Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Lauren Blakely

  I let go of his arm. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was only about that, Oliver. I didn’t sleep with you to test her theory.”

  “You didn’t?” For a second, it sounds like he’s holding something precious in his hands, like a hummingbird, like hope.

  I square my shoulders. “No. It wasn’t about a law.”

  “No. It wasn’t about that for me either,” he says, his voice stretched thin.

  In it I can hear fear—fear of loss—like I heard the other day. I go with an answer that’s true but won’t hurt my heart—or his.

  I meet his eyes, willing myself to stay strong. “I think we just got caught up.”

  “Yes!” His eyes blaze. Well, then. “All caught up.”

  “It was a moment. And we just gave in.”

  “Yes, precisely. Just a moment,” he says, practically punching the air in agreement.

  Admittedly, my silly heart wishes he weren’t agreeing so easily. But my head knows this is for the best.

  “We’re not going to do it again, obviously,” I add.

  “Of course not. We know better.”

  I swallow past the stone in my throat. “We do.”

  “Yeah, we sure do.” Then he picks up the cup, takes another deep drink, and peers at the clock. “I should get out of here. I have lots to do.” He scratches his head and repeats, “Yeah, lots to do.”

  I don’t answer. I just savor the view one last time.

  I’ll see him like this again, surely. At the pool, he’ll be wearing less.

  But it’s not so much what he’s wearing or not wearing.

  It’s why. He’s still in a half-dressed state from last night, from us, together. It’s not just bed head—it’s bed head from sleeping next to me. It’s shirtlessness from me undressing him last night.

  It’s a sleepy, sex-rumpled, morning-after look, and I put it there.

  I want to put it there again.

  But I can’t.

  So it’s better if I just let him leave.

  “Yeah, I have so much to do too. The gym and planning. Maybe I’ll even add a pole-dancing class and all sorts of fun stuff.” The words tumble out to fill the awkward silence. “Plus, we have dinner tonight with your client, and maybe we should take pics for one of those The Dating Pool dates before we go? I’ll pick one and text you where to meet.”

  “Sounds brilliant.” He heads to my room, grabs his clothes and shoes, then walks to the door.

  I follow him, and as I open it, my grandmother walks back in.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” she says. “Hi, Oliver.”

  “Good to see you, Mags. I’m just taking off. Summer, I’ll see you tonight.”

  When he leaves, it feels like he takes a piece of my heart with him. My grandmother tilts her head, shooting me a curious look.

  “There’s something you need to tell me. I see it in your eyes.”

  A lump rises in my throat. She knows me so well.

  My shoulders sag as she shuts the door, and then I sit at the table and tell her everything.

  Well, I leave out the three orgasms, but I tell her that I think I’m falling for him.

  “What do I do?”

  She pats my hand. “Sweetheart, I honestly don’t know.”

  29

  Summer

  Time to focus on the gym.

  On the goal that I’ve been working toward for years.

  I am this close to nabbing the financing I need to make this happen, and all I have to do is nail this feature piece for The Dating Pool.

  I power walk around the park with Mags, where we discuss the follow-up email from The Dating Pool, with its short list of possible dates. We debate the merits of each, and settle on a few fab ones. Ones that will make the piece sing, and hopefully guarantee the magazine pays me the full amount for the article I’ll write.

  Then we catch up on her triathlon training and her friend Octavia’s Tinder woes—she did not swipe right on a dog, but she is suffering from a severe lack of interest in men her age.

  “She finds them dull. She likes a captivating young mind,” Mags says.

  “And what about you? Anyone new on the horizon?”

  “Me? I like ’em thirty-five or younger,” she says with a wink, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking this walk with me to keep my mind off Oliver. News flash—it’s not entirely working. I’m faking it, pretending I’m not thinking about him.

  But I do always love chatting with my grandmother.

  “Cradle robber,” I say with an exaggerated cringe.

  “But I do prefer to meet men the old-fashioned way. IRL.”

  “You can just say ‘in real life,’” I tell her as we power walk along the Bethesda Terrace.

  “If I don’t use the lingo, you’ll never learn it,” she says sweetly.

  “Hey! I know the lingo.”

  “Sure you do,” she says with a wink, then she squeezes my shoulders when we reach Fifth Avenue. “Good luck with your meeting.”

  She spins around and breaks into a jog. I smile as I watch her go, loving her spirit, her get-up-and-go-no-matter-what-ness. I’m glad she’s so fit at her age—seeing her energy reminds me why I do what I do.

  Or what I’m trying to do, at least.

  I head to a café and meet with some of my instructors for the classes I want to add at the gym, crossing my fingers that this dating piece will do the trick and make my dream come true.

  When I’m done, I say goodbye, grab a coffee, and google my favorite options from the short list The Dating Pool sent over. Checking the time, I pick the best one for tonight, then open my text app and tap out a message to Oliver.

  * * *

  Summer: I know you hate classes, but . . .

  * * *

  Oliver: Please tell me we’re not going to learn to knit hats or make booties. Or candles. I draw the line at candle making.

