The Boy Friend

by Mika Jolie

  “Anything.” I’m willing to give her the world, if that’s what it takes to make her smile again, to look at me without pain.

  “Let’s not let last night change our friendship.”

  Too late for that. Everything has changed between us. We connected on a different level last night, this morning. Even now, I am seeing a part of her soul she never lets out of the bag. When we touched, I saw her reaction, beautiful and raw. “But—”

  She steps from my reach. “I should go.”

  Every nerve in my body wants to stop her, but I don’t. Instead, I stand in the middle of the room and watch her walk over to my dresser, where a few of my knickknacks sit on display. She grabs her cell phone and stuffs it in her coat pocket.

  As she makes her way to the door, she stops, leans into me, and places a kiss on the corner of my lips. “See you Friday.”

  I want to remind her about our weekly dinner date. Instead, I say, “Yeah. Text me when you get home.” Having Cori text me when she gets home, especially after we’ve hung out, is a ritual between us, a way for me to make sure she’s safe.

  She nods. Then she walks away, closing the bedroom door behind her, leaving me standing in my room. Alone.

  Go after her, my conscience tries to persuade me. Only, I’m dazed, confused, and presently experiencing life at a rate of what-the-fuck just happened. Slowly, I lumber over to the bed and drop my weight on the mattress. On my back, I stare at the ceiling, questions spinning in my head.

  Is it really possible to go back to being just friends?

  Is that really what I want?

  The answer is a resounding no to both of those questions.

  But I still freaked out over the possibility I might have impregnated her.

  Yeah, I’m officially the biggest douchebag.

  My panic attack hurt her. Now everything has changed between us.

  Nausea swirls unrestrained in my empty stomach. My head swims with half-formed regrets. I don’t know how long I lay on the bed staring blankly at the ceiling, wishing I can turn back time.

  When my phone beeps on the nightstand, I sit up and read Cori’s message.

  I’m home.

  I text her back.

  Glad you’re safe.

  My fingers clasp around the device, as if letting it go would be, in a way, releasing Cori. A few minutes pass before it vibrates again with another text from her.

  Dean . . . you’re my best friend.

  Five little words. They tear me up and remind me, once again, I’ve hurt her. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to apologize. I want to tell her I’ve fallen in love with her. After the longest minute, I type back a one-word response.

  Ditto.

  Afterward, I throw the phone on the bed and flop on my back. Something tells me Coriander and I have just become strangers who know each other too well.

  “Sometimes a heart cannot afford to be just friends.”

  HOURS AFTER CORI LEAVES, and feeling like shit, I tell myself this is a momentary setback in our relationship . . . whatever it is at the moment. But for now, a little time to clear our heads will do both of us good. So here I am, on a date. An actual fucking date.

  Dating is crappy.

  I look at my watch for the fifth time as the pretty blonde goes on and on about . . . whatever. I’m not listening.

  Lorraine and I are in Times Square at a fancy five-star restaurant, on a date. Candles are flickering on the tables, and the lights are nicely dim. The ambiance is quiet, romantic even. Across from me, Lorraine is eating silently. She’s model hot. Under any other circumstances, we’d be naked, shaking the sheets.

  In the past, I never had the need to wine and dine a woman, but for once, I thought it’d be a nice change to actually go on a ‘date’. Bad idea. The problem is, I don’t care how sexy Lorraine’s cleavage looks in that little green dress. I don’t want to be here. My lackluster mood is obvious, but I can’t fake what I’m feeling.

  I can’t remember the last time I took a woman out to dinner. Cori. I’ve taken her out to dinner numerous times, whether to a fancy night out in the city or grabbing a bite at a diner. Our dates have always been fun, effortless.

  Dates.

  The times we’ve gone to the movies together, bowling, accompanying each other to some event, the night we karaoked and sang “You’re The One That I Want” at the karaoke bar. That night we shared our first kiss.

  Every significant time I’ve spent with a woman comes back to Cori.

  After each of these occasions, I’ve gone home feeling euphoric, alive, as happy as a dog at a dinosaur dig.

