by Mika Jolie
We’re friends.
I don’t do relationships.
She’s looking for one.
I need to accept things for what they are. No need for the over-analysis. It’s pointless to even entertain or give life to these dirty-as-fuck daydreams. Our friendship is more important than our out-of-this-world kiss.
On my desk, my phone dings. I grab it and read Cori’s text.
Hey, stranger. Guess what? I met a guy.
“Finding a friend is as hard as finding a true lover.”
THE TEXT ROCKS MY HEART, leaving it moving in foreign ways, to which I am not accustomed in all my years of living. I sit, suffocating like a fish out of water—wide eyed, heart in my mouth, my leaden lungs suppressing any efforts I make to inhale.
Needing a few minutes to compose my thoughts, I set the phone on my desk and shift my gaze to the computer screen. Everything is a blur. Any attempt to focus is a moot point. I’m caught between opposing needs—ignore Cori’s text or be the friend that I’ve been for the last two plus decades.
Yes, the first option makes me the ultimate asshole. I’m well aware of that. But shit, bear with me here; my thoughts are more tangled than my headphones. I don’t know where I want to stand with her. All I know is, now that we’ve kissed, there’s this part of me that wants . . . more. And that scares me.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I check the time. Today is her day to teach. She should be in class. I’ll call and leave a message. Easy.
I pick up my cell, scroll to her name, and tap TALK, dialing her number. To my surprise, she answers on the first ring.
“Home today?” I ask.
“No. I had a doctor’s appointment, heading to work now.”
I can hear the distinctive click of her heels hitting the pavement. It’s not hard to imagine Cori in her usual fitted black jeans, long black coat, the winter sunshine reflecting off her dark-brown hair.
“Sick?”
“Routine check-up,” she answers. “What’s up?”
“Just got your text.” Might as well go straight to the point.
“Oh.” She laughs. “Yeah, I just met him.”
At the doctor’s office? Please don’t let it be her OB-GYN. She can’t start dating him. The asshole already gets a view of her snatch at least once a year. What the fuck?
Irrational jealousy knots in my stomach. Yeah, calm the fuck down big guy. A few jerking off incidents while fantasizing about banging my best friend does not make her mine. I grab the Dogbert stress ball and give it a good squeeze.
“What does he look like?” I ask. “What does he do?” Don’t worry, I’m not being intrusive. The barrage of questions comes with being the boy friend.
She laughs. “He’s a lawyer.”
Relief washes over me. At least we’ve learned the douchebag is not her doctor.
“He’s pretty hot,” she’s saying on the other end of the phone. “Tall, light brown hair, and built like he should be a Calvin Klein underwear model.”
Automatically, I think of the Justin Bieber Calvin Klein skits on Saturday Night Live. Classic.
“So he’s built like a sixteen-year-old boy.” I’m lower than dirt, I know. A total sign of immaturity on my part. I’m supposed to be in my best friend behavior, I get it. But I’m still a man. “When’s the date?”
“Tonight, at eight. Stopping at my Gram’s for a few.”
I stroke my chin, pondering whether or not I can ask Nora for the biggest favor of my life—play sick so Cori can cancel her date. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Cori responds. “She’s going away with Tim.” Tim is Nora’s friend. He’s been her friend for the last fifteen years. She’s not big on labels. “I may have to house-sit for a few days. Want to join me?”
All the blood rushes to my dick. Cori has house sat for her grandmother before. At times, I’ve stopped by for a couple of hours, along with Katharine or by myself. Those instances were before our kiss. Now, the idea of being alone with her has my mind reeling with dirty thoughts—one pebbled nipple between my teeth, my mouth on the bare flesh between her thighs.
I clear my throat. “Did you invite Katharine?”
