Save the Date

by Carrie Aarons

  “I can’t let you waste away in that apartment, it hurts my soul to watch it. Plus, your tits aren’t always going to look like that, so use them while you can.”

  A few seats down the bar, a guy caught my eye and nodded his head in greeting. He was cute, but not my type. Blond, burly, looked like a John Cena clone or something.

  If I was going to have to suffer through flirting or dating, he at least had to be tall, dark, handsome and lean. A little spark in murky green eyes, a little dark hair to run my hands through.

  Why was I describing someone I definitely shouldn’t be thinking of as a romantic option …

  “That guys is totally checking you out.” Jill says this so loud that blondie at the end of the bar can definitely hear.

  “Not interested.” I turn my eyes to my drink.

  “Seriously? You’re the worst wing woman. You could at least introduce me!” She downed the rest of her cosmopolitan.

  I leveled her with my stare. “The last two guys who talked you up in here had wedding rings on. They were openly just trolling for chicks even though their dicks have another woman’s name stamped on them. If that doesn’t show you that all men are pigs, I don’t know what will.”

  Jill rolled her eyes at me. “Okay, maybe you’re right about those guys. But I know he’s out there. My Mr. Right. The one.”

  God, I hated this whole “the one” talk. It was bullshit. No one had a soul mate. Sure, I guess I believed that people could fall in love, maybe not me, but other people. But I didn’t believe it was because they had a soul mate. Being with someone was a conscious choice, one you made over and over again. Even through the difficult times, through the shit. You decided to love that person despite their flaws, not because some divine intervention came in and sprinkled rainbows and unicorns over you both.

  “Hot damn, fresh meat at six o’clock.” Jill straightened, ignoring me and pushing her breasts out.

  I didn’t even try to be sleuth. I just turned all the way around in my bar seat, looking behind me for whatever guy was about to hopelessly hit on us next.

  But … I was pleasantly surprised. Two older gentleman, probably late thirties, mid-forties, were eyeing us. They weren’t foaming at the mouth, like some of these twenty-four-year-olds who approached us, but instead biding their time and politely eyeing us, calculating when to make their move.

  The one that captured my interest had salt and pepper sprinkled through his dark locks. A sharp suit, not the jeans and untucked polo or button down look. He was mysterious, and my lady parts responded. Now, just because I don’t believe in love doesn’t mean I don’t believe in a good roll in the sack. No, that I definitely believed in. A mutual agreement to make one another feel good, no strings attached. That was a real pact.

  “Hi, I’m Emmitt. Can I buy you your next drink?” And just like that, sexy older gentleman was in front of me.

  His friend sidled up to Jill, but I was too busy considering if I wanted to accept another glass of wine from him to really listen to their conversation.

  Figuring I had nothing to lose, except for my thong hopefully, I shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

  “Great.” He sat down on the empty stool next to me, and waved the bartender down. “Is that rosé …”

  He’s waiting for my name, and so far, he’s respectful so I give it to him. “Erin. And yes, it is.”

  Emmitt orders, a glass of wine for me and scotch on the rocks for him, and then turns to me. “I don’t mean to be blunt, but you’re the most beautiful woman in this bar.”

  Normally, that line would be creepy or make me roll my eyes. But coming from him, it sounded sincere and honest.

  And made me blush. And I never blushed. “Well … thank you. What do you do, Emmitt?”

  For the next hour, I actually sat and talked to a member of the opposite sex. And for the first time in a long time … I kind of liked it. I got a thrill from flirting. His take on the food industry, which he worked in as a brand advertiser, was interesting, and he wasn’t bougie like most guys I met these days.

  After briefly considering taking him home, or letting him take me home, I turned the idea down in my own mind. I didn’t feel like the awkward stranger dance tonight, learning a new body, trying to train him toward what I liked in bed. It was too much effort. Plus, I hadn’t gotten waxed in two weeks.

  But I did give him my number.

