Brad.
Why didn’t he mention that to me? The last time we texted, he said he would think about it, and I —blindsided by a sudden realization that I’d broken my own damn rules with our arrangement— stupidly encouraged him to say yes to the invitation. I didn’t give him any reason to think he couldn’t tell me that he was going. It stings a little that he agreed and didn’t update me.
I must make some vague sound of understanding, though, because Mike keeps chatting away. Nevertheless, I’ve tuned him out.
Why am I so thrown by this? I try to tell myself that I’m hurt because Cody didn’t tell me himself, but I know myself better than that.
I’m hurt because I’m…jealous? Is that what that feeling is?
Whatever it is, I don’t like it.
“—about you?” Mike asks, and I realize too late that I probably should have been paying attention.
“Sorry, Basil distracted me.” From his spot against my thigh, my cat shoots me a reproachful look for using him as a scapegoat. Scapecat? Whatever. I avert my gaze from his damning one and clear my throat. “What did you just ask?”
“What about you?” Mike repeats genially, used to me zoning out for various reasons. “Any plans for Valentine’s? If you’re casually seeing people again, I can’t imagine you’ll be spending it alone with Basil.” He pauses, and I hear the smile in his voice when he adds, “No offense to Basil, of course.”
I return to stroking Basil’s fur again, feeling some of the tightness in my chest loosen as his purrs vibrate against me. “Actually, no. I’ll probably be working late. I like to see the salesreports for one of our busiest days of the year in real time.” I try to remember what me of two months ago might have said about taking a guy out for Valentine’s Day and force a cocky smirk onto my face, hoping it translates into my voice. “Besides, V-Day dates always send romantic vibes and I—”
“Don’t do romance,” Mike finishes for me, sounding amused. “Your fear of commitment is nothing if not consistent.”
“We can’t all be in it for the long haul,” I reply by rote, but my heart isn’t in the playful tease this time.
Instead, a traitorous thought slips into my mind.
I could do ‘long haul’ with Cody.
And I could. Hanging out with Cody isn’t a chore. I don’t feel like I have to make accommodations for him in my personal space; he just fits. He doesn’t nag me about working late, or canceling plans for work. Instead, he sends me memes of commiseration, and then listens to me venting about the stresses of my day when we do finally talk. We love the same TV shows and, despite our age gap, share a lot of the same ideologies. We can talk for hours about anything and everything, without it feeling strained or without me counting down the time until I can say goodbye and not see him again.
Then there’s our sexual chemistry.
Sure, there’s nothing surprising about a twenty-six-year-old’s libido, but the fact thatI’mthe person who can bring that side out in him? That’s special. And the fact that he’s the only man I’ve had repeat sessions with in decades is pretty telling, too.
It just sucks that I’m having this revelation right now, on the heels of being told that Cody is dating Brad.
Stupid Brad.
No. Not stupid Brad. Stupid me!
What was I thinking when I suggested that we be friends with benefits? Why did it take another guy asking him out for me torealize just how badly I fucked myself over with that decision? How could I not have seen it earlier?
“…bringing Becca to the city for the night,” Mike is saying as I try to close the lid on the Pandora’s box of stupidity this conversation has inadvertently opened. “I booked a suite at The Royal —you know, where we went for our three-night honeymoon— and dinner at that fancy French restaurant you mentioned on your last visit. She hasn’t stopped talking about wanting to go. I blame you.”
Chuckling, I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Becca likes the finer things in life. Why she stuck with you, I’ll never know.”
He hums agreeably. “I’ve been asking myself how I got so lucky for the past twenty-eight years. Christ,” he sighs, “can you believe Cody’s almost twenty-seven? I don’t feel old enough to have a kid who’s almost thirty.”
It honestly feels a little bit like the universe is trying to remind me of how inappropriate my current FWB relationship is. I cringe and my answering laugh sounds strained and forced even to my own ears.
“God, sorry, I keep forgetting that our age is a trigger for you,” he goes on to say, which only makes me feel worse. “Forty-five sounds a lot older than I feel, too. But, hey, we’re young at heart.”
“Yeah.” Two months ago, I would have cracked a joke about only being as old as the guy I’m feeling/feeling up, but to do so now feels so very wrong. “Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
The sudden urge to confess what I’ve been doing comes out of nowhere, and I only just manage to stop myself from fucking up my longest lasting friendship. Swallowing, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cool leather of my couch. “Feel free to swing by my place while you’re in town. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, bud,” he replies with a note of alarm. “Is everything okay?”