“No.” A car door closes. I listen to the jiggling of keys then an engine revs up. “But,” Cori continues, “if you think you . . . um . . . you might be uncomfortable around me—”
“I’m not.” The fact that my dick is as hard as wood right now is a pure indication I’m feeling a lot of things. Uncomfortable is not one of them. This leads me to think, perhaps the kiss has occupied as much space in her head as it has in mine. “Should I be asking you the same question?”
“Do you know what I love about having a guy as one of my closest friends?”
Let’s pause for a minute.
Do you notice she didn’t answer my question?
Ladies, let me give you a little bit of advice. If your intent is to avoid conflicts and keep the peace, you’re only starting a war within yourself. There are some thoughts we can’t avoid, and some feelings we can’t deny.
With that said, typically, I’d push a little more to get the truth from her. We’ve been down that road before, with Barry. At the beginning, she didn’t want to divulge the reason they broke up. Eventually, she confessed that it came down to our friendship or Barry.
She chose us.
Me.
My heart still trips over itself every time I think about that. No matter what, there will always be Cori and Dean.
Because of this, I tell myself to let everything go, for now. The fact that I’ve never gotten lost in a kiss before is inconsequential. What transpired between us was . . . well, a slip to be never repeated again.
Best to back off, lighten up the mood a bit. “What do you love about having a guy for a close friend?” I repeat her question. “Let’s see . . .” I tap my index finger against my temple. “You love having a hot guy as your wingman?” I can feel her smiling on the other end, and the corners of my lips quirk up in response.
“Okay, two things,” she responds, her voice more relaxed. “The first is definitely having a hot guy as a wingman. The second is, you’re one guy I can always count on.”
A valid statement. Her parents rarely check in, and when they do, it’s always to bring her up to date about their latest adventure.
“Always,” I confirm and mean it with every inch of me. “I gave you my word before. We’re good.”
She lets out a breath in obvious relief. “Thank you.”
It’s pretty clear, as hot as the kiss was, Cori has no desire to test the waters any further. I’m okay with that. My mind is still having trouble wrapping itself around the fact that we actually kissed anyway. “Text me after your date.”
“Will do.”
And just like that, we’re settled into our normal routine. She’ll go on a date. When she gets home, she’ll text me that all men are dogs.
THE COOL WIND HITS MY FACE as I open the stainless-steel refrigerator. The inside is well-stocked with local produce, but I can’t seem to decide what I want. Tonight, I’m insomnia’s bitch.
I grab a beer, twist the cap off, and glance at the stove clock. Eleven o’clock has morphed into twelve and now one.
Cory has yet to call.
I head over to my living room. The chill from the hardwood floor clings to my bare feet, a small discomfort against the ache the rest of my body is suffering. Flopping onto the sofa, I twist off the cap of the beer bottle and take a swig.
My mind is blank; where there should be dreams of a threesome, or whatever, lays a heavy blackness. I’m worried about Cori. What if this asshole is a killer?
Okay, it can happen. I’ve heard about those Lifetime movies.
A distraction. I need sports. Grabbing the remote, I click on the television and let my fingers guide me directly to ESPN. Highlights of a college basketball game plays on the screen. I gulp down another mouthful of my beer, check my phone again, annoyed with its silence.
Nothing.
<
br /> Fifteen minutes later, as I’m reaching for my phone, it pings. I swipe the screen and read Cori’s text.
Tonight was great. Details to follow. Tired. XO, Cori.
Remember that feeling of trepidation I experienced when Cori first announced her need to find love?
It creeps over me like an icy chill, numbing my brain. In this frozen state, my mind offers me only one thought. Today, the end of Cori and Dean begins.
“Just friends.”
HAVE YOU EVER HAD A pure bullshit of a week, when you wish you could press that ‘Do Over’ red button for a second chance?
Well, I have an empty spot on the couch right here for you. Come join me.
My day started with the wonderful news that one of my clients has asked his wife for a divorce. Get this, at the age of fifty-eight, he’s found happiness with a twenty-two-year-old. I can’t stop singing, ‘She ain’t nothing but a gold-digger,’ in my best Jamie Foxx voice.
