Like it wasright.
Likehewas right.
What I regret is how I treated him. How I reacted to the revelation that I might have feelings for my best friend.
Mygay best friend.
What I regret is walking out that door with Mack, my brother, and teammates and not staying to fight for us. Whatever us would have looked like, because I don’t know. I’ll never know.
I close my eyes as the orgasm hits, and I comehard.Relief and euphoria wash over me, but it’s short-lived. It always is, because as soon as the pleasure drops, the reality of howwrongit is to fantasize about my former best friend and our one drunk night together hits and tears open the wound again.
I shouldn’t do this to myself, and I know that. But here I am, sleeping on his couch and staring at his mouth, and making him fucking pancakes. Here I am, living in my fucking fantasies, pretending they’re real.
I shove the guilt back down in its pit, bring the gates back up and tell myself I won’t think about it again, even though I know it’s a lie.
Sometimes it’s easier to believe the lie.
The water turns cold and I wash up, get dressed, and make myself presentable. I stare at myself in the mirror, adjust my sport coat, my watch, my belt.
There’s the Austen I know. The Austen I’ve worked really hard to build.
Not a hair out of place, casual yet clean and classic. Perfect.
It’s a costume, a mask I wear. I’ve known that for awhile, but maybe if I pretend long enough, one day I’ll just slip into the disguise and forget that’s what it is.
I’m the farthest thing from perfect. I’m a fucking mess, but no one sees that. Sometimes I wish they could.
I purchase a bouquet of flowers from a cart. They don’t have lilies so I settle for pink roses because they are bright and vibrant. Red and white roses might be classic, but pink is pretty too.
When I find myself in front ofSechea, I get the strangest sense of anxiety in my gut. Like something bad is about to happen, even though I know that’s crazy. Surprising my wife isn’t a bad thing.
Showing up with flowers, dinner reservations, and a ticket to the show you’ve been going on about for months, is not a bad thing.
Maybe I’m just all messed up because of earlier. Letting those locked up thoughts out always does a number on me, when I do.
I clear my throat, jogging up the steps and open the glass doors.
The woman at the desk stares at me.
“Savannah Brewer, please,” I say. The attendant looks at me with a vapid glare.
“She’s in a meeting right now,” they say, popping their gum.
“That’s okay, just point me in her direction.” I smile.
The woman shrugs. “Fourth floor, room 403.”
“Great, thanks!” I say with practiced enthusiasm.
My heart pounds as I traverse the hallway, that sinking feeling refusing to die.
When I get to her office, the door is closed but I don’t hear any voices or anything. Maybe her meeting’s done…
I knock twice, but there is no answer, so I open the door.
“Austen, what the hell are you doing here?” she says, the shock on her face evident. A rather tall, lanky man sits in the chair across from her desk, wearing a very tailored, very expensive suit, his gaze flashing up at me with interest.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I say, stepping into the room. The tension in the air is thick, and Savannah does not look happy to see me. At all.