  Eight

  Erin

  The next morning, with a headache that rivaled a fucking freight train smashing through my skull, I woke to my phone buzzing on my nightstand.

  “This better be God calling to take me to hell. Or maybe that’s where I already am.” I picked it up, my eyelids not responding to my brain’s signal to open them.

  “Not God, but I’ll do you one better. The hottest, friendliest guy on the planet is back in the City of Brotherly Love.” Reese’s voice comes through the phone, and I groan.

  Because instead of hooking up with McDreamy’s twin last night, I was thinking about my stupid best friend and his stupid dimple. And why the fuck was I doing that?

  “Good. Go to bed,” I mumbled, dropping my head back to the pillow dramatically.

  “Someone had too much to drink last night. You’re almost thirty, remember, Er?” He chuckled.

  Oh, I remembered. Mostly because he’d brought that stupid pact up and there were also crow’s feet beginning to march their way across my face.

  “It was the wine’s fault. And the tequila’s. And the martini’s,” I grumble.

  “Jesus. I think I need to come over there and ring you out.” Reese’s words are supposed to come off as a joke, but instead, there is a subconscious sexual tension laced in there.

  And we both feel it, as witnessed by the awkward silence that follows.

  “Want some breakfast? My treat. I’ll buy you a fatty egg and cheese sandwich somewhere.” Reese breaks the weirdness with a brunch offer.

  I roll over, mentally going over the effort it would take me to get out of the house. But I really want that breakfast sandwich.

  “Ugh, just know that you’re making me get out of bed and brush my teeth right now.”

  * * *

  “This is exactly what I needed.” I bite into the bacon, egg and cheese on a multigrain bagel, and a glob of ketchup drops back onto the plate.

  Reese watches me as I eat, and I can see his eyes trace my mouth. We haven’t connected since he moved back a week ago, which wasn’t uncommon for us to not talk and then just call the other to hang out. We were best friends after all, there were no pretenses or small talk in our relationship.

  But that damn kiss had hung an awkward cloud over all of our interactions, and I hated that I had thought about it each time I thought of Reese now.

  Putting down my sandwich, I was about to get brutally honest up in here.

  “Should we talk about the kiss? Because I think it’s put this weird, male-female friendship vibe between us and I really fucking hate it.” I couldn’t deal with this anymore, I wanted my best friend back.

  Reese looks hesitant. “Well, what do you think?”

  What did I think? I thought love, at least romantic love, was bullshit. I thought that it made people weak, and that our pact was stupid. You couldn’t just arrange matters of the heart, even if I believed that marriage was a bullet-proof institution. Which I didn’t. I thought, if he was asking, that kiss had sparked something dangerous in my mind. That for a split second, it had made me question what our bond really was, and everything I thought about love.

  I thought that I wanted to keep Reese in his slot, the one marked best friend, and to close the lid on anything more.

  “I think that we should grow up and get over it because we’re too good of friends. And one drunk kiss after eighteen years of friendship shouldn’t stand in the way of that. And now that you’ve moved back, we can go back to being assholes to each other but really loving each other underneath.”

  Okay, so it hadn’t just been one dru
nk kiss. There were those other two times, that we’d never discussed. But I wasn’t unsweeping those from under the rug right now either.

  Reese studies me for a moment, and I’m afraid he’s going to say the things that are really lurking under my skin.

  I liked that kiss.

  We should explore more.

  Think about the pact.

  But he doesn’t. Which is both a blessing and a curse. “Sounds good to me. And while we’re being assholes, what the heck is that shirt you’re wearing? You look like a pirate.”

  I snort laugh, because Reese always made fun of my high fashion pieces. “For your information, this shirt cost more than one of your shifts at the hospital. And it was sent to me to wear by the department store that handles this line for the designer. So shove it.”