I know. I know. I’m being a cynic. There’s no proof she’s really in love with his millions and looking for a daddy figure. And according to the latest hype, fifty is the old age of youth.
Anyway, that means it’s time for me to come up with a plan on how to divide their assets and ship that baby to their lawyers. Believe me, it’s never that easy. One of them will treat any proposal I’ve put together as unworthy of serious consideration and demand I provide a new, perfect plan that will make everyone happy. Seriously, people think it’s fun to be a super genius, but they don’t realize how hard it is to put up with all the idiots in the world.
Stocks also took a tumble, as third-quarter earnings season kicked off on a sour note. Both the Dow Jones Industrial Average and the S&P 500 indexes dropped by more than a percentage point. Shit like this has made my week tension-filled. On top of that, Cori has gone AWOL.
Instead of focusing on the mountain of work that awaits me, I fall into my seat in my office and swivel the chair toward the main view from my window. All around the sun is sharp and glinting, slowly removing all trace of the fresh layer of snow that had fallen in the middle of the night. My gaze stays on the winter trees lining the road. Their denuded forms stand stark, almost like charcoal outlines stretched by a passing artist.
Too poetic for you?
Blame it on my mother. You’ll meet her soon. Growing up, we used to have family movie night every Friday. I can go on and on about whether Pretty Woman is better than Annie Hall. Can Out of Africa compete with Breakfast at Tiffany’s? How the Civil War pales next to the tempestuous love-hate-love union of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh.
Like it or not, I watched The Notebook, Bridget Jones Diary, and a slew of others I don’t even want to name. I can recite every line of Sense and Sensibility and Casablanca. I’m not proud of that talent, but Cori loves my impression of Rick Blaine. At least Humphrey Bogart was the epitome of a man back then.
Cori again. You’re dying to hear about her date with what’s-his-name, aren’t you?
So am I.
She and I have exchanged text messages here and there. Nothing. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know his name.
But, let’s be fair, if you were getting busy for the first time in a long time, would you really be texting your guy friend?
See, I understand.
To be clear, that nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach is not jealousy. Take a step closer and look at our history. Friends since seven, remember? She’s the yin to my yang. My feeling comes from one friend caring for the other.
Okay, there’s a slight attraction on my part. But nothing I can’t handle.
My phone rattles again. This time, it’s my sister, Kate, on a group text, confirming our plans for tomorrow night.
Paragon at 7. I reserved a table for 5. See ya!
Paragon is a premiere, Mediterranean restaurant, located in the heart of Manhattan. It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’m turning the big 3-0. The big milestone. The goal is to drink and eat until our hearts’ content. We get to do it all over again on Saturday, with my parents and fifty of their closest friends. The following weekend, we head to New Hampshire.
Other than the fact that Cori has gone AWOL, and one of my clients is letting his dick do the talking, life isn’t too bad.
I pick up my phone and respond.
Got it. See you then.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Cori.
Can we add one more person? I might bring a date. Hope that’s okay.
When Cori was ten, a punk kid—who was twice my size, if not more—used to pick on her. I walked up to him and got in his face like the scrawny twelve-year-old that I was. He punched me in my stomach, knocking every wisp of air from my lungs. I lay on the concrete in a fetal position, struggling to breathe.
That’s how I feel now, trying to inhale, to exhale, totally stunned as the text bounces around inside my skull.
Let’s get something straight. Tomorrow night’s celebration has always been the five of us. We did let Barry in because the douche was Cori’s boyfriend. Other than that, just a date does not gain access to our group outings. No, I’m not a fucking crybaby, for Pete’s sake. Besides, everyone knows men never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, draw a sharp breath, and then type,
First round on me.
But in my head, I’m screaming: No, you can’t bring a fucking date. Six is a crowd.
Tomorrow night should be fun. At least my inner psycho has the last word.
