by Lauren Layne
Once she had too much wine and said that the rain made her cry.
And no matter how legit the reasons (see: sad movie, mom getting cancer) or how absurd (the rain), I always do the same thing.
I hold her. I pet her hair. I let her soak my T-shirt with her tears, and supply her with ample tissues to cry into. (She’s not a dainty crier, this one.)
Whatever the cause¸ the tears always rip at me a little bit, like there’s this pressure on my chest that I don’t know how to relieve. I mean, all girls’ tears do that.
But Parker’s especially. She’s my girl.
And that weird feeling in my chest is definitely there this time. But it’s accompanied by something else, too.
Anger.
All the other times, her tears were out of my control. I couldn’t stop her grandfather dying, or her weird reaction to the rain.
But this time I have options.
One of which is beating the shit out of Lance Myers.
And right now, I want to.
I’m not a violent guy, strictly speaking.
But from the second I saw her trying futilely to hold back tears as she sat behind the wheel of her car, looking lost and devastated, to the moment I took her home and held her in my lap on the couch, I’ve thought about nothing except how good it would feel to plant my fist into Myers’s preppy face.
He’s a friend of mine, sure. I like the guy. I might even be a little bummed when my anger fades and I realize we won’t be hanging out anymore.
But this isn’t about Lance. It’s about Parker.
And he hurt her.
But…
I’m pissed at myself, too.
Wasn’t I just thinking this afternoon that something was off between them?
Could I have spared her this?
I could have. Or at least, I could have warned her.
Fuck.
Her tears seem to have eased up slightly, and mostly she’s just curled in a ball with her head under my chin as she hiccups into a Kleenex. I pull back slightly, but I stop when her fingers clench my shirt.
I put my hand over hers, rubbing my thumb against her palm. I want to tell her that the jackass isn’t worth the tears. No relationship is, but that’s not what she needs to hear right now.
Still, I squeeze her hand, and start to set her aside again.
“You’re leaving?” she asks.
“Just for a few minutes.” I plant a spontaneous kiss on the side of her head.
She watches me with swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I’m ruining your night. You should go out.”
I squeeze her knee. “Don’t make me make a house rule about you not being an idiot.”
“I make the house rules. Not you.” She gives me a weepy smile.
I smile back. There’s my girl.
“Give me ten minutes,” I say, squeezing her knee again.
I grab my wallet off the counter before dashing to my car. I make it back in an impressive eight minutes, armed with supplies.
A quick peek in the living room shows she’s still on the couch, although she’s curled up on her side now.
I rummage around in our cupboards, but I can’t find any champagne flutes. I swear we used to have, like, ten, but then, this is a twenty-something house. Fine stemware doesn’t last long. I settle for a clunky wineglass-type thing and, after popping the cork, fill the glass nearly to the brim.
I return to the living room where Parker’s pulled herself into a sitting position. “Sorry I was lame,” she says, looking embarrassed.
“Aw, Parks. I’ve known you for six years. I love your lame.”
I hand her the glass, noting the way her eyes light up at the sight of the contents.
“Champagne?” she asks.
“Cheap prosecco. I had to make do with the corner store since it was close.”
“Worried I’d slit my wrists if you left me any longer?” she calls after me as I go to the kitchen to get myself a beer.
“More like worried you’d be singing Celine Dion while eating mayo out of the jar.”
“The night is young!” she calls back.
I smile, because she’s sounding more like her usual self, and as I pop the top off my beer, I pull out my phone and send a quick text message to Andie, the girl I’d hooked up with last weekend. I’d been hoping for a repeat, but…
Hey babe, can’t make it out tonight. Next weekend?
I start to put the phone back in my pocket when it buzzes. Andie is a fast texter.
Did u just blow me off?
I wince at the slightly proprietary tone of the text, but I still respond. My roommate needs me.
Sure. I bet. I’ve seen your “roommate.”
“Whatever,” I mutter. I shove the phone into the back pocket of my jeans even as it buzzes again. Andie just showed her hand, and it was a bad one. I don’t care how gorgeous a girl is, there’s one thing she can’t be:
Jealous.
I wouldn’t say I’m the type of guy prone to pet peeves, but I’ve developed a definite annoyance for people’s dull-witted assumption that just because Parker and I get along, enjoy each other’s company, and are compatible housemates means we’re supposed to be fuck buddies on the side.
Everyone acts like we’re giving the middle finger to nature or something. So, in turn, I give the middle finger to anyone who implies we’re anything other than what we are:
Friends who happen to have different chromosomes.
Get over it, world.
Also, note to self, remind Parker that you do too know something of biology.
I’m about to rejoin Parker on the couch, wondering if she’ll be able to hold it together long enough to tell me what exactly went down with Lance, when there’s a knock at the door.
It’s John Harris, one of my good buddies. “ ’Sup,” he says, letting himself in like he has a million times. “Wanted to see if you want to grab a beer at O’Perry’s before the party.”
John skids to a halt when he sees the red-nosed Parker on the couch, holding her enormous glass of bubbly between her two hands.
“Sweetheart,” he says to her. “Who do I need to beat up?”
