Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“In my test group of one, I’d say yes,” he said as we left the shop. “Sex absolutely got in the way of friendship for Ansel and me.”
River lifted his chin a bit defiantly, a sign the Ansel effect was still wreaking havoc. He’d split with his first serious boyfriend a few months ago, a guy he’d been close friends with first.
It was hard to argue with firsthand breakup experience, but I wasn’t sure it was the only answer.
“Do you think sex will always get in the way of friendship? I have plenty of gay friends, and I’m not suffering from I-want-to-nail-everyone-itis like Harry was.”
River knocked back some coffee, his brow knitting. “Same. Obviously. And I’m all for queer friendships. But if you’re going to step past friendship, you have to be ready to face any consequences. Call it the Harry and Sally ‘Sex Trumps Friendship’ Theory. Sex has a way of overshadowing everything. So, if you let it get in the way, then don’t be shocked if it kills the friendship.”
“But what if you don’t let it get in the way?” I asked. “Maybe Ansel was the exception, rather than the rule.”
River gestured broadly, coffee sloshing out of his cup. “Is that possible, though? Ansel and I were so sure we were going to stay friends. We discussed it ad nauseam before we even made out. Then, when things ran their course, he pulled a switcher. Oh, I can’t be friends with an ex. Sorry, not sorry.” An annoyed sigh escaped River’s lips. “Do you think you and Jack will just snap back to friendship once you stop messing around?”
I shrugged, full of postcoital bravado. “Sure. Why not? Plenty of men and women go back to being friends after a sex fling.”
Although, I didn’t want to think of sex with Jack ending—mostly because I liked getting laid.
I liked it a lot.
River flicked his dark blond hair from his forehead. “More power to you if you can return to La La FriendshipLandia. But that didn’t happen to me, and that was the worst part. The heartbreak wasn’t; it was losing a friend. I won’t ever risk that again.”
Hmmm. I could dissect this even further, break it down into principles of a theory. “It sounds like Ansel either believed, or pretended to believe, sex wouldn’t get in the way of the friendship, but then it turned out he was a full-on Gay Harry?”
“Yes, Ansel’s my Gay Harry. And I don’t want to see that movie again.” River tapped his chin, a little lost in thought. “And by that reasoning, a heterosexual man and woman can be friends, as long as the guy isn’t Straight Harry.”
I nod. “And queer men can be friends with each other, except for Gay Harry. Seems to me Gay Harry’s theory that we think anything with a dick is fuckable—”
“Does a great disservice to all the genuinely fuckable dicks of the world,” River said, holding his coffee cup high.
I raised mine as if we’re toasting. “To all the genuinely fuckable dicks in the world.”
Then we laughed because Gay Harry was full of shit, and men could be friends with whoever they wanted.
Only, I was curious what River thought would happen if one of his friends became his lover. “Seriously, though. Allowing that we, being reasonable adults, can be friends with someone bangable, did Ansel convince you that we can’t stay friends with someone we. . . banged? That sex will always get in the way?”
River took a long drink of his coffee, thinking it over. “It’s a big risk, with the friendship at stake. What if the friend turns out to be a Secret Gay Harry? Ansel didn’t seem like he’d be one, but he was. Sex is a powerful drug and thus a humongous gamble, so friends who want to sleep together should decide if it’s worth the risk. I hereby declare that the River Rule.”
I stopped at the street corner. “Hypothetically,” I began, as we waited to cross, “would you and I stay friends if we slept together?”
The question had begun as idle fishing for intel, but in the silence that followed, I cleared my throat, surprised at how much I wanted an answer, startled by my need to hear what River thought of me. But did I want him to say we’d stay friends, or that he wanted to sleep with me?
Or maybe . . . both?
River took another long drink of his coffee and gazed up at the clear blue sky of a spring day in California, seeming to weigh my question for a long moment. Finally, his light brown eyes stayed locked on mine, and he asked, “What do you think, Owen?”
I didn’t know what to think.
Or to feel.
Except I felt something electric.
Something that flashed even hotter when River’s eyes roamed over my frame in a way that felt . . . more than friendly.