  * * *

  Summer: Candles? That’s the line in the sand?

  * * *

  Oliver: A man has to have some lines.

  * * *

  Summer: Then you’ll love where I’ve drawn this one.

  * * *

  Oliver: Can’t wait.

  * * *

  Summer: You do know I can hear the sarcasm even through text messages?

  * * *

  Oliver: I wasn’t trying to hide it.

  * * *

  Summer: See you at five on Perry and Hudson, then we’ll go to your client’s dinner, and we’ll have a hostess gift that’ll be perfectly unique.

  * * *

  Oliver: Lawyers are generally known for giving great hostess gifts. We’re often praised as a collective group for our excellence in that area.

  * * *

  As I drink my coffee and reread the thread, a pang pulls on my heart.

  This should be a good thing—that we can return so seamlessly to the way we’ve always been. We are a rubber band, snapping back into friendship shape.

  But in a way, it feels off, like this isn’t who we are anymore.

  Or maybe it’s not who we could be.

  I had a taste of that last night, and I want another drink.

  But I sigh and close the app.

  30

  Oliver

  In the grand scheme of things, I have nothing against pink. I mean, it’s not my color. I don’t wear it. I don’t decorate with it. Not that I decorate anything, for that matter.

  Point being, pink is fine, except when it’s not fine. Except when I’m surrounded by it.

  “I feel like I’m swimming in a Pepto Bismol bottle,” I whisper to Summer as the pink-haired instructor with the world’s cheeriest smile hands us aprons at the Cookie Academy.

  “It does have a rather strong Candy Land-slash-My Little Pony vibe,” Summer whispers, tying an apron around her neck.

  I fasten mine at the waist, then gesture to myself, reaching for humor and normalcy. “Domestic god is a good look on me, right?” I lift a brow and give her my bes
t smolder. “You’ve always wanted to see me in an apron—admit it.”

  Wait—

  I frown, second-guessing myself.

  Was that flirty?

  Yeah, that was flirty.

  I shouldn’t be flirty with Summer if we’re going back to the friend zone. And we are, since we’ve agreed that last night was not the norm.

  But this is a cookie-making class. Cookie dough won’t be tempting. It’s not like we’re making sensual massage oil. Now that would be a class I could get behind.

  “You look absolutely dashing.” Summer pats me on the shoulder as we set out ingredients on the pink counter. If she’s feeling awkward after this morning’s let’s-never-go-there-again decision, it’s not showing.

  At the front of the kitchen classroom, the instructor cups her mouth to make a megaphone. “Who’s ready to make the best cookie batter ever?”

  “We are,” shouts the couple behind us.

  “Woot, woot,” shouts another.

  I groan inside. Classes should not include a cheering section.

  The instructor sings out her instructions, and we set to work mixing and measuring, Summer taking pics as we go.

  “I think The Dating Pool included this date idea on its short list because it’s highly Instagrammable.” She snaps a shot of me measuring sugar.

  “Isn’t that the main criterion for a date these days? Because who will believe you had a date if you don’t post pics on social media?”

  When Summer laughs, I take it as a sign that this is where we’re supposed to be. No, not this pic-friendly, cotton-candy-pink cookie school. I mean the friendship we’ve managed to pull out of the sex nosedive. We’re flying at cruising altitude into the friend zone so damn easily it’s like we live there.

  This proves last night was a blip. Just a bump of turbulence.

  “We’re adorbs,” she says. Now she’s snapping a shot of us working our KitchenAid blender—pink, of course. Then she pauses. “Wait. How about a kiss? What’s a photo op without a kiss?”

  “Things I ask myself every day.” I drop a chaste one on her cheek.

  This is our frequency, this saccharine cute and absolutely fucking awful class where we stir up a concoction we could make at home. But in this day and age, we need a course in everything so it can be chronicled for social media, thus proving we’re having the best time ever.

  All I want to do is rip off this apron, bring her close, and kiss her senseless.

  Toss her over my shoulder.

  Carry her out of here.

  I want to strip her, touch her, have her.

  Tell her how I feel all night long, and then in the morning tell her that I want to do it again and again.

  Instead, I’m shaking rainbow sprinkles into cookie dough batter while pretending I don’t want to do any of that with the woman next to me.

  I sneak a glance at her—the girl next door who’s become the woman I want.

  Become so much more than a friend.

  The strawberry shortcake instructor swings by, checking out our mix and clapping approvingly.

  “I’ll take a picture of you guys, since you’re so cute,” she chirps.

  We pose, flashing toothy, too-big smiles, cheerily stirring our batter, peppering each other’s cheeks with kisses.

  My life has become a series of social media moments, chronicled for The Dating Pool piece, one fake moment after another with my fake fiancée.

  When we leave to make our way to Geneva’s dinner party, Summer’s brow is furrowed, and she seems lost in thought. I look at her hand by her side, wanting to take it, knowing I shouldn’t.