  Were all of these times spent together dates?

  I’ve loved her for over twenty years as a friend, but things have changed. Can I really ‘love’ love her?

  Is that what happened?

  How the fuck do I know for sure?

  I’ve never analyzed or even made much of those moments. They’ve always been effortless. And yet, these series of events have defined my life, unapologetically stole my heart.

  Were we ever strangers? I’m not sure we were. That day I first saw her in the schoolyard, there was something even then, though I didn’t know what. But I was hers then. I’ve been hers since the second we met.

  And although I’ve never given it much thought, she’s my happy.

  She never leaves my mind. She’s always there—mentally, if not physically. She’s the sky and the clouds, the gentle river and the birds that sing, my medicine. I’ve fallen in love with Cori, can’t fall any further. I’m already on the ground. And I have a feeling that I slipped my heart into her pocket some time ago.

  This morning, when we woke up naked next to each other, I’d been fine, happy. Now, the world is monotonous, my energy leaving me like an ink stain bleeding into blotting paper.

  “What do you think of the view?” Lorraine asks after taking a sip of her white wine. Cori likes red or an old fashioned.

  My girl.

  My heart rattles.

  I glance at the majestic view of the skyline. Lights glitter everywhere. Rows of towering skyscrapers and small buildings collide in a mixture of shadow and geometry. It’s a gorgeous view. One I should be enjoying. Instead, my mind is conjuring an escape strategy. Maybe when she makes her customary trip to the restroom, I can tiptoe from the restaurant like The Pink Panther.

  Of course, I’d pay the bill first.

  “It’s a great view.” My voice is flat. I’m struggling to feel with anemic emotions that have no substance.

  “I’m glad we’re here.”

  My gaze rests on her matted cherry-red lips. For a split second, I imagine her mouth wrapped around my dick.

  Nothing. Not even a tingle or a hint of a bulge. I sampled the goodies, now the bastard that is my dick is addicted. It’s a sad situation when my dick has decided to go on strike. On top of that, waves of nausea, for allowing my imagination to think of another woman, adds to my misery. I feel sick, dirty, guilty.

  “What do you think?” Lorraine asks with enthusiasm.

  “About?”

  “A nightcap at your place.”

  I take a swallow of my scotch, needing a moment to come up with an answer that will not make me look like the complete asshole that I am. “Lorraine.” Shit, already her face is crestfallen. “I’m sorry, but it’s not happening.”

  “Why?” She laughs nervously. “I thought we had fun the other day.”

  Honestly, our fucking session is a fog in my memory bank. “We did.” Not entirely a lie. I vaguely recall banging her on the floor of her house. “But—”

  “You’re one of those guys.”

  I sit a little straighter. “What kind of guy?”

  “The ones who are afraid of commitment and don’t bring women to their house.” She places her fork down and holds my gaze in a stare. “Do you even want to be here? You can’t stop checking your watch.”

  Okay, let’s back up. Why am I here? It’s obvious this is the last place I want to
be.

  Well, after Cori left, I spent most of the day wallowing in my sorrow. My phone pinged with message after message, none of them from Cori—hers has a special ring, “We Go Together”.

  See the trend here? Moonchild loves the movie Grease.

  Anyway, eventually, when Lorraine texted, checking to see if I was around, I decided that feelings are like temperatures. Attraction is warm. Curiosity is warmer. Anger is boiling. Hate can torch, but it can also freeze. Love . . . Well, that’s a temperature best left under neutral.

  So, here I am.

  Only I’m not stuck on neutral. I want to be wrapped in a pretzel position with Cori, with the soft feel of her breath on my neck. I want to fall asleep to the sound of her heartbeat beating against mine.

  Elbows on the table, I take Lorraine’s hands. This isn’t her fault. She doesn’t deserve this treatment. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m being a dick.”

  “It’s okay,” she says with a smile. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  For the first time tonight, I smile. “Her name is Coriander.”

  “Strange name.” One perfectly arched eyebrow rises. “A hippie.”

