“I’m not sure. Men don’t always see what women see. And certainly not what mothers see. But I know you, and I’ve seen you with him. Like I said, there’s a vibe.” She pauses, searches my face. “But what did you think would happen when you decided to experiment like this with a man who’s longed for you for a long while?”
I jerk my head, like she’s speaking in limericks. “Longed for me?”
She sighs. “Peyton. You two—you have this thing.”
I shake my head, denying, vehemently denying. “It’s just chemistry, that’s all. He doesn’t want more. He said as much last night,” I say, recalling the punch to the heart at his words. You mean the world to me. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose our friendship.
That’s what matters most to him—keeping the status quo.
And it matters to me.
“And I don’t want to lose him,” I continue. “Mom, don’t you see? There’s too much at stake.”
She takes a deep breath, nodding. “What are you going to do, then? Stop these experiments?”
I glance away. “Yes, soon.”
She chuckles. “After you sleep with him again?”
I cover my ears. “Mom, stop talking about sex.”
She removes my hands from the sides of my head, laughing. “Sweetheart, be careful. Or be bold. But you can’t have both.”
But she’s wrong. I can be bold and I can be cautious. I know how to protect my heart, and it’s by using my head. Last night, Tristan and I set the boundaries for our explorations. We picked an end date. We decided on the agenda.
We used our heads.
There.
Besides, we both want the same thing—to come out on the other side the way we started.
I repeat my mantra in my head: Friendship and lingerie. Lingerie and friendship.
After we finish lunch, I say goodbye, then head to WildCare where I volunteer, helping them with their mission to rehab injured birds and other wildlife. As I clean the facility, I compose a series of text messages in my head to Amy, smiling to myself as I devise ways to needle her and wind her up.
Texting Amy will be a fantastic way to pass the time this afternoon.
When I’m done, I walk through the park, tapping out a message to her.
Peyton: Hey, girl! You know that bathing suit I was going to wear to test out bathtub sex?
Amy: The royal-blue bikini with the white stripe? That’s ghost-pepper hot, so be careful. You might ignite flames in the tub. Best for me to bring you a black Speedo and a bathing cap. Wait. You’ll still look good in a Speedo, you mermaid. New plan—I’m going to bring you one of those full-body bathing suits they wore in those old-timey shots.
Peyton: I’m wearing something besides a bathing suit tonight.
Amy: *waits with bated breath* *stares at phone* *googles waterproof clothing options* *decides a rain slicker that goes to your ankles is what you mean*
Peyton: Nothing. I’m wearing nothing.
Three, two . . .
And before I can count down to one, my phone rings.
“Explain yourself, and leave no dirty stone unturned. Must know everything,” she demands as I walk along the picturesque Terrace Bridge in the middle of the park, enjoying the early golds and bright reds of fall.
I smile, delighting in the memories of last night that are still wildly vivid. “We might have moved on to a new style of testing. Call it more hands-on research.”
She shrieks. “Where are you? I need to see you. I need to see your face as you share every gloriously filthy detail with me.”
“In the park.”
“What side?”
“Why? Are you going to triangulate me?”
“Yes. I bet you’re heading home after WildCare. I’m on the east side. I’ll meet you at that cake shop I like on Park Avenue. Be there in fifteen minutes, ready to divulge every salacious detail.”
“Cake shop you like? Ames, you’re going to need to narrow it down. You like every cake shop.”
“I am very picky with cake, and you know it. Meet me at the newest Sunshine Bakery. I will gather Lola, and you will be prepared to narrate a scandalous new tell-all.”
With a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of tea, I give my confession, but I don’t ask for absolution.
I don’t ask for anything, because right now, I’m still basking in the afterglow.
My friends, however, clearly want something.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask when I finish.
Lola fans a hand in front of her face. “I think I need to see who’s available tonight in my little black book. I might need to reenact your sex life.”
“Come to think of it, maybe I should hire you to write a hot new line of naughty books,” Amy says, but quickly she clears her throat. “But, Peyton . . .”
Those two words hang heavily in the air, signaling advice to come. Warnings I don’t want to hear or heed.
“Guys, I’m fine,” I say, cutting off her words to the wise before they arrive.
“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Amy says, holding up her hands in surrender.
“Listen, my mother already warned me. Be careful and all that. I am careful, I swear. I promise,” I say, practically pleading with them to see this my way—the have my cake and eat it too way. “I just . . . want this. I know we can manage this. We made a plan. We’ll finish out the tests and return to friendship. We did this before. Don’t you remember?”
Lola furrows her brow, flinching. “You’re not actually comparing a kiss at a college dance to sleeping with him?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” I say, because I have to. I have to see this the same way. No, I choose to. “We returned to friendship. It was no problem at that time. We’ll do it again.”
“That was different,” Lola says firmly. “That was one kiss. This is sex. And it sounds like it’s not just sex for either one of you.”
But that’s where she’s wrong.
It’s. Just. Sex.
It has to be.
That evening, I run a bath, drop in a bath bomb, and strip. I gave him a key last night, so right on time, he raps on the open bathroom door, walks into the steamy room, and finds me covered in bubbles, ready for the next test.
25
Tristan
On Sunday morning, I swing by a farmer’s market I like, pick up some goodies, and grab coffee with some of my friends in the business. When I’m done, I pop back home, make lunch for my brother, and proofread his English paper on themes in dystopian literature. He finishes, turns it in online, then tells me he’s going to join me at the gym for an afternoon workout.
I flinch, surprised. Barrett’s not a gym guy. But I don’t ask. I’m just glad he wants to exercise. On the treadmill, he jogs and texts and makes Instagram videos. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. His thumb-speed belongs in record books.
On the way home, we chat about college apps. “Is NYU still your first choice?” I ask, since he changes his mind frequently.