Bend

by Kivrin Wilson

  “You’ve fantasized about having sex with yourself?” he bites out. “Isn’t that what your vibrator is for?”

  My cheeks are burning. No, I’m not being bashful. This is Jay. I’ve asked him to buy me tampons before, for Pete’s sake. It’s just that I’m really not emotionally or intellectually prepared to actually have a fight with him.

  “You knew what I meant,” I say as calmly as I can muster.

  He opens his mouth, and my heart almost stops while I wait for him to say whatever’s on his mind. But then he just shakes his head, pushes up off the couch, and says, “I’m out.”

  Oh-kay. I’ve screwed up this time, haven’t I? Screwed up bad.

  I jump up and follow him to the door. Is it too late for damage control? “I’m not trying to ruin our friendship or anything.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” He shoves his tanned, bare feet into his flip-flops.

  “Are we still running on Sunday?” I ask as he opens the door.

  Stopping right outside, he turns back. He rests his elbow on the doorframe and leans in, leveling a deadpan look at me. “Are you going to drop this topic?”

  Am I? I suppose I should. This is my chance to let it go. He’s obviously willing to forget all about it.

  But I can’t. I just can’t. Not when he’s standing there in the cascading light from the porch lamp, looking exactly like himself—tall and athletic Jay, dark-haired and pale-eyed Jay, the smartest and nicest guy I’ve ever known. My best friend, without a doubt.

  My best friend, who I really want to fuck.

  I swallow hard and answer, “Probably not.”

  He sighs. His lips curl. Yup, he’s still angry. “I’ve got a long day at work tomorrow. I’ll text you.”

  I keep the door open with my shoulder as he jogs down the stairs and strides away on the paved walkway, disappearing in the darkness. It’s humid out there tonight, and it smells like rain—a sweet and pungent aroma that we don’t experience a lot in SoCal, especially with the drought of the past few years. There’s a nip in the air, and it’s too cold for the tank top I’m wearing with my short jean shorts. Goose bumps start at the back of my neck and spread down my arms.

  Come back. The words become a chant in my head. Come back, come back, come back.

  Come back and kiss me.

  Come back and tell me you want me.

  He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t.

  Now, what?

  I wake up with a start and lift my head off the pillow, squinting against the gossamer light filtering in through the blinds. The sun’s up, but just barely. Which means it’s too early to get up.

  Closing my eyes again, I let my head drop back onto the pillow, then turn away from the windows and tug my covers up to my chin with a happy sigh. Saturdays are great. No alarm. No work. No appointments, and no one expecting anything from me. I can do whatever I want.

  And what I want is to sleep some more.

  I go limp, wrapped in the cocoon of my bamboo sheets, my breathing even and slow. My brain is still foggy, ready to slip away again—ready to dream, to recharge. Life is good. Life is great. I have no worries, nothing to keep me awake…

  Jay.

  It feels like a lightning bolt striking my gut. I pop my eyes open, wide open, and with a thump, my pulse starts to race.

  Right. Life is great, my ass. Sure, except last night I might have ruined the best friendship I’ve ever had.

  I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. Why the hell did I do it? What did I expect to happen? That Jay would say, Yes, Mia, I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since the day we met…? And then we’d tear each other’s clothes off and have mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-changing sex? Right there on the couch. Mario Kart forgotten.

  Jay has made a regular appearance in my fantasies for a long time, and even before it was deliberate and while I was still with Matt, he showed up in some involuntary nighttime dreams, too. For some reason, that memory always makes me blush.

  And in daydreams, sex with Jay is always amazing. Maybe he actually sucks at it, though. Or maybe, in reality, after all this time being so comfortable as only friends, I’d feel like I was screwing my own brother?

  No. Definitely not. I thought Jay was cute from the moment my boyfriend introduced him to me as his roommate, but I was so crazy in love with Matt at that point—even though I’d known him only a couple of weeks—that it didn’t mean anything.