  Cori doesn’t like to be labeled. Call her a hippie, and she’ll tell you categorical labeling is a tool that humans use to resolve the impossible complexity of the environments we grapple to comprehend. Like so many human faculties, it’s adaptive and miraculous, but it also contributes to some of the deepest problems that face our society.

  She’s so fucking sexy when she’s spitting knowledge.

  Love it.

  I laugh partly to myself, some of the tension slowly leaving my body. “A little bit.”

  “Does she know you’re in love with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then how will you get the girl if you don’t tell her how you feel?”

  I sit back in my chair. “Good question.”

  She takes another sip of her wine then says, “If you love the girl, tell her. Forget about the rules or your fears.” Her green eyes study me. “I have a feeling you have a lot of fears, but she’ll understand.”

  It’s as if I’m seeing Lorraine for the first time. Conversing with her is actually . . . nice.

  Beyond her physical attributes, there’s substance there. In the past, I’ve never allowed myself the opportunity to get to know a woman. Now that we know sex is not on the menu, I find she’s easy to talk to. Maybe it’s because I’m depressed as hell and need to be on a sofa crying to a fucking therapist.

  “Still interested in having dinner with me?”

  She shrugs. “We’re here, and I have a hot dress on, so yeah.”

  I laugh again. “Perfect. By the way, you look hot as fuck.” She does. It’s just, there isn’t going to be any fucking.

  TWO DAYS LATER, MY mind’s a mess, and my heart’s a wreck. Every piece of me wants to call Coriander, just to hear her voice. At the same time, I tell myself, a couple of days not speaking will do us good. We need the distance. At least, I know I do—to clear my head.

  After eyeing the phone for several seconds, I grab it, thumb my code, and bring up my contact list. When I reach C, my thumb stops scrolling. My finger taps on Coriander Moonchild.

  Hey, how’s things?

  Scratch that. Too casual. That’s not who we are.

  Uhm. Hi? Remember me? We used to be best friends?

  Too desperate. I type another short text. This one is better.

  Wanna hang tonight?

  Nope. Now that we’ve had sex, those are words for a booty call.

  What are you wearing?

  A little stalkerish? The black leather chair creaks as I shift my weight. Yup. My balls are still there, intact.

  We need to talk. I love you. I miss you. Marry me.

  Slow down, lover boy. Way too desperate and needy. Plugging my earphones to my cell phone, I fit them in my ears and crank some music. For the next thirty minutes, I’m able to bury myself in my work and wade through the mountain piling at my desk, until Michael Stipe’s voice is interrupted by a ding. I glance at the screen and notice Red’s text.

  I’ll be home at 10. See you tonight.

  Without thinking, I start answering.

  Not tonight. I have a . . .

  What exactly do I have? A thing? A headache? Sorry, I can’t fuck you today, because my sister’s friend’s mother’s grandpa’s brother’s grandson’s fish died, and yes, it’s tragic.

  Pathetic. I know.

  With a quick tap, I delete my original response.

  Maybe a distraction is just what I need.

  My dick, flaccid, hangs his head. The bastard is sulking, furious with me.

  Believe it or not, our dicks don’t control every breath we take . . . well, not usually. I did say before that every second was a slight exaggeration. Anyhow, my dick has gladly put itself on hiatus. When it comes to a woman, it only wants Cori.

  The truth is, so do I.

  I’m in love with Cori.

  She’s my heart. This isn’t a small, almost imperceivable event in my life.

  My everything.

  So fucking sappy. Seriously, a part of me wants to puke right now.

  Quickly, I compose a text.

  Need a raincheck.

  Her response comes quick.

  See you Friday.

  Shit! I’ve forgotten about Red coming on the ski trip.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  I exhale, then massage my temples to suppress the bitch of a headache I feel coming on.

  “Yo man, we’re hungry. You coming?”

  I look up at Cam standing in the doorway of my office. “Yeah.”

  “PMS’ing?” Cam casually asks.

  I groan.