  Why did I think it would be a good idea to sleep with her to prove a point?

  That was a stupid idea.

  “You okay, Summer?” I ask as we walk along Perry Street, wanting to keep things light between us. “Are you thinking deep, cookie-inspired thoughts about the state of the world?”

  She shoots me a dubious sideways look. “Did cookies make you think deep thoughts about the state of the world?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Do tell,” she prompts.

  I choose the safest of my insights. “When did everything turn into a class? There are pickle-making classes, yarn-twining classes, how-to-tie-your-shoelace-into-an-origami-frog classes. Everything is a class.”

  “I wouldn’t mind learning how to tie my shoelaces into a frog,” she counters, but her tone is more curious than challenging. “Why do you dislike all these trendy classes so much?”

  “They’re pointless. People take them, but they never actually go home and make pickles, or candles, or piña coladas. They take them knowing they’ll never make pickles or piña coladas.”

  She shrugs and smiles. “Who cares, as long as the class itself is fun.”

  “You liked that?” I hook my thumb back toward the Cookie Academy.

  “Yes. I had a good time.”

  “But you could do that at home,” I argue as we reach the next block, heading toward my client’s West Village home.

  “True, but I don’t very often, and sometimes it’s fun just to get out of the house. To do something other than dinner and a movie, or dinner and drinks. You wouldn’t want to do that if we were dating?”

  That stops me in my tracks—the if. The question of dating her. The possibility I haven’t let myself ponder.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “What would you want to do, then?”

  I answer easily. “I would probably take you to, say, a hockey game. Or maybe to your favorite diner. I would take you to Central Park, since I know you love it. We’d wander through it and try to find a corner of the park you haven’t explored. But if we couldn’t, we’d just go to all your favorite places because they’re mine too.”

  The scenarios roll off my tongue. I know them well. I know her well. “I would go for a run with you, something else we both enjoy. I would ask you what new music is on your current playlist, and you’d tell me you just downloaded the playlist from Sex Education, and I’d say, ‘That’s a brilliant show,’ and you’d say, ‘I know, I love it, it’s amazing.’ And then we’d debate which one’s better, Sex Education or Schitt’s Creek, but we’d literally never decide.”

  I stop for a breath, trying to read her brown eyes. But they’re not flashing kiss me now at me in neon. Instead, they’re gentler, and that softness in them, a vulnerability, even, hooks into my heart and tugs.

  I don’t know what to do with that look or these feelings except to stand on this corner with her. Talk to her. Be with her. Go into that party tonight as if it’s a real date, not a date for show.

  Mostly, I just want to know where she’s at.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “Those things all sound like great dates too,” she says slowly, absorbing what I’ve just said, and almost as slowly, she lets a grin spread across her pretty face. “But I also had a great time with you just now at the cookie class. I pretty much always have a great time with you, Oliver.”

  I fight the impulse to draw her near, to bring her into my arms. “Yeah, same here. I hate stupid classes, but I always have fun with you. I guess part of me is just tired of the charade,” I say, but the desire to touch her is stronger than the will to stop, and I finally yank her in close for a hug. She snuggles against me, her face in the crook of my neck.

  And that feels too good.

  Too right.

  And a little too tempting. As a couple walks past us, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her hair, sweet vanilla reminding me of last night, taunting me with a tonight that won’t happen.

  I breathe her in on the streets of New York, doing my damnedest to stay very still. To not cross a line again. To make sure we’re on the level.

  Even though it’s hard.

  Maybe too hard to keep to myself.

  “You smell really, really good,” I whisper, and a bit of weight shifts off of me.

  “So do you,” she says softly into my neck. “M
aybe beautiful guys just smell better.”

  I laugh. “Yes, it’s our secret cologne.”

  She takes a beat. “Actually, it’s just you. You just smell really good, Ollie.”

  Then she draws a shaky breath and pulls back. “But if we keep doing that, we’ll get all caught up again, and we said we wouldn’t.”

  “Right. Right. We did say that.” Part of me loves that she feels the same slippery slope I do.

  Another part wants to send us both tumbling down that hill.

  We start walking again along the block and spot a couple staring at us. One of the pair, a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, offers me a tentative smile and seems embarrassed. “America’s Best Boyfriend?”

  Summer chimes in, “This is him.”

  “Can we take a pic?”

  “Sure,” she says, snuggling up against me.

  The woman snaps a picture, then her eyes drift down to Summer’s left hand. “Gorgeous ring.”

  “Thanks so much,” Summer says, and the couple turns to leave, saying they’ll hashtag us.

  I look forward to the day I’m not a hashtag.

  A little later, we reach Geneva’s block.

  “I feel a little guilty going in there,” Summer says softly.

  “Because it’s a charade?”

  She smiles softly. “Yes, to be honest.”

  “Same here. I guess I’m not as Machiavellian as I thought.”

  “Did you think you were?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I have to be a little Machiavellian. The ends justify the means and all.” I puff up my chest and put on my best dickhead voice. “I’m an asshole. I can do this.”