“Hello?”
“You’re in the clear,” Hank says. His voice catches me off guard and I fumble my phone and drop it between my legs.
The irony.
With trembling hands, I switch the call to Bluetooth.
“Paisley?” he says.
“Sorry, I dropped the phone. Does anyone know I was there?” Honestly, this is the first time he’s had me twisted up in knots.
“Nope. Not a clue. I still think you should have stayed for breakfast.” He yawns. The simple sound brings forth the sensation of our naked bodies nestled together, the comfort of our sleep entwining us, and I suppress the urge to fan my face.
“Are you crazy? Was I supposed to walk out in your shirt and join your parents? Morning, Poppy. Morning, Ms. Becky. Your son and I had sex all night long and I’m famished,” I mimic and Hank laughs.
“Well it wasn’t all night. We did sleep the last few hours.” His voice is like chocolate, rich and creamy, and I kick myself for not staying around for a second helping.
“Hank Lancaster.” I pull into a strip mall parking lot, unable to concentrate on driving while talking to him.
“Where are you right now?”
“About to get on I-4,” I lie. I don’t want him to know I’m staying in town. If we get together again, I’ll probably want a repeat performance, and then I won’t be able to call our night of sex a mistake. He’ll accuse me of wanting more.
He’d be right, but there is no need to have that conversation.
“You know not to head home without me, right?”
Bam! It’s like being slapped upside the head. The aftermath of this impulse doesn’t ever seem to end.
“What? Why?”
“Because my truck is still in Orlando and you are my ride to get it.”
Stupid me. Telling him last night I wanted to go to Lakeland, too. If we’d gone to my apartment in Daytona Beach, I would not be in this predicament.
“It was stupid to come here.”
“It was stupid to climb out the window,” he retorts.
“It was stupid to hook up.”
“Face it. What happened between us last night was bound to happen at some point. Heck, look what happened last week when we met in Cocoa Beach for the surfing competition. We’ve been gearing up for this since high school.”
“We have not.”
Liar. Liar. I know he speaks the truth. If I admit it, I’m breaking some unspoken friendship rule between Gigi and me, even if this is her fault for canceling on us and not attending the surf competition. She’s directly responsible, leaving us unchaperoned.
When I accepted the invitation, I was excited to hang with an old friend. I never imagined we’d spend the evening on the beach, under blankets, learning each other’s body.
I drop my head onto my steering wheel. Something about being with Hank makes me not think things through.
“In my opinion, hot weather and too much booze are the root cause of these slip ups.” I toss out the lie and hope it sticks.
“OK, you keep telling yourself that.” He chuckles. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow? The folks leave for church at eight.”
“All right. Listen, are you planning on seeing your sister today?”
“No, should I?”
“No, I’m heading to her house. I need a change of clothes before I visit my family. You cannot tell your sister what we did.” I hope he gets the severity of my words through my tone. I rub the space between my eyes.
“Roger that,” he says, his smile coming through the phone.
“Promise?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Say it.”
“I promise, Paisley McAllister, to never tell my sister we made hot-monkey love in her childhood bed.”
I groan. I can tell this is going nowhere fast. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Gee, I can’t wait.” I end the call.
I pull out of my parking spot, travel around the backside of the strip mall, and decide to take back roads to Gigi’s house since I’m having attention issues.
I need a cover story, and a good one at that; otherwise she’ll see right through me. I dread facing her. I know I have to at some point. Why not today?
The consequences of my actions plague me. It’s quite possible I may have set in motion the end of my friendships with Gigi and Hank. It’s ironic, this is exactly what I promised myself I would do once my divorce was final. Not sleep with Hank, but start getting a life. Married the summer before my last year of college, I veered off onto a path quite opposite my friends. While they were enjoying life after college with extra cash in their wallets, I was supporting a medical student. Now it’s my turn. Of course, I’m doing a bang-up job so far.
What if he wants something more? I’m not interested in going there. My journey is just getting started. What if our families find out? They are entwined enough for me to know it would be damn near impossible for my mother not to exaggerate our one night and push for a permanent union. Because I’m the only divorced person in my immediate family, pairing me off with someone as fantastically magnificent as Hank Lancaster—my mother’s words, not mine—would go a long way toward putting the blight behind us.
Maybe one day my mother and I will want the same thing: me, happily married.
Right now we don’t.
I pull up to Gigi’s house and park. If best friends could be soul mates, Gigi would be mine. I don’t think there’s a thing she doesn’t know about me, until now. Which makes this all the more difficult because she’s who I go to for confession and guidance.
While I was in the midst of my divorce and on the edge of a nervous breakdown, it was Gigi who came to me with the soundest advice. “You get a second chance,” she told me. “A second chance to do it right. Pick wisely and do it for those who are stuck.” I have every intention of getting it right this time, no matter what.
2
I like to think there are golden rules for every aspect of life. The one between best friends goes like this: Thou shall not covet a friend’s old boyfriend or brother, and thou shall not fornicate with either of them.
If Gigi finds out I used her brother for sex, that I consider last night a jumping off point for starting my single life, I don’t know if she’ll forgive me.
I want to idle in front of her house, but her husband, John, is leaning against his truck, smoking. With no, “Hello, how are you” or even a comment about my appearance, he points me in the direction of his wife. I walk through the fence gate to the backyard where she’s cleaning their pool. She does everything: cleans the house, mows the yard, runs their kid to and fro and even works the grill.
Personally, I think yards and grills are for men. It irks me she does so much. When they first started dating, Gigi was on the back end of a bad breakup. John seemed nice enough but secretly I’ve always thought of him as her rebound guy and I’m pretty sure research exists showing relationships with rebound guys don’t last. They married six months after graduation. I’m not convinced John makes Gigi blissfully happy, no matter how much she swears he does, certainly not lately.
“Hey.” I toss the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the outdoor table.