  “Yeah, definitely time of the month.” He chuckles. “What’s eating you up, Gilbert?”

  I swivel in the leather chair and stare at my diploma. It offers nothing. LeBron, my man, help a guy, will you? Niente. What am I supposed to say? I’m in love with Cori, but I’m gutless and freaked over the idea of impregnating her?

  “Nothing.” I lock my computer and join Cam. We stop in front of Nora’s desk, and I hand her a folder. “Can you make sure Donner’s wife gets these first thing tomorrow?” The jackass is begging for his wife to take him back. She’s playing hardball. Good for her.

  Nora studies me with a frown. “You look like you lost your best friend.”

  My gaze shifts to the red exit sign. This is Cori’s grandmother. I can’t let her know what’s going on between Cori and me. Swallowing the lump of guilt in my throat, I say, “I’m glad this Donner situation is coming to a close. It’s tiring.”

  She nods in agreement and changes the conversation. As I start to walk away, Nora says, “Just remember, true friends are forever.”

  I nod, stuff my hands in my pocket. “Thanks, Nora.”

  “So, did you lose your best friend?” Cam asks as we continue towards Lucas’ office. He’s silent for a minute as we pass a few people chitchatting in the busy hallway. “And I don’t mean Lucas and me.”

  The thing about friendship, even between guys, we don’t say much to each other, yet we still know when something is bothering one of us.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Have you told Cori about Red coming to New Hampshire with you this weekend?”

  “No.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Cam shaking his head.

  “Dude.” Cam claps my shoulder. “Someone is going to get hurt. And I bet my money it’s gonna be you.”

  Me. I thought he was going to say Cori. “I’ll be fine. There’s nothing going on between Cori and me.”

  “Yeah, and bringing someone you’re hooking up with will pretty much seal the deal.”

  We stop in front of Lucas’ office. To our surprise, the door is locked, something that rarely happens. The dude takes the ‘my door is always open’ motto a bit literally.

  Before we can knock, the door swi
ngs open, and Lucas’ ex-wife, Lucille, storms out, almost crashing into Cam. Her blue eyes sweep over us, disdain on her gorgeous face. During the two years they were married, she bitched every time Lucas hung out with the guys. Not that we’d ever steer a married guy wrong. Seriously, I believe in the sanctity of marriage. My parents, remember? I admire and respect their union.

  “Which one of you is he fucking?”

  The question comes out with pure venom in her delicious French voice. Cam and I cough, but it’s me who finds the strength to say, “How are you, Lucille?”

  “He won’t fuck me,” she spits. Her French accent thicker than usual.

  I glance over her shoulder at Lucas, who only shrugs.

  “You’re divorced.” Cam is the one who speaks, his voice surprisingly warm. “Even made a cute little baby girl together.”

  “What’s your problem?” she snaps at Lucas. The man is pure steel when necessary. He just stands there, arms folded across his chest. With a flip of her dark hair, a scowl still on her face, she hisses. “Just remember, I can make your life a living hell.” Then she elbows her way between Cam and I. “Oh.” She pauses by the door. “I hate all of you.” Then the door slams behind her.

  “What was that about?” I ask after a long silence.

  Lucas walks back to his desk. “Her typical threats to take Emma back to France.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Call my lawyer.” His fingers are hitting the keyboard with efficient speed for a minute before he looks up at us. “But first, I need food.” He grabs his jacket. “By the way, who were you with on Sunday? We texted you to hang.”

  “Yeah, I was busy.”

  “Right,” Lucas says dryly.

  Cam and Lucas study me through assessing eyes. I square my shoulders a little bit more and meet their stares. Male friendship is built on a solid foundation of testosterone, sarcasm, inappropriateness, shenanigans, and the weirdest porn we’ve ever seen. Please don’t downplay the complexity of the way we bond. We have feelings and emotions; we just display them differently. We can spend hours talking about sports, food, and sex. If the Giants beat The Cowboys, that’s worth a lengthy conversation. If a random hookup turns out to be the best sex of our life, we share it with each other.