  And while Jay was around a lot the following year and a half, we didn’t connect and become friends until after Matt dumped me. Something just…clicked. I guess, without even really noticing, we bonded. In a strictly platonic way, of course, and that’s been great. I’m lucky to have found him.

  So why, why, why did I decide to ruin all of that last night?

  With a groan, I roll over on my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. I don’t want to feel like this. Don’t want to think about it. I start to bang my face into the cushiony surface, trying to knock the negative crap out of my head.

  It doesn’t work. So I reach for my nightstand drawer instead, digging around until my hand closes around the familiar, oblong object. I’m awake early and have nowhere to be. Might as well take care of business.

  Isn’t that what your vibrator is for?

  That’s right, Jay. That is what my vibrator is for. My vibrator doesn’t do complicated. It doesn’t judge. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need anything from me except batteries. It exists only to make me feel good. Maybe I should rethink who I call my best friend, because my vibrator is a pretty amazing friend.

  I flop over onto my back and shimmy out of my panties, leaving my lacy sleep tank on. When I press the power button and the buzzing starts, my muscles go liquid and all is right with the world again. It’s as if I have a Pavlovian response to that low hum—instant pleasure just at the sound of it.

  Now nothing exists except the pulsations on my clit, the slow build, the pressure I keep light to make it last. Just me, making myself happy. Closing my eyes, I try to make my mind go blank. No thinking, only feeling.

  But my imagination has different ideas. Suddenly, I can feel his lips on my skin, an open-mouthed kiss right where my neck meets my collarbone. He moves down, draws in a nipple, and my shuddering and gasping for breath is very much real.

  The fantasy takes over, swallows me up. It’s not the purring head of the vibrator that’s rubbing against me, it’s Jay’s tongue. In my thoughts I’m looking down to where my knees are spread wide, where Jay is watching me intently while he’s mouth-fucking me, glacier-blue eyes locked with mine. My lower body is off the edge of the bed, and he’s kneeling on the floor, my feet braced on his shoulders. His biceps are flexing as he supports my legs, his fingers digging into my thighs—and oh, God.

  I’m coming harder than I usually do like this. The climax shudders through me, shocks of electricity bursting from one nerve ending to the next, and I arch my back off the bed as it goes on and on…and on.

  When the orgasm finally subsides, I release a shuddering breath and roll over on my side. Closing my eyes, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

  Okay. So yeah, I don’t need a guy to get off. This way is definitely easier.

  So I’m jeopardizing our friendship for what, exactly?

  I just don’t know.

  Somehow I manage to get out of bed without picking up my cell phone where it’s been charging on my nightstand. I need some coffee before I check and confirm that he didn’t text me in the middle of the night with an apology and a change of mind.

  It’s probably not going to be a great weekend.

  It’s 10:37 p.m. Is Jay still at the hospital? I have no idea. His shifts end at nine o’clock, but he never leaves until he’s wrapped up all his cases and written the reports. Which means the twelve hours he’s supposed to work often turns into fourteen or fifteen. Residency sucks.

  My day was pretty uneventful. Went grocery shopping. Cleaned my apartment. Hit the gym in the late afternoo
n, and when I got home, my sister, Paige, called, so I talked to her for a while. My big sister is an attorney who’s married to another attorney, and this lawyerly relationship has spawned two kids so far, with a third on the way.

  And that’s why she called me, to tell me they found out my nieces are getting a little brother. Which is, of course, really exciting. But for some reason, Paige didn’t sound that enthusiastic. I guess by the third child, finding out the gender of the baby’s not that thrilling anymore?

  That doesn’t sound right, though. In my job, I see women in various stages of pregnancy every day, and when a patient is clearly less than eager, it usually means she got knocked up on accident. There’s no way that applies to my sister, however. She only ever does things on purpose.

  After saying good-bye to her, I shot off a text to ask Grandma what she was up to, since I had my phone out anyway and hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days. As usual, she answered almost right away. She’s highly tech savvy, Lily Waters, especially for a woman who’s turning eighty in just a few weeks—a birthday my family is throwing a small surprise party for, despite Grandma having declared she doesn’t want one.

