The apartment Aaron has in Boulder is right across from the fire station, and about a block from the CU Boulder campus. It’s also within walking distance of the D-Phi frat house. Though we graduated nineteen months ago, he’s still guest of honor at their parties. He was on the seven-year plan and wound up graduating the same time I did, even though he’s three years older than I am.
What can I say? Even though he’s not in college anymore, he couldn’t fully detach himself from that world. He still considers it the best time of his life, which is probably why he’s constantly bringing up those old stories.
Aaron’s had it pretty good, though, since graduating with his degree in electrical engineering. His father is CEO of an engineering firm in downtown Boulder, so he got him a great job there. We think he can make manager in another couple years, if he keeps at it. He’s been trying to put away money so that we can buy a house.
Me? Well, I’m another story. I graduated with a degree in English and couldn’t find a job anywhere. I blanketed the world with resumes, and nothing came of it. So I decided to go back for my Masters in Library Science and add to my already impressive student loan debt. I’m still living in the same apartment that I had for my undergrad, but the lease runs out at the first of the year. When we’re married, I’ll move in with Aaron.
That’s the plan.
I can’t wait. My apartment on campus is just a dorm. But sharing his place with him, starting our lives together as man and wife? Maybe it’ll feel like a home.
Next to me, Miles is drumming his hands on his thighs, something I’ve noticed he only does when he’s nervous.
Hmm. I wonder what that’s about?
Miles may be Aaron’s best friend, but he didn’t get into D-Phi the way Aaron did. He easily transitioned off campus. He graduated summa cum laude from CU in the usual four years with a dual