Because I was drunk? Possibly…But if it’s because we were drunk that’s the worst timing for chivalry in the history of the universe. He did keep saying “I can’t” and that it was a “mistake.” Now, mistake perhaps. But might have been worth it…Maybe he was just being faithful to his harem?

Which in an odd way is quite sweet. I know he really does care about them. Dammit, he’s even great when it comes to them! But I know “I can’t” wasn’t accurate. “Can’t” implies some kind of erectile dysfunction. And I felt that junk on my thigh. Sigh. Sigh for thigh. This sweater is doing things to my head. Sniff…

...

Simon: She just sniffed it again—why does she keep doing that? When I wore it I didn’t notice it smelling like anything other than wool. Girls are weird…weirdly wonderful…Pussy…Caroline’s pussy…Aaand I’m hard. Why the hell am I even pretending I’m not totally and completely over the moon for this girl? And it has nothing to do with her pussy…and now I’m harder.

...

Caroline: Stop trying to get out of answering this question. Face it head on! Why did you throw yourself at Simon, forgetting about the friendship and the harem and the O drought and all of the very good reasons you had for staying away from him and his banger voodoo??? Come on, Caroline. Suck it up and say it. What was it he said when you asked him why he kissed you that night you met? “Because I had to.” Jesus, even in my head he sounds amazing saying that…There’s your answer, Caroline: because you had to. And now you have to figure this shit out. I kissed him, and he kissed me because we had to. And the choices we made were ours and ours alone…And the fact that he stopped it and said he couldn’t?

Even after all the ridiculous weeks of flirting? After he invited me to Spain? Motherfucking Spain! And I want to go to motherfucking Spa—wait, do I want to go to Spain with him? Argh! Spain Schmain. Anyway, he better have a damn good reason because I am a fucking catch—O or no O—I am a fucking catch. Yeah, you are, Reynolds. Weird how you flip back and forth between first and third person during your inner monologues, though…

Thank Christ, the Bay Bridge! Enough introspection…

...

Simon: Shit, the Bay Bridge. We’re almost home, and I have no idea how this is going to go with Caroline. We’ve barely said anything the entire way—although I’m glad to be almost home. I smell like beef jerky, and I need to jerk off like you wouldn’t believe…

...

Mimi: Yay! The Bay Bridge! I wonder if Ryan would mind spending the night at my place!

...

Ryan: Thank fuck, the Bay Bridge. We’re almost home. I wonder if Mimi knows I’m spending the night at her place—and planning on making her call in sick tomorrow? Little girl, the things I plan to do to you…But I’m never eating that much beef jerky again. This has been the quietest road trip ever.

We dropped off the new couple at Mimi’s—not that they particularly noticed—they were in their own bubble gum world—and continued on to our apartments. Though we’d mostly just been lost in our thoughts, the tension had grown during the drive, and it was even more noticeable now that we were alone in the car. Simon and I had always had things to talk about, but now that we had so much to discuss, we were silent. I didn’t want things to be weird, and I knew I’d have to be the one to make sure he knew I was okay now. He’d already done his part to have a mature conversation, and once again my bull-in-a-china-shop delivery seemed to have taken care of that.

A vision of me announcing on the deck, at full volume, that I’d made a pass at Simon flashed across my mind, and while my cheeks certainly heated in embarrassment, I also had a mental chuckle at how odd I must have looked, arms flailing, mouth set as though I could spit nails. And then barking at frightened Simon to follow me to the beach. He must have wondered if I was going to thrash him and dump his body in the lake.

Looking at his hands on the steering wheel, the very hands that were on me in a very pronounced way the night before, I marveled at his ability to stop himself, because I know for a fact he had been in to it. Or his body had been, at least, if not his head.

The thing is, though, I did think his head was in it, at least until he thought about it too much. I glanced over at him once more, noticing we were pulling down our street. As we stopped at the curb, he looked over at me, biting down on the same lower lip that less than twenty-four hours ago I’d had the good fortune to be biting on.

He sprang from the car and ran around to my side before I even had my seatbelt unbuckled.

“Um, I’m just gonna…get the bags,” he stammered, and I studied him closely. He ran his left hand through his hair while his right drummed against the side of the car. Was he nervous?

“So, yeah,” he stammered again, disappearing around the back.

Yep, he was nervous, just as nervous as I was. He worried my bag out of the car, and we slogged up the three flights of stairs to our apartments. We were still not talking, so the only sound was our keys jangling in the locks. I couldn’t leave it like this. I had to square with him. I took a deep breath, and turned. “Simon, I—”

“Look, Caroline—”

We both laughed a little.

“You go.”

“No, you go,” he said.

“Nope. What were you gonna say?”

“What were you gonna say?”

“Hey, spit it out, bucko. I got a pussy to rescue from two queens downstairs,” I instructed, hearing Clive call to me from the apartment below.

Simon snorted and leaned against his door. “I guess I just wanted to say I had a really great time this weekend.”

“Until last night, right?” I leaned against my own door, watching him flinch as I addressed the elephant in the hot tub.

“Caroline,” he breathed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.

He looked like he was in actual pain as his face twisted. I took pity. I shouldn’t have, but I did.

“Hey, can we just forget it happened?” I said. “I mean, I know we can’t, but can we pretend to forget it? I know people say things won’t get weird

all the time, but then it always does. How can we make sure things don’t get weird?” He opened his eyes and looked hard at me. “I guess we just don’t let it. We make sure it doesn’t get weird. Okay?”

“Okay.” I nodded and was rewarded with the first real smile I’d seen since I unwrapped my sweater back in Tahoe. He gathered up his bag.

“Play me something good tonight, ’kay?” I asked as I headed inside.

“You got it,” he answered, and we shut our doors.

But he didn’t play me big band that night.

And we didn’t speak again that week.

“Who peed in your chili?”

I looked up from my desk to see Jill ian, composed as always with her casually elegant chignon, black pencil trousers, white silk blouse, and raspberry cashmere sweater wrap. How did I know it was cashmere from across the room? Because it was Jill ian.

I selected one of the five pencils currently stuck in my twisted hair bun and returned my attention to the mess that was my desk. It was Wednesday, and this week was both flying by and dragging simultaneously. No word from Simon. No texts from Simon. No songs from Simon.

But I hadn’t reached out to him either.

I was consumed with finishing the last few details on the Nicholson house, ordering expensive knickknacks for James’s condo, and starting the sketches for a commercial design project I had lined up for next month. It looked like chaos, but sometimes it was the only way I could get work done. There were days that I needed neat and orderly, and days when I needed the mess on my desk to reflect the mess in my head. This was that day.