It’s almost six o’clock in the evening, and I still haven’t contacted Michael. I tell myself it’s because I’ve been wrapped up in paperwork and PowerPoint, and that I don’t want to bother him at work, but that’s bullshit.
Sitting in my cubicle beneath the fluorescent lights, playing with my phone, I want to text him, but I don’t. I can’t. Fact is, I can’t figure out what I want to say to him, or how to say it, or if I really should follow through with Ian’s suggestion. What would that even mean, anyway? Friends with therapeutic benefits?
And regardless of what we call it, I’m worried sick that this could get complicated. Sex was never complicated for us, but there was never so much riding on it. During those times when we’d fooled around, neither of us had ever been otherwise attached, never mind married to one or traumatized by another. Over the years, we’d wandered in and out of each other’s beds in between relationships, but it was never a good time for us to pursue something more than sex together. One of us was coming off a breakup, or the other was too tied up with real life to even think of anything more serious.
When life calmed down and we were mature enough to know which way was up, Michael was already happily in a relationship. By the time he’d rebounded from that breakup, I met someone new. We leap-frogged like that all the way through college, until I started working and Michael was in vet school, and then came Ian, and Michael had known before I did that I’d met the man I’d marry. He was the one who told me I was being a dumbass when Ian and I broke up over something stupid, and he was the one who helped us get back together, and damn if he didn’t earn his spot as best man at our wedding.
Sometimes I catch myself fantasizing about the sex we used to have, but I never think of him as the one that got away. Just very fond, very hot memories. My relationships with both Ian and Michael turned out exactly the way they should have—I wouldn’t trade my husband for anything, and I have the best friend any man could ask for. The best friend who gave me all the confidence I have in the bedroom.
The best friend who’s lost all that confidence because of the asshole he started dating six months after I got married.
The best friend who might be able to regain that confidence with my help, if I’m willing to slip off my wedding ring, get into his bed for the first time in over a decade, and…
And no, this can’t possibly get complicated.
Cursing under my breath, I rest my elbows on my desk and rub my eyes. This is worse than the helpless feeling I had when there was nothing I could do for Michael. Doing nothing beats the hell out of doing something to fuck him up even more.
Finally, I send a text, but it’s not to Michael.
Are you absolutely sure about this?
Ian’s definitely home by now, likely grading papers. Hopefully he’s in his office or at the kitchen table—if he’s kicked back on the couch like he sometimes is, then he’s probably got either the cat or all fifty pounds of Ariel in his lap, and his phone might be out of reach.
Within thirty seconds, though, the response comes through: 100% sure.
And right after that one: I trust you.
And he needs me, my brain adds, because it’s so fucking helpful.
I’m not nearly as confident about this as my husband, but there is one thing I’m unshakably sure about—how much I want to do something for Michael.
I glance at the clock, and it’s five minutes till six. If I want to see him tonight, we need to make a decision soon, because traffic going in his direction will be hellish if I don’t get on the road in the next twenty minutes.
So, with the clock inching toward quitting time, I text him: You busy tonight?
I hit send and pray for a response of sorry, got a date with Dr. Klein.
As I log off the computer, gather my jacket and keys and wait for the minute hand to hit the twelve, I keep an eye on my phone. At six, I leave my desk, and I’m halfway to the parking garage when the phone vibrates.
Already home. Want to come by?
Already home? But it’s—
Oh, right. He sometimes has Friday afternoons off after his therapy appointments.
Perfect. This isn’t a conversation we need to have out in public.
I text back, I’ll be there as soon as I can.
And I hope to God the drive gives me enough time to figure out what to say.
I park in the space beside Michael’s car and take the stairs up to his apartment. My heart’s going like crazy, and I’ve finally worked out exactly how to broach this subject. It’ll still be awkward and might make him balk, but at least I can get enough words out for him to consider the idea without making either of us feel like an ass if he declines.
When I reach his door, I pause with my hand on the knob, take a deep breath and go inside—he doesn’t like when people knock if he knows they’re coming because it pisses off his dog.