Parker and John have always gotten along, and she smiles, even though it looks a little forced. “I find I’m unexpectedly single,” she says.
“That fuckwit.” He opens his arms. “Hug?”
She hesitates for just the briefest of seconds, and, instinctively knowing she wants space, I thwop John on the shoulder. “Dude. Don’t be that guy.”
“What? I said hug, not cop a feel,” he says as he drops his arms. “So I take it no party tonight, huh? You girls gonna stay in, eat ice cream, and bash men?”
“Popcorn, actually,” I say, pointing to the table where I’d placed the microwave popcorn I’d picked up along with Parker’s wine.
John lifts his eyebrows. “Two boxes? Aren’t there three bags per box? Are you starting your own movie theater?”
“We always burn at least one bag. Our microwave is older than God.”
“We should give the burnt popcorn to God!” Parker bursts out, before busting up laughing.
John looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and I mime a quick back and forth drinking motion. Parker’s oversized pour of prosecco is nearly empty already. Seems we’re headed toward a drown-your-sorrows kind of evening.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, heading back toward the front door. “If she passes out early and you want to come out, text me?”
“Sure.”
I nod goodbye to John before detouring to the fridge for the prosecco bottle. Might as well leave it on the coffee table for easy access. At this rate, she won’t even register when it starts to get warm.
I plop on the couch next to her, top off her glass with a smaller pour this time, and pull her legs over mine.
“Talk or mute?” I ask.
It’s a game we play whenever the other person has something on their mind. You can either spill your guts, which is
the talk option. Or keep it to yourself, mute, no judgment made, no offense taken.
“Talk,” she says surprising me. Then again, alcohol always brings out chatty Parker.
“He dumped me,” she says bluntly.
I already knew this, but I rub my palm over her shin. “He’s an idiot.”
“Yeah.” Her head flops against the couch cushion. “But so am I. I feel stupid for being blindsided, though. All the signs were there.”
This surprises me a little. I thought she’d been perfectly happy. Hell, I thought she thought she was going to marry the guy. She’d always seemed so…content.
“Well.” She takes a big swallow of wine before swinging her legs so her feet are on the floor before pouring a little more prosecco. She takes another big gulp. “We hadn’t had sex in this long,” she says, turning unsteadily toward me, hands held wide apart, index fingers extended. She nearly takes out my eye.
I gently catch her hand before she can blind me. “Oh, yeah?” I ask casually as I debate whether I can make a successful grab of her wineglass.
“Yeah.” It’s only one word, but she manages to slur it. Was she always such a lightweight?
“Two days, huh?” I ask.
I lean forward to take the glass from her hand, but she pulls it away with a snort. “Only in your world would two days without sex be a long time.”
“Two weeks? Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, incredulous. I try to grab for the wine again, but her drunken reflexes are better than I expected, and she pulls it away again.
The look she gives me is half amused, half-horrified. “What are you, some sort of sex hound? Two weeks is nothing.”
“Hey, I’m in my prime,” I say. I start to make another grab for her wineglass, before I register what she’s trying to tell me. If not two days, and not two weeks…
“Wait,” I say. “Wait. You haven’t had sex with Myers in two months?”
She tries to tap her nose as if to say bingo, but misses and taps her cheek instead.
I forget all about confiscating her wine. Hell, if she hasn’t had sex in two months, she needs it. “And you thought that was normal?”
“No, Olsen, I didn’t think it was normal,” she says with a bit of an edge. “But he was busy, and I was busy….”
“Two months,” I say again.
“I was going to fix it,” she says, setting her wineglass down too hard on the coffee table. Luckily the ugly glass is bulky and sturdy as shit, so it doesn’t break. Actually, now that I think about it, it might be plastic. Good call, Ben.
I take another sip of my beer as I process the information. Lance hadn’t touched Parker for two months? Maybe I’m more sexually prolific than most, but that just seems…
My thoughts scatter as I realize that Parker’s wiggling out of her shirt. What the—? “Keep your clothes on, Blanton!”
Her shirt hits me in the chest, and she’s on her feet standing to face me, flinging her arms unsteadily to the side.
“Look.”
My vision seems to go blurry for a moment, and I want to glance down to see if I’ve drunk more than half my beer without realizing it, because I’m downright light-headed.
But I can’t glance at my beer, because I’m looking at Parker in a knockout red bra. And I mean to look away because it’s Parker, but she’s…stunning.
There is no other word for it. Parker Blanton without a shirt is stunning.
I’ve seen her in bikinis before. On spontaneous weekend trips to the coast with the gang, or spring break in Cabo. But she’d always been with Lance, and I generally had a flavor of the month, and although I registered Parker as having a good body—a great one, even—it had been in a sort of detached kind of way.
But I don’t feel detached now, when she’s so close to me, all golden creamy curves and slim waist and full, round breasts. And damn, that low-cut bra displays them to fucking perfection.
I chuck her shirt back at her. “Put this on. Now.”
“I was trying to fix the no-sex thing,” she says again, ignoring the shirt as it falls to the floor. “I bought this for Lance.” She gestures up and down her body and I take a deep breath.
“But I didn’t even get to show him.” Her voice is glum. “And the panties match.”
