Page 53 of The Boyfriend Swap

Perry rested his gaze at the top of my head. “You might want to fix your hair.” Then he turned his back, buried his face in his hands, and mumbled, “What the hell were we thinking?”

A tsunami of guilt washed over me. I’d teased Will about keeping his hands to himself, but it never occurred to me I would be the adulteress in this situation. Even though none of my pairings since Jake had been serious, I’d never cheated on even my most casual boyfriends, much less gone after another girl’s guy. Hopelessly desperate to be absolved of blame, I said, “This is all your fault. You goaded me.” I smoothed down my hair—a delayed reaction to Perry’s earlier comment.

“Don’t even,” Perry said as he faced me again, his eyes lit in anger.

“You’re the one who accused me of wanting you to ‘bend me over.’”

“I wasn’t serious. Although, given the way you attacked me, I guess there was truth in the statement after all.” He removed two cereal boxes from the dusty floor and returned them to the shelf.

My stomach dropped as I recalled the animalistic way I’d hurled myself at him. It would be magically delicious if Lucky the Leprechaun could cast a spell so this never happened. The only saving grace was that we stopped before it went too far. “I didn’t see you pushing me away. In fact, you seemed very excited about it.” I raised an eyebrow.

“Schuester has a mind of his own,” Perry said, motioning to his privates.

“Schuester?”

“FromGlee,” he said, rolling his eyes upward as if he’d chosen the name of someone who was actually famous, like Barack Obama or Michael Phelps.

“You named your penis after a character onGlee?”

“Not justanycharacter—the one played by Matthew Morrison. Better his last name than his first.”

“What’s his first?”

“Will.” He gave me a wry smile.

Will. My stomach curdled as if I’d chugged sour milk. What was I going to say to Will? Even though we didn’t have sex, it was still cheating. My comments about Perry being a “blond god” notwithstanding, I knew Will trusted me. He was a stand-up guy who gave as good as he got. I pictured the disappointment on his face if he knew what I’d done and felt an ache in my gut.

“What are we going to do now?” Perry asked, interrupting my thoughts. His cerulean eyes pleaded for an easy solution.

Unfortunately, I had no quick fix for him. “Why are you askingme?”

“I thought you had all the answers.”

I bit my cheek. “I usually do, but not this time. What was I thinking?”

“Ah. A question I know the answer to.”

I hadn’t realized I’d asked it out loud. “Do tell,” I said, even though I doubted his ability to bestow wisdom at this time.

“You had to have the last word. I said you couldn’t handle me and your inflated ego wouldn’t allow you to let it go.”

“Myinflated ago? Pot. Kettle. Black.”

Perry shrugged. “It’s the only reasonable answer to explain why you’d throw yourself at me—a guy who, regardless of his overwhelming charms, you don’t seem to like.”

I wasn’t ready to acknowledge there might be truth in his statement. “What was your excuse, then?”

At the same time, we said, “Schuester,” and chuckled. But we both knew it wasn’t a happy laugh; it was the sad laugh of two desperate, guilt-ridden people.

“I don’t think this is the best place to devise a game plan.” The walls of the oversized pantry seemed to be closing in on me and my lungs cried for fresh air. “For now, let’s go back and get hammered. We’ll worry about this tomorrow.”

Tapping my head, Perry said, “I knew my precious Cherry Bomb was in there somewhere.” He smiled at me.

I snorted and, in spite of myself, grinned back. Things would get ugly soon enough.

As promised, Perry and I rejoined the festivities and drank back-to-back Gin and Tonics, heavy on the gin and light on the tonic. We were both blitzed by the time the formal dinner was served but managed to hide it well. Perry relied on his acting skills to feign sobriety, and I used sheer determination. On a positive note, Aaron spotted us entering the sitting room together and hadn’t bothered me since.

The antique Howard Miller grandfather clock in the formal dining room pinged six o’clock, and I happily noted we were well past the halfway mark for the day’s festivities. Dinner would be served, then dessert, followed by an hour of after-dinner digestifs during which the guests would begin their departures.

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