Page 37 of Fumbling for Perfection

Taylor chuckles. “Doubtful.”

We stay on the dance floor for another three songs until Jackson comes over and calls it a night. Taylor gives me a brotherly kiss on the top of my head while he and Jackson do thebest friend handshake-hugthey have mastered for public appearances.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back at my apartment and I’m already changed into sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, curled into my favorite corner of the couch while Jackson makes us snacks in the kitchen. Popcorn and wine are our go-to after schmoozing with his people.

He’s shucked his coat and tie and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his defined forearms. If only I was attracted to Jackson, and if only he wasn’t gay, we could both have our happiness. He plops himself on the other end of the couch and reaches for my ankles, yanking them onto his lap.

“How long are you going to keep your secret from me?” He presses his thumbs into the arch of my foot and I let out a low moan. Anytime I go out as his plus one and wear heels, he treats me with a massage. “And no distracting me with those sexual noises. Spill the beans, Riles.”

“Like my moans are distracting to you.”

“They make me think of Taylor waiting for me at home. If you weren’t holding out on me, I’d have dumped your cute little ass at the door and would be in my bed wrapped around my boyfriend instead of rubbing your feet.”

“Cry me a river. You see him every night.” They each own a penthouse on the top floor of their building and typically stay at Jackson’s.

“Stop distracting me, woman.” He drives his knuckle into my arch and I tense.

“Ouch. Stop being mean.”

“Stop getting fucked by a stranger and not telling your best friend about it.”

“Freaking Kendall.”

“Freaking Kendall, who is about to knock you down from my best friend status.” He takes my other foot and rubs it. “Why didn’t you tell me your hunk of junk showed up at work last week?”

“Hunk of junk?”

“According to my new best friend, Kendall, yes. Tell me how he ended up there. I thought you didn’t exchange numbers, unless you’ve been lying to your future husband?”

I close my eyes and tip it back on the arm of the couch. “We didn’t. I mentioned Boston Strong and I guess he remembered.”

“You guess he remembered.” He tickles my foot and I pull it back. “Honey, you rocked his world in the sack. More than that, you’re a beautiful, sweet, intelligent woman. Of course he was enamored.”

“I was a booty call.”

“Your booty is stunning, but I doubt that’s why he remembered where you worked.”

“Maybe,” I sigh and curl my knees to my chest.

“Why the long face?”

Where do I start? That I finally found the man of my dreams, but I can’t pursue a relationship with him because I’m engaged to another? Or that he lives three thousand miles away and I’m not interested in an only sexual relationship? Or that I’ve lied by omission to a man who has been nothing but kind and caring to me? Or that we had unprotected sex—twice—and I’m not even mad about it?

“I’m just tired. Work is stretching me thin and wreaking havoc on my brain cells.”

“It’s your stubborn pride that won’t let you accept financial support until we’re married. I can write a check right now and pay your rent for the rest of the year. And next. And the next.”

“It feels wrong.”

“Your morals and high standards are commendable but ridiculous. Let me at least give you a hefty donation for the 5K.”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him. “Like you haven’t already.”

“You said you’d chop off my balls if I threw my money at you. My balls are as precious to me as your pride is to you.”

“You didn’t accidentally donate fifty thousand dollars?”

“Accidentally?” He coughs. “It may be a drop in the bucket for me, but it’s not a small chunk of change I’daccidentallydo anything with.”

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