Her fingers move to her jeans button and I all but fly off the couch, heading for the kitchen to get another beer, or a glass of water, or maybe just a handful of ice to stuff down my pants.
She follows me, still rambling, and I pull another beer out of the fridge, tempted to rub it against my face in an effort to cool down. “You better have that shirt back on, Parks.”
I turn around, but no. No shirt. I lock my eyes on a spot above her head, even as I feel the distinct stirring of my cock. I’m only human, after all. Objectively, I know she’s Parker, best friend and platonic roommate.
But another part of me—the part currently swelling in my jeans—only knows her body is a fucking ten.
She opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand to stop her. “House rule. Shirts in the kitchen. Remember? That’s your rule.”
“One you break all the time,” she says, making no effort to go retrieve her shirt.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and, setting my beer on the table, I quickly pull off my own T-shirt. I’m wearing a navy one layered over a white one, and I leave the bottom layer on, so we’re not exchanging one shirtless disaster for another. I move toward her and unceremoniously yank my free shirt over her head.
She obediently puts her arms through the armholes, apparently still unaware of the effect her half-naked body is having on mine. “Your shirt smells nice. Not like man stank,” she says happily.
“Wonderful.” I take a long pull of my beer. Then another.
“So anyway. I spent, like, a hundred dollars on slutty red lingerie that nobody will ever see,” she says, sounding adorably put out about it.
“Aw, Parks,” I say, my good-friend humor restored now that I don’t have perfect tits distracting me. “You’re acting like you’ll never have sex again. You can wear the slutty red stuff for some other guy.”
I expect her to continue her pity party, but instead her expression turns thoughtful. “You’re right.”
I narrow my eyes at her. I know that tone. That tone is dangerous.
She breaks out into a wide smile. “I’m going to be a girl version of Ben!”
My beer halts halfway to my lips as I try to follow. “What?”
She moves toward me. “I like sex, Ben. I miss it.”
Oh dear God, please don’t talk to me about sex after I just saw your tits.
“But you’re so right,” she continues. “I don’t have to wait for stupid Lance to come to his senses, or do the whole wretched-relationship thing again. I can do sex like you do sex. Whenever with whomever.”
“Okay, now hold on, Parks—”
She wags a finger in my face. “Be very careful what you say here, Ben Olsen. You wouldn’t be tempted to walk into a double standard, now, would you? You know, take the stance that a guy who sleeps around is just a boys-will-be-boys player while the female equivalent is a slut.”
“No!” I’m annoyed by the accusation, but that doesn’t mean I like what Parker is suggesting with this wherever-whoever thing. I mean casual sex, fine. But going out of her way to seek it just doesn’t seem like her.
“I was just going to say that I think you should sleep on it,” I say. “You’ve been single all of two hours, and you chugged a bottle of wine in about a quarter of that time.”
I’m expecting her to rail at me for being a lecturing, sanctimonious ass, but to my surprise, she drops the scolding diva finger and purses her lips. “You’re right. I’ll wait until tomorrow to think things through.”
Thank God.
I feel a little tickle near my hairline and lift a hand to my temple where I feel moisture. Fuck me. Am I sweating?
“Popcorn, wine, and a movie?” she asks, then totters out to the coffee table and picks up a box
of popcorn, bringing it back into the kitchen and holding it out at me with a friendly smile.
“Absolutely,” I say, grasping at the popcorn like it’s a lifeline. I’m beyond grateful that I don’t have to follow around a drunken Parker from bar to bar when she’s hell-bent on getting laid by some horny jackass who won’t call her tomorrow.
“Hey, Ben,” she says, turning back in the kitchen doorway.
I put the flat popcorn bag in the microwave and hit the POPCORN button. “What’s up?”
“Thank you. You’re my best friend. You know that, right?” She gives me a tentative smile.
Drunk Parker is cute. I smile. “Damn straight. And you’re my best friend, too, Parks.”
Just as long as you keep your shirt on.
Chapter 5
Parker
I spent all of yesterday hung over. It was a blessing, almost. I was so preoccupied with my headache and the queasiness that I didn’t have much room to think about the whole being-dumped thing.
But today is Monday.
As if Mondays don’t suck hard enough, I woke up feeling like garbage. Not because of the hangover; that was long gone, thanks to yesterday’s diet of saltines and Gatorade.
Today’s pain isn’t physical. It’s my emotions that are queasy.
I’m so out of it that I even let Ben drive us to work.
Usually I insist we take my car, because his is a big gas-guzzling monstrosity. (I suspect this is because Ben is from the Midwest and likely grew up learning about cattle and cow pies, while I was learning about kale and compost.)
But today I’m low on mental togetherness, and I need to save what few brain cells I do have for the weekly marketing meeting. The junior team takes turns presenting to senior leadership, and since there are eight of us who are low on the totem pole, I have to present only every two months or so.
Of course today would be my day. Just my luck.
“You’re going to rock it,” Ben says, weaving out of our lane and then back into it so fast I nearly get whiplash.
I spare him the tiniest of glares. He always says things like this with utter confidence, but what my best friend doesn’t realize is that not everybody is as effortless in front of people as he is.