not? Doesn’t everyone want a little tension relief?
Sucking in a deep breath, I stare at my reflection and give myself one last look over. I’d made sure to trim my facial hair as neatly as possible and even stole one of Savannah’s brow pens to fill in the little spots to make it look better, a trick I learned after she got her job withSechea,the clothing design company she’s been working with for the last four years. The model they’d hired had come down with the flu, and Savannah was worried she’d come under fire if she couldn’t find a replacement.
I stepped in, not wanting her to be any more stressed than what she was. I thought the experience would bring us closer together. It was the only time she really thanked me for helping her, but the next day, it was back to the norm.
The norm being Savannah ignoring me unless she wanted something.
Still, I guess one of the perks of having a beauty-obsessed spouse who works in fashion means there’s no shortage of makeup or skincare in our house, which I’m thankful for.
Especially today, of all days.
I nod in approval, figuring this is the best I’m going to get, give myself a spray of cologne, and head for the front door.
The house is quiet, but that’s how it always is. Even when Savannah is here, she’s usually in her room or lounging on the couch, doom-scrolling her phone.
I make dinner every night, always set her a place, but she rarely joins me anymore.
That’s the way it’s been the last few years.
Starting up the car, I glance at the clock. I did set our reservation for seven, since it is a Saturday night and all, but it’s not like we have to go far.
The restaurant is nearly ten minutes from my house, technically, but Cam’s mom lives on the edge of the town, across the railroad tracks, which is about a twenty minute drive to Luigis from there.
So I know he hasn’t left yet, even if he was planning on catching a ride. Which means I have just enough time to get my ass over there and surprise him.
Is it a risk? Sure. He could very well tell me to fuck off and take my reservations and shove them andleaveonce again.
But something tells me he won’t. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe it’s just my optimism, but either way, I don’t waste time as I pull out of the driveway and head over to Ms. Scott’s.
In all the years Cam and I were friends, I’d never been in his house. The in-law suite he stayed in was somewhat separate, and I’d only been in his room a handful of times.
Anytime I asked, he would get super defensive and whatnot, and I learned quickly it was a sore spot.
I know he felt embarrassed or worried I’d judge him, like if he could just separate us from his life, it was easier for him to pretend it wasn’t his life.
So I stopped asking because I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, and as such any time we hung out, it was at my place, which was fine.
I wanted him to feel at-home in my home, even then.
I never got to show him my house—the one my parents gifted me and Savannah. But a part of me hopes maybe he’ll accept my apology, hear me out, and want to rebuild all the years we lost and maybe I’ll get to show him my house. That I’ll get to see him in my kitchen, or lounging on my couch, watching a movie or something.
I’m sure Savannah would be less than pleased to have Cam disrupting her strategically arranged throw pillows.
My vicious brain latches on to the latter, the image of Cam lounging on my couch, one arm behind his head, the motion elongating his toned biceps.
I can almost see those steely grey eyes gazing back at me from underneath a head of messy, dark hair, pillowy lips parted just the slightest.
My cock twitches, and I groan, absentmindedly adjusting myself with one hand while the other palms the steering wheel.
No. That is not happening. That isnotwhy we are here! That kind of thinking is what got us in this predicament in the first place.
I wish I could say what happened between us really was a drunken mistake. That I had no idea what was going on, but the truth is… I did know. I knew when I kissed him what I was doing, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I’d been staring at his fucking mouthwonderinghow many men he’d kissed, days before I did it.