EVERY HETEROSEXUAL MAN SHOULD HAVE a hot yoga instructor in their speed dial. Lorraine and I never made it out of her apartment. We fucked the night away. No need to vomit, and you over there, please stop rolling your eyes. First, I think I made it pretty clear, this isn’t a romance novel. Second, sex is a remedy necessary to allow for free and clear thinking.
No joke.
Third, have you been paying attention to this developing story? Cori is dating, bringing her pretty boy with her the night of my fucking birthday. Talk about sending a crystal signal to me. Well, I got the memo.
Fourth, my dick is awesome. Women flock to me, and I love women. One last vital piece of information I should reveal to you.
Ready?
A man can have sex without any form of emotional attachment.
Gasp.
Stunned? I hope this isn’t unexpected news. Ask any man to choose between sex or oxygen, guess which he’d pick?
Yes, we’d all be dead.
Let me put it this way, the expression of “blue balls” is not simply a reference of being deprived of sex. It is the culmination of days, weeks or months of not being able achieve release and rid oneself of this suffocating and aching feeling.
Seriously, sex for us is a physiological need to get off.
I know, I know. For most women, this just doesn’t compute. Well, here it is, one of the most fundamental differences in the wiring of male and female sexuality, that men can separate sex from a relationship, while for a woman, the two are usually intertwined.
This explains Cori’s stance. She knows me like the back of her hand. Right now, my dick rules my world.
Too bad, in the quiet moments of the night, Cori’s face is the last thing which dominates my brain.
“No, we’re not dating, but she’s still mine.”
WHEN I TURNED TWO, I was really anxious. Because I’d doubled my age in a year, I thought, if this keeps up, by the time I’m six, I’ll be ninety.
Obviously, my calculation was off.
Happy Birthday to me!
The big fucking 3-0! A fucking milestone. And I love it. We can’t help getting older, but we don’t have to get old. My parents are living proof; you’ll see on Saturday. Youth is a gift from nature, and age is a work of art.
“Hey, old man.” Cori wraps her slender arms around my neck and pulls me close. Her body presses against mine, soft and warm. “Did you get your birthday gift?”
Earlier today, a package containing
a scrapbook was delivered to my house. Going through thousands of vacation photos can seem like a mind-numbing vortex and a bit overwhelming, but not for Cori. She assembled a ton of pictures, snapped over the course of a year, of me with our family and friends. The pictures are all from different things we’ve done this year, and each page has a different theme—camping, tailgating at the Giants game, concerts. Name the moment, it was captured. One of my favorites is a picture of Cori and me, wrapped in an orange plaid blanket during one of our camping trips. She’s leaning on me, her head on my shoulder as I pretend to know how to play the guitar.
I think it’s adorable and thoughtful that she took the time to arrange a great collection of memories into such a beautiful display.
“It’s now sitting on my coffee table.” I draw in a breath, inhaling sexy, subtle notes of berries and vanilla. She smells satisfyingly sweet, like how it smells when one walks into their favorite candy store.
Her full, glossy, pink lips curl into a mischievous grin. Pink lips—she’s not wearing her red, official-date lipstick. Clearly, she’s not serious about Abercrombie. Either that, or he didn’t come. Good.
“It’s my role in life to make sure you stay in touch with your feminine side,” she teases.
“You get an A for effort.” I step behind her, help her slip out of her coat then hand it to the Maître D. Noticing a thin strap of Cori’s red camisole dangling from one of her shoulders, I hook it with my index finger and drag it over her honey skin into place. The touch lasts less than a second, but the feel of her smooth skin sends a rush of scorching heat through my body.
I swallow the big gulp of lust and try to focus. I mean, look at her. She’s looks hot as hell tonight. And her eyes . . . they're bright and liquid warm, sprinkled with light brown specks, framed by beautiful thick lashes. They remind me of Sbiten—the hot winter Russian drink.