“Friends who have sex or friends who don’t have sex?”

“The sex is definitely still happening.” He briefly glances at my collage and looks back at me. “That’s not the point, though. I would like for us to get along, to try and move past what happened, if we can.”

I don’t say anything. I just stare at him with the cut-out word “hate” literally hanging off my fingertips.

“Are you going to say something?” he asks. “Do you think we could at least try to talk to each other outside of the sex?”

“We could try...”

“Good.” He walks over to my dresser and picks up the boxes of protein bars I stole long ago. “Do you mind if I take these back now?”

“No.” I place “hate” onto my desk. “How do we start over as friends?”

He shrugs and opens the door. “Shouldn’t be that hard. It’s not like I don’t already know you.”

“Believe it or not, ten years can change a person quite a bit.”

“I’m sure it can.” He smiles, looking me over. “However, you clearly still have a thing for wearing red bras every day and purposely color coordinating them with whatever color I mention the day before. I’m sure there’s plenty of other things that are still the very same.” He shuts the door as I blush, not giving me enough time to come up with a good excuse.

Chapter 26

MIA

“What’s this?” Eric walks into the condo days later. Much earlier than normal, almost too early. “The two of you sitting on a couch together, both alive and not arguing?” He tosses his scarf onto the coat rack. “Is this really happening?”

I roll my eyes. “Quick day at work for you?”

“Not at all.” He leans against the wall. “I have a client meeting me here in an hour.” He looks at Dean. “Did you sign for a package in my name earlier?”

“Yeah. It’s in your room.”

“Thanks.” He walks past us, still looking slightly confused. He returns seconds later and tosses both of us a pack of labels.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“It’s for the next time you two decide not to get along. Just label your shit the second you start feeling angry and agree to not touch each other’s stuff.” He laughs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, holding it up to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll meet you downstairs and bring you up.”

He ends the call and looks at both of us. “You two mind letting me use the living room for a few hours when I get back?”

“Not at all.” “Sure.” We say in unison, smiling at him, waiting for him to shut the door.

The second he’s gone, we both jump up from the couch and look for the condom we were trying to find before.

“This is exactly why we should’ve gone to your room,” I say. “And this is exactly why ‘friends’, especially friends who used to be more than friends, shouldn’t have sex.”

“Do me a favor and remember that the next time you start shit between us and slip your hands into my pants.”

I blush and flip over a couch pillow, finding it. I point to it and he rolls his eyes, as he picks it up and throws it into the trash.

The ping of the elevator returning to our floor sounds and he looks at me.

“Are you going to stay out here and watch him work?”

“No, I wasn’t planning to. Why?”

“I think we should go get dinner together, then.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, as friends.”

“Then we’ll go half and half?”

“No.” He looks offended that I would even suggest that. “I’ll pay.”

I look at my watch. “As long as you promise we’ll be back by ten. I have an early day at the gallery tomorrow.”

“I’ll have you back at nine.” He walks toward the door and grabs our coats off the rack. “That way we can be ‘friends’ in my room before you go to sleep.”

“You’re ridiculous and insatiable.”

“Always when it comes to you...”

***

The next day at work, I watch the clock above the register, counting the minutes as the time slowly ticks by. Although having sex with Dean yesterday was amazing, my body hasn’t had enough time to recover, so I’m beyond exhausted.

Only seven minutes until close.

Our conversation over dinner last night was shockingly emotion-free. We discussed surface stuff only—movie, films, books, and there were very few personal anecdotes. (I’m assuming this is the way it’ll have to be for us to get along long-term.)

As the second hand on the wall ticks past the twelve, I grab the “now closed” sign, tempted to hang it now, but the last time I did, the bell above the door chimed with only seconds to spare. The walk-in was an older gentleman, dressed impeccably well in a three piece suit, and I knew without asking, that he was “old money.” He introduced himself as Ethan Bradley and insisted that I give him the “official” tour, stopping to admire each and every single collection, admiring the skill and inspiration of the various artists. That night, I didn’t get home until well after midnight, but luckily, the commission I earned from Mr. Bradley’s purchases was enough to cover my savings for the next few months.

I glance at the clock again.

Three minutes...

I walk to the front of the Gallery and slowly lower the shades one by one, crossing my fingers, praying like hell that no one walks through the door.

Less than a minute...

I lower the last shade and shut down the monitor at my work station. As the clock finally strikes seven, I deposit all the cash into a lock box, set the alarm, and switch off all the lights in record time.

As I double check the locks on the door, I hear the sound of a familiar voice calling my name from behind me. And then I feel someone touching me.

Startled, I drop my keys and turn around.

“Shit, Dean!” I say, trying to calm my heart that’s now beating frantically in my chest. He stoops down to help me pick up my belongings, as I return everything to my purse.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He hands me my purse.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m about to hang out with a friend,” he replies with a small smile on his face. “We’ll probably be out all night.”

“Glad you felt it necessary to come all the way here to tell me that.” I cross my arms. “I hope you have fun with your friend.”

“I’m sure I will. What are your plans for tonight?”

“I have a ‘friend’ I’ll be hanging out with as well.”

“Who?”

“Trevor.”

“The guy you had at the apartment that day?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure he would not be open to hanging out with you after what I said to him.”

“Goodbye, Dean. Enjoy your night.” I feel jealous about him hanging out with someone else, but I don’t, technically, have the right to be.

I walk away and feel him clasping my hand minutes later.

“For someone who’s well versed in literature, your inability to pick up context clues is very sad.” He looks down at me with a smile. “I was referring to going out with you.”

I blush. “I knew that.”

“Sure you did.”

“Where’d you park?”

“Two blocks over,” he says as we approach the corner. “But I was thinking we could take the bus today.”

“You don’t strike me as the city bus-rider type.”

“I’m not.” He pulls me toward a bus shelter. “I’m a I-remember-you-once-said-you-wanted-to-do-this type.”

As we wait for the bus, I swear up and down that I never said that to him, that I’m pretty sure he’s making that up, but he won’t admit he’s lying. He even tries to bet money on it.

I bet five dollars, but as the city bus stops in front of us, I withdraw my bet. I can remember...

“What type of dates do you think we’ll go on when we get older?” I ask Dean as he hands me a bag of popcorn.

“What do you mean?”

I lean against his shoulder as the drive-in’s movie begins to play. “I mean, do you think we’ll always do small things like movies, art shows, and dinner? We’re both, technically, low-key.”