  We messaged each other for a while, and she told me she’s had a cold all week but that it wasn’t that bad and she was still going to play in her poker club’s big Spring Fling tournament tomorrow. Which made me smile. Guess I know where I got my competitiveness from.

  After that, I heated leftovers for dinner and watched Netflix while I ate. I briefly considered watching House, M.D. without Jay, even though it’s a show we’ve been watching together. That’d be appropriate punishment for the way he ran out of here yesterday and how he’s ignored me today, right? But in the end I decided not to be that petty and immature.

  I spent some time trying to figure out what to get my grandma for her birthday. Technically, we’re not supposed to give her gifts. She’s told us she prefers that we donate money to the Alzheimer’s Association instead. It’s a cause that’s been near and dear to her heart ever since my grandfather died of early-onset Alzheimer’s when I was eight.

  Still, it’s a big birthday, and I want to get her something. Nothing extravagant. Just something…special.

  So that’s where my mind is at as I’m lying on my couch, staring into space with the latest Liane Moriarty novel open on my chest.

  I actually would call it a good day if I hadn’t been waiting—waiting, waiting, and freaking waiting—for him to text me. Like he said he would.

  Waiting impatiently, getting more and more antsy, like I’m his girlfriend or something. Waiting impatiently, even though he’s been at work all day and possibly too busy to even eat or take bathroom breaks.

  Texting me should be low priority. I know that. Really, I do.

  I haven’t sent him a message, either. Resisting was about as hard as holding your pee after chugging a pitcher of brew. But I did it, and I’m not going to cave now. I’m not like a nagging girlfriend, after all.

  Yay, me.

  So instead I’m lying here, pondering and agonizing over why. I want Jay, have wanted him for a long time, but why am I suddenly acting on it?

  Maybe it’s because I feel safe not expecting too much from him. He won’t be around that much longer. Two more years of residency, and then he’s leaving to go work with his uncle Warren at Relief International, a global humanitarian organization that provides aid in conflict and disaster areas.

  That’s been Jay’s plan since high school and he spent a summer with his uncle in Ethiopia. He intends to be gone not just for several years but maybe indefinitely, and that’s why he’s avoided any serious relationships. At least I assume that’s the reason he said he’s not looking to meet anyone right now.

  Or maybe that’s not why I couldn’t stop myself from bringing up this topic with him. Maybe, with just two years left, I’m finally realizing that I’m running out of time. Running out of time to find out if being that close to my best friend is as amazing as I’ve imagined. I want to touch him, to feel him, to know all of him—while I still can.

  But the thought of Jay not being in my life anymore is one I can’t dwell on for long without feeling like I’m starting to suffocate. So I push it away, put my book down, and get up off the couch to get ready for bed.

  I brush my teeth on autopilot. Change into sleepwear, crawl in bed, plug in my phone, and switch off my bedside lamp.

  I lose my sense of time and have no idea how long I lie there, my eyes wide open in the darkness. Two minutes? Ten?

  To hell with this.

  I fumble around on the nightstand until I find my phone, tap the power button, and enter my passcode. Then I find my messaging app, select his name, and type: I’ll be at Three Oaks tomorrow morning at nine if you want to join me. Parking near the restrooms.

  There. I hit Send, mute the phone, and turn off the screen.

  Whether he answers or not, I don’t plan on losing any sleep over it.

  When I get to Three Oaks Park at five to nine, the only vehicle in the parking lot is a black MINI Cooper Convertible with white racing stripes—Mia’s pride and joy. She made me come with her when she bought the pre-owned car only three months ago, to help her negotiate the price down. I told her she was dealing a blow to feminism just by asking me to do that, and her excuse was that she’s uncomfortable with conflict.

  Which is true enough. And really unfortunate, considering she’s chronically incapable of keeping her big mouth shut.