  He kind of had a point though. The sleeves were puffed on the white top that had buttons down the front and a ruffle leading to a bow all knotted up at the bottom. It was a bit extra for Sunday brunch, but then again, I lived in a city and had a frilly fashion blog, so my life was a bit extra.

  “Well, it’s ugly. I like you just fine in jeans and a T-shirt. Remember that camping trip we took with our dads sophomore year?” Reese laughs, his jaw and dimple dancing with the deep, jubilant sound. “You couldn’t even rough it for three hours. I found you in that log cabin bathroom trying to find an outlet to plug your curling iron into.”

  “Camping is for psychopaths. Who in their right mind would want to sleep on dirt and cook trout over an open flame?” I shudder, remembering the horrible experience.

  And remembering how much my dad had wanted to take me to do something he loved. Our relationship had been distant and stunted for the past five years, which was his damn fault. If he hadn’t ruined our family, and destroyed my mom in the process, maybe I would be more lenient to have a conversation with him.

  “Many people, including me.” Reese finishes off the rest of his steak and eggs, patting his flat abs through his T-shirt, and I wonder where it all goes.

  Lord knows this grease ball of a sandwich is going straight to my hips, which I’ll have to work doubly as hard at spin class to maintain.

  “All right, I think I need to go back to bed. And I have work tomorrow. Ugh.”

  People who use that cliché phrase, “You’ll never work a day in your life if you love what you do.” Yeah, well, they definitely weren’t talking about me. I fucking hated my job, and most of the people I worked with. Most of them were opinionated, obnoxious assholes who threw their views around as if they were bible verses and bashed anyone who didn’t fall in line.

  “Why don’t you quit that place? You have a steady gig with the blog, you could make it work.” Reese said this as if it was so simple.

  Because I’m petrified I’ll fail. Or go broke. And I’m also terrified that I’ll actually succeed.

  I don’t say any of these things as he pays the check, as he promised, and we leave the restaurant, parting ways on the sidewalk with an easy hug and little to no tension left.

  But the afternoon conversation with my best friend did beg the question: What the hell was I so scared of when it came to getting what I wanted?

  Nine

  Reese

  There is absolutely nothing better than a baseball game in the heat of summer.

  The sweat of your thighs rubbing against the plastic seat, the scent of warm beer, popcorn and pretzels. It’s one of the first things I’ve wanted to do since moving back, especially since I hadn’t been able to watch my home team on TV when I lived in Dallas.

  “This is the worst,” Erin complains beside me.

  She never was a fan of Phillies games. “Come on, I bought you a beer.”

  “And it’s warm. And cheap.” She pouts, her full lower lip jutting out.

  “You’ve never turned a cheap drink down before. Chin up, buttercup. The mascot is about to do a dance.” I stick my feet up on the empty chair in front of me.

  Erin rolls her eyes. “Oh lovely, that big green thing is gyrating. You know, you have to be totally secure as a person to dress up as a fictional character for thousands of people to see.”

  I laughed, because she was kind of right. “Who do you think is in there? Like, do you think some investment banker does this for fun as a hobby?”

  She cocks her head to the side, a fluff of foam from the beer sticking to her lip. I want to reach over and swipe it off, like a best friend would, but it feels different now.

  “Maybe it’s like, a really desperate middle-aged woman who doesn’t get enough attention and needs the applause to cheer her up.”

  “Oh, so you mean, you could be in there?” I slide my eyes to her, my gaze full of innocence that my sarcastic barb has none of.

  I’m not surprised when she twists my nipple, painfully, between her thumb and forefinger. But fuck, does it hurt. “Ouch! No fair, you know I have sensitive nipples.”

  “That’s why I love to purple-knurple you.” Erin gives me a smug smile as she sips more from her beer.

  I won’t lie and say that my cock didn’t twitch a little when her fingers squeezed my nipple. Apparently, I like a little pain with my pleasure. How kinky of me.

  “Seriously though, who do you think is in there?” She ponders again as the Phillie Phanatic dances across home plate.

