Page 39 of Your Pace Or Mine

“It’s a curse. We’re both incredibly sexy and irresistible.”

We laugh, and I’m both relieved and mildly terrified that we’re getting this out in the open. Communication sure is hard.

Ashley gets up to refill our coffee like she doesn’t want to look at me as she asks, “So are we friends with benefits then? We have sex when the spirit moves us?”

She looks so beautiful as she turns toward me, her blond hair unkempt and wild. I assume she would have brushed it if I were a new flame, and the realization that she’s letting me see a private side of her overwhelms my senses. Her robe is open, revealing a thin tank top that shows her curves. The spirit is very persuasive.

“Sure, I guess. This is new for me.” I usually compartmentalize relationships, and an alarm bell in my brain keeps telling me I’m heading into dangerous territory. But I keep going. “We hold the lines of communication open. No pressure. No expectations. I just think it’s silly to claim we won’t do it again when we keep … well you know.”

“Yeah.” Ashley’s face says she’s reliving some of what led to this moment—her cheeks are turning pink. I wish we could adjourn now and get back to what we do best, but I’ve seen enough people’s relationship messes to know we should keep talking this through.

“In terms of seeing other people,” I add, swallowing hard, “I assume we’re still on the market, with the promotional activities and such.”

She looks down and doesn’t respond. I wish I could read her mind and know why she’s uncomfortable. Is it because she wishes we could be more? Or is she sad she hasn’t met the right person for her so she doesn’t have to settle for someone emotionally unavailable because the sex is good. Okay, it’s amazing, but that’s not enough for Ash.

I force myself to keep talking. “I know you’ll go out with other men, and I won’t get jealous. We’re both adults and know how to be safe.”

“Of course,” Ash says after a beat, not meeting my eyes. “I trust you.”

“And if—no, when—you meet the right person or someone who seems like he could be the right guy for now, you can tell me, and we’re done with this. I don’t want you to feel guilty, ever, about telling me the arrangement is over and we can’t sleep together again.”

I put my hand on her cheek to get her to look at me and see that I mean it. That I want her to be happy in a way I know she won’t be from hopping into bed with me on occasion. One day, she’ll meet someone who can give her everything I can’t, and I don’t want her to worry about letting me down.

“Sure.” She smiles almost sadly, and it breaks my heart that she might doubt it will happen for her.

It’s not my business, but what slides out of my mouth is “What are you going to tell your friends?”

She closes her eyes and sighs. “It has nothing to do with them. Maybe I won’t tell them.”

My jaw drops. “Ash, you tell Laurel everything.”

“I do not.” Her face reddens like she knows that’s bullshit.

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you kept a secret from Laurel, even something embarrassing?”

She laughs and puts a hand over her eyes. “Maybe I do, but she’s distracted lately. I don’t want to add to her stress. Fuck, I didn’t even check how her night with Cal’s friends went yesterday or reply to their messages. They probably think I’m ignoring them or I got murdered.”

She pulls out her phone and starts reading her texts, giggling to herself as she scrolls through what seems like a hundred messages. Geez, these women text a lot. I check my responses from Cleo and Seth and realize what a hypocrite I am—there’s no way I’ll tell Seth any of this, just like I didn’t tell him the last time we hooked up.

“She survived?” I ask when Ashley looks up from her group chat.

She shakes her head with a laugh. “She got kind of drunk and ended up doing Lady Gaga karaoke, then ran into her boyfriend’s ex-wife in the ladies’ room and they hugged. Only Laurel. Otherwise, it went well, but she’s very hungover.”

“This is why I don’t do karaoke,” I tell her, and she raises an eyebrow like this is a challenge. No way. Before she can needle me more on the subject, I want to make sure our previous conversation is closed. “So, are we okay then? We’re good with this, uh, arrangement?”

“The word ‘arrangement’ sounds sort of sketchy, but yes, we’re good.”

We both sit awkwardly for a minute, unsure what the next step is, until she adds, “Should we shake on it or something?”

I cock my eyebrow back at her. “I can think of an ‘or something’ to do instead.”

She throws her head back and laughs. That’s when I pull her into my lap, and we stop talking altogether.

“This fucking guy,” I mutter, scanning screenshots of now-deleted posts and tags from Clint. Seth, Cleo, and I spent most of the day in consultation about how to handle the situation, but rereading the messages has my blood boiling.

I think wistfully about the blissful morning I spent with Ashley confirming the benefits side of our relationship. Now I’m stuck dealing with someone whose face should be included in a dictionary under “toxic masculinity.”

After I blocked Clint from the Miss Midtown profile and Ashley’s phone, he got angry and tagged our general account in posts across social media platforms. Cleo, who deserves a raise and a vacation in Mexico, has been monitoring his comments on our account. But given that he was mostly ranting about being rejected, he was viciously burned by other commenters before we could delete everything. Still, we can’t have him harassing our users or bothering us with a bunch of sock puppet accounts. We have a potential solution, but I still need to talk to Ashley and get her on board.