“I refuse to live in your world where I must choose between the two greatest things ever invented.”
I crack up. “Because you live in your world where you have both.”
He smirks devilishly. “All the time, motherfucker. All the time.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m not jealous. Not at all.”
“You should join my team. The sex is much more plentiful on my side,” he says with a waggle of his brows.
“No doubt. But I think I’ll stick to the ladies. I just dig the whole female form.”
He nods sagely. “I get it. You like what you like.”
“Love is love,” I say.
“Preach, brother.” He punches my arm. “Besides, you’ve mastered being a camel. Why change things?”
“Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. King of Hookups. I am not a camel. I visited a wonderful oasis a couple of weeks ago.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
I flip him the bird. “Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”
“Like you need a reminder,” he says with a laugh. Then the humor fades. “But tell me—how the hell has it been the last two weeks at work? Is it like being served a delicious drink you can’t have?”
I mime stabbing myself in the heart with a knife. “Like that. That’s how it is.” Then I exhale and give him the details. “I want to see if Bryn and I can figure this out. If she’d be game for dating. Bryn is the first person I’ve really connected with in ages, and that made the whole night with her better.”
“As in, better-than-winning-the-softball-game better?”
There is no question about it. “It was better than winning.” I leave it at that. Anything more is too personal. Too disrespectful of Bryn.
Besides, I don’t need to dive into the nitty-gritty with my friends.
Sex with Stacey was ordinary. It was missionary and lights off. It was every other weekend. When I tried to spice it up, bring in new positions, toys, dirty talk, maybe even—gasp—leave the lights on, Stacey would say, “Amelia might hear . . . Amelia is next door . . . Amelia might wake up.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that sex was the reason Amelia existed. That maybe it’d have been a good thing for our marriage if we kept having it. I didn’t point it out, because we’d grown apart not only in the bedroom, but in life.
I’d love to know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who wants the same kind of connection in and out of the bedroom.
I have no clue how it feels when sex and honesty reside in one person.
When we reach the Lucky Spot, we stow our gear in the back room—perks of knowing the owner—then head to the bar and grab some drinks as the band sets up.
Fitz catches the eye of someone he knows, and tells me he’ll be right back. As I drink my beer, I take out my phone, scrolling through the last set of messages from Bryn.
I shouldn’t text her. I need to give her time and space. But when the bar owner announces the name of the opening act for the band, I have no choice.
22BRYN
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who like baths, and those who recoil at the very idea of soaking in a tub. Truly, there is no in-between.
About a year ago, we surveyed readers on the topic. Some considered baths akin to “sitting in a bucket of my own lukewarm stink,” while others said, “Bring on the bath bombs, wine, and soft mood music, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As the owner of a white claw-foot tub and the disciple of a whole lot of treat yourself sayings, I’m firmly in the soak and see you tomorrow camp. Tonight, my hair is piled high in a messy bun, my neck is resting against a glittery bathtub pillow—a gift from Teagan, who also prays at the altar of self-care—and my purple-polished toes are wiggling above the papaya-scented bubbles, beating out a rhythm to the Jonas Brothers.
Also, there is wine.
Because . . . wine.
This is the perfect thinking zone. If I can’t spend Friday night on all fours, getting pounded by a man who makes my toes curl and my heart melt, then dammit, I’m going to indulge in a long, hot bath while I contemplate what it would take to be with a man who makes me feel all over, in every part of my body.
I sing along to my boy bands from the water, luxuriating in my bathroom, taking sips of my pinot grigio from a mug.
Like I bothered with a wineglass. Mugs were made for baths. This is my second glass, so I should get a safety merit badge too, for practicing safe tub drinking.
As the music shifts to the Heartbreakers, I pop up, unable to control my excitement as I shimmy my boobs above the water. “I love this band,” I shout to the empty walls, then sing along to the trio of brothers who recently got back together.
My striped roommate saunters in, pops up on his hind legs, and sets his paws on the edge of the bath.
“Hey, handsome,” I say to Bruce.
He dips his paw lower, trying to swat a bubble.
I rein in a giggle, because he is transforming into an adorable creature.
Carefully, because one must try not to disturb an internet cat moment, I set down the mug, then I reach for the towel I left on the toilet seat, dry my hands, and grab my phone from the seat. Quietly, I click to the camera, adjusting myself without making a sound. I focus on the curious feline checking out my toes, then snap the money shot.