  “Maybe it’s Jaime Dornan.” I jab her, knowing her secret love for the sexy actor.

  Erin would never admit that she read the wildly popular romance novel for which he played the lead on the big screen, because it would mean she believed that love was possible if she scarfed down those books. But I knew she read them. This one time, I’d stolen her phone, while she tried to punch me in the balls, and gone into her Kindle app. It was chock full of romance books with shirtless men on the cover. I had never let her live it down until this day.

  But mentioning another man brought me back to our conversation last week over coffee, when she told me she’d given her number out to a guy at a bar. I might’ve broken things off abruptly with Renée, I may be insane for crushing on my best friend, but hell if I wasn’t a raging shade of green when I thought about Erin letting some random guy walk her to her apartment door after a late night date.

  “You think?!” She let her nonchalant mask slip for just a minute. “Oh, you are such a tease. Maybe it's one of the former players.”

  “Or a madman, serial killer just trolling for victims.” I patted her knee, as if to signal that we were getting too far into this guessing game.

  Erin nodded. “Yeah, I think it's too much. All right, what do you have on tap for the rest of the week?”

  “Saving lives, taking names. You know, all in a day's work.” I flexed a muscle and she hit me in the stomach, lightly but with enough force to have me letting out an oof.

  I liked to joke around about my job to others, because it kept me from getting too deep into the emotions. In reality, working in the NICU was emotional turmoil on the soul at all times. Even for a manly man such as myself. Har, har.

  Really though, I cared for sick babies around the clock. Feeding, changing, rocking, checking vitals, supplementing with medication, alerting doctors when one of them stopped breathing, helping to change oxygen tubes, turning on heat lamps or incubators. And more. And that was just the clinical side of my job.

  The worst part was handling the emotions of parents, especially mothers just hours to days off of labor and delivery, who couldn’t celebrate their baby’s new life because it was still hanging in the balance.

  If I got into it, if I really discussed what my job was like on a daily basis, I would crumble under the toll of it. But, I did love it. I loved what I did.

  “Which one of the nurses do you think will ask if you’re gay first?” Erin smirked.

  The question was inevitable, and she knew it. It happened in every hospital, whenever someone new started on my floor. There weren’t many male nurses, and it was extremely rare to see one in the NICU.

  “Who knows? But I be
t you twenty bucks it happens within the first six hours of my shift.”

  We sit watching the game for a little, me observing the plays and her on her phone, scrolling through Instagram. Always working, that one. She worked harder than anyone I knew, both in her traditional job and for her blog. I can’t say I hadn’t creeped on her most recent post about the best bathing suits for summer. Tracing the outlines of her body with my eyes on the stupid social media app.

  “How about you? Anything fun this week?” I ask when I feel the silence becomes stilted.

  Erin chews her lip, thinking, and I think about the kiss we shared. Does she think about it at all?

  “Just my shitty day job. But I did get invited to this launch for a new champagne company on Friday night, so that’ll be fun for the blog. Want to be my plus one?”

  I always wanted to be her plus one. I know I said I wouldn’t mention the pact anymore, but how could she not see it? We spent so much time together. Even when I lived in Dallas, we texted at least once a day. I could be her plus one for life, if she’d let me.

  “Of course. I mean, who else would you take? It’s not like you have other friends.” I stuck my tongue out at her like we were in fourth grade again.

  Erin rolls her eyes. “I do, too. Ones who don’t make me sit in the horrible heat, next to smelly drunks, watching a game that is so slow, it’s like watching paint dry.”

  Some of the other fans watching the game overhear this and turn to snarl at her. I smile amiably and wave at them, trying to smooth over the egos of crazed Phillies fans.

  “Are you trying to get us killed?” I hiss at her, but have to laugh at her audacity.

  “It’d be better than this.” She raises her beer in a cheers to me, and then laughs before downing the rest of it.

  Ten

  Erin