Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“We are both responsible adults,” I tell him. “I’m sure we can be in a room without being awkward.”
“What about us being friends?” he asks.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. I’m sure I have reasons, but I just can’t think of them right now with him in my space. I should have just called him and spoke to him on the phone.
“Why?” He tilts his head sideways. “We have a lot in common.”
“Men and women can never be friends,” I tell him. “It’s impossible.”
“You’re friends with Matthew.” He smirks, and now I’m so angry with him. I wish I could put my heel through his toe, but then Matthew would kill me if I injured his star goalie.
“He’s like my brother,” I counter. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?” he says.
“Because we just can’t,” I say loudly, throwing up my hands. “It’s not going to be fair to you. You want more than I have to offer.”
“I want your friendship,” he tells me, and I try to swallow, but my mouth is drier than a desert under a hot sun in the summer. “Surely, you can offer me a friendship after everything.”
“It just isn’t going to work,” I say. “Men and women can not be just friends. It’s scientifically impossible.”
He rolls his eyes, and I want to go over to him and grab his face in my hands and then jump on him and wrap my legs around his waist. “I think I can be around you without wanting to sleep with you.” He smirks and then adds, “And I’m assuming you can control yourself.” He winks, and I glare now.
“Trust me, I can control myself. That isn’t the issue. The issue is that we were very intimate with each other, and it’s just weird after,” I tell him. I honestly don’t have an answer. I have no idea what to say. “I mean, just standing here, there is no attraction.”
“Really?” he says and then looks down and looks up. “So if I were to come to you right now and put my hands down your pants, you wouldn’t be ready for me?”
I point at him. “That is why we can’t be friends.”
“I was just pointing out as your friend that you were wrong about us not being attracted to each other.” He smirks. “Anyway, I have to run,” he says, pushing off from the counter. “And you have a date to get to.” He walks over to me, and I swear I don’t move, I don’t blink my eyes, I don’t even breathe. He comes into my space and leans down, and I can smell his musky aftershave that I know he puts on when he trims his beard. I know that he puts two drops in his hands and than slaps them together and rubs his face. And I know he does this while naked usually. He leans down, and I wait for his lips to touch mine, but they don’t. Instead, he kisses my cheek. “Have fun, Vivienne,” he whispers in my ear right before he steps away from me and walks out of the kitchen, leaving his kiss to linger on my cheek.
I wait for the door to close before I raise my hand to my cheek where he left his kiss. I walk out of the kitchen and toward my room in a daze. “What just happened?” I ask and sit on the bench in front of the bed. “What in the fuck just happened?” Rubbing my face, I then get up to get my phone beside my bed and walk back to my office.
I sit in my chair, moving the mouse on the pad and watching the computer come to life. Opening my blog page, I start writing.
Can a man and woman be friends, especially after being intimate? I have the answer for you, it’s no. NO, NO, NO, NO. There is no way this can happen. I think it’s scientifically impossible. You can’t sit down and eat a meal with someone, knowing what he looks like naked. Wanting him to be naked, preferably with you sitting on his lap. I just don’t see it.
How many of you have gone on to being friends after?
I press publish and then turn off the computer. Walking back to my bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, pin my hair on top of my head, and get into bed. The sheets are cool and crisp when I turn on the television, and it’s still on the sports network from last night. I pretend that I was watching the game for Matthew. Ignorance is bliss, they tell me.
The night comes and goes, and my dreams are all of him, and when I get up in the morning, I do it on the wrong side of the bed. I drag my ass to the kitchen to make myself coffee, and when I turn to make my coffee, I see the tray from yesterday still sitting on the counter. Grabbing it, I walk over to the sink to pour it out, and I spot the fishbowl. “Motherfucker.”