I almost choke on my response. It's new to me, but for the first time I can remember, it's the most honest response I can give. "Thanks. You should keep it. There's someone else who I'm kind of seeing."
Miss Tits and Ass doesn't miss a beat. "If you're only kind of seeing someone, I'm free for the part of you that isn't seeing someone." She shrugs. "I'm kind of seeing a few people, too."
When had I ever turned down casual, no-strings-attached sex?
My memory is a little fuzzy from before I turned fifteen, but going out on a limb, I'm going to guess the answer is never.
Smiling, I say, "I'll remember that. Right now, I need to see where this is going." With that, I put my earbuds back into my ears and concentrate on the pounding bass, pushing myself to keep up the pace.
I'm not sure what Miss Tits and Ass says or if she even responds. I'm too busy wondering if I should forget another of my policies and call Sami. As I think and run, and think and run...I recall calling her on Friday morning after our first night together. Maybe I’m already treating her differently.
My thoughts work to justify myself.
Last week, I tell myself, Sami and I were still more squarely in the friend zone. We'd only stepped outside the box one night. A week and a day later, it feels different.
Now with her memory come twinges and recollections...the noises she makes just before she comes. The way her pussy tightens. Her smile as our breathing steadies.
My blood should be pumping as I run. It should be racing through my heart and exiting to all parts of my body. But as I think about her sweet honey, her perfect tits, and the way she says my name, I begin to worry I might get lightheaded.
My blood isn't doing its job. Instead, my dick twitches, hardening with each recollection.
Sami
A message pops up on my screen from Marcy out at the front desk.
You have a visitor.
I can’t stop the smile that spreads over my face as I anticipate sexy blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, a rock-hard body, long muscular legs, all topped with light brown hair that looks even sexier after I’ve run my fingers through it.
We’ve been at this new agreement for over two weeks and neither of us seems ready to change it. I haven’t seen him since he left my place on Saturday morning. I’ve thought about him, but I kept reminding myself that while we have benefits, we are friends. Friends don’t spend all their time together.
Every time I considered calling or texting yesterday, I refrained. However, now with him here on a Monday at my work, I’m reminded of all the reasons I wanted to reach out.
The clock in the corner of my screen tells me it’s a quarter after twelve.
Maybe Marshal wants to go to lunch, or maybe we have time for a quickie in his car.
Warmth fills my cheeks as I leave my desk and work behind, and I briefly entertain the idea of doing it in Marshal’s sports car. In all honesty, I’m not sure it’s physically possible. After all, he’s six feet three, and his car isn’t big.
Maybe I could suggest my SUV.
If we lay down the back seat...
My expression blanks as I turn the corner and see not Marshal but my mom. I open the door to the entryway. “Mom. What a surprise.”
“I was in the city and thought maybe we could have lunch together.”
This is the first time I’ve been face-to-face with my mom since the showdown in her kitchen. We’ve spoken on the phone many times, but I haven’t seen her. “Of course. There’s that sandwich shop down the street that you like,” I say. “We could walk.” I peer through the glass doors. “It’s a nice day.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Um, let me grab my phone and purse.”
When I come back, Mom and Marcy are deep in conversation. Call me paranoid, but I believe it’s about me.
Is it about the cancelled wedding, Jack, or Marshal?
That’s the million-dollar question. “Ready?”
Warm air blows my hair as we step onto the sidewalk. As we walk, we chat about nothing in particular. I ask her why she’s in Grand Rapids, and she asks me about work. It isn’t until we’re seated and waiting for our order that her expression changes.
The woman across the table isn’t a stranger. I know her better than most, and I can tell that our chance lunch isn’t by chance and our conversation is going to get more serious.
“I wanted to talk to you without your dad.”
“Why?” My heart beats faster. “Is something wrong? Are you sick? Is it Dad?”
Mom’s lips come together in a grin. “No, honey. Nothing like that.”
Honey.
I have a flash of memory but push it away. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’ve sent all the regrets for the wedding.”
The guilt is back, pushing on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. “Mom, I have savings. I make good money. Please let me pay for whatever you can’t get back. After all, this is my fault.”
She shakes her head and reaches for her purse. At the same time, our number is called from the counter. I don’t move, waiting for whatever she is about to show me. “Mom, what is it?”
“Go get our food, and I’ll show you.”
Each step to and from the counter feels like I’m dredging through quicksand. I don’t know what to expect, but I know it’s not good.
When I set our plates on the table, I see a folded piece of paper under her hand.
Mom swallows and nods. “I told you we planned for weddings, for all three of you girls. We did. Yours was going a bit above—”
“Mom, let me pay.”
She shakes her head. “The caterer was fantastic. We lost our ten percent deposit, but that’s all. And the reception hall had a waiting list. It seems you made another couple very happy.”
I sigh with relief, thinking this is better news than I anticipated.
“The dress,” she goes on, “can’t be returned. You could always choose to wear it...you know, when...”
“I’ll pay you for the dress and we can burn it in Dad’s firepit.”
“Samantha Ann, it’s a beautiful dress. Sharon, you know from the Moose Lodge, well, she said you could sell it online. She mentioned eBay and Facebook Marketplace.”
I scrunch my nose. “It feels wrong, like I’d be selling my bad choices to some unsuspecting bride-to-be.”
Mom nods. “Really, it was all going well until—” She slides the piece of paper my way.
Neither of us has touched our lunch except for a few sips I’ve taken of my sweet tea and the few Mom has taken of her lemonade. I look down at the paper and back up.
“Whatever this is, you’re saying Dad doesn’t know?”
“Not yet. I was...” She nods toward the paper. “Please take a look and we can talk about it.”
Slowly, I unfold the paper. It takes a few seconds for the words to register. As their meanings become clear, a new emotion—anger—builds inside me.
“An invoice?” I ask louder than I should. “Jack sent you a damn invoice.” No longer am I questioning. I know the answer. It’s right in front of me.