  I’ve been trying to keep those facets of her personality in mind ever since that clusterfuck on Friday night. That’s just Mia, I’ve been telling myself. Stuff pops into her head, and then it comes out of her mouth, unfiltered. Most people like her anyway.

  I like her anyway. Like her a hell of a lot more than is good for me, probably.

  I swerve out to pull into a spot farther down, but at the last minute I decide to back my truck in next to her car instead. It’s a petty and kind of childish move, done just to annoy her. She’s irritated by people who back into parking spots for some reason. I guess they slow her down too much?

  I’m doing it as payback—or the beginning of my payback, at least—for the stress and lack of sleep she caused me this weekend. Because that crap she pulled the other night? Not okay.

  So yeah, I’m here for our usual Sunday morning run, but that doesn’t mean we’re okay. And she’s going to find out just how not okay we are pretty quickly.

  I’m gripping the steering wheel and staring unseeing at the dashboard, steeling myself. A melancholy Mumford & Sons song is playing on the stereo, the lyrics about love and sadness and death. It fits my mood exactly.

  Have you ever thought about having sex with me?

  Goddamn her. Maybe if she knew about the shit going on in my life right now, she’d understand I don’t have the energy to also deal with her obnoxious questions.

  I probably should have told her about that shit. Should’ve told her a long time ago. But every time it’s seemed like a good time to bring it up, my mind has jumped ahead to the end of the conversation, and I grow terrified that she’ll look at me differently. Look at me like I’m…less. Less of the person she thought I was. Less of a person she wants in her life.

  That’s how five years have gone by and she still knows nothing about the events in my past that made me who I am. And I have no plans to change that.

  In fact, I’ve had no plans to change anything about my relationship with Mia. Which is why I was so blindsided by her questions on Friday night.

  Have you ever thought about having sex with me?

  Well, who hasn’t? I can guaran-fucking-tee that, except for her family members, there’s not a guy alive who’s met her and hasn’t thought about it. Plenty of women, too, probably. There’s this girl at our movie theater concession stand—a college kid, I’m guessing—who blushes every time we order our popcorn and drinks, and she sure as hell isn’t looking at me when she does it.

  Mia and sex, they’re like bread and bu
tter. Like pen and paper. Like Ben and Jerry.

  One just makes you think of the other.

  Maybe it’s those sea-green eyes of hers, eyes that make me think of relaxing on a tropical beach…and having sex with Mia in the warm sand. Or her thick and wavy hair, the color of milk chocolate, perfect for burying your fingers in…while having sex with Mia.

  Or maybe it’s her infectious smile, her melodious and throaty laugh, her quick wit, or that slim and toned body with the most perfect little heart-shaped ass—

  Have I thought about having sex with her? I let out a snort. Safe to say the answer is, Hell, yeah. It’s crossed my mind on a regular basis since the day I first met her.

  Doesn’t mean I’m going to tell her, though. What’s the point? There’s no room in my life for Mia Waters to be anything more than she already is. She deserves more than I can give her, and there’s no way sex with Mia would end in anything but grief.

  Why ruin a good thing?

  I turn off the engine and get out of the truck. Time to go ask her that question.

  Mia’s waiting for me on the bench closest to the park restrooms, where she’s sitting with her outstretched legs crossed at the ankles. It’s not hard to spot her there. She has a thing for flashy, and along with her eye-catching workout clothes, she’s wearing multicolored neon sneakers that look like a clown jizzed all over them. Her hair she’s tamed into place with a topknot and a pink headband, and she’s nudged her aviator sunglasses down to the tip of her faintly freckled nose so she can better see the phone screen she’s tapping away on.

  She looks up as the pebbles crunching beneath my shoes on the sidewalk announce my presence, and before I have a chance to read her expression, she pushes her sunglasses back up. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

  “I wasn’t, either.” And now I know why. After spending yesterday thinking about her almost non-stop, seeing her again is discombobulating. The muscles at the back of my neck are too tight, and my limbs all feel out of place. It’s like we’re not ourselves anymore, and I don’t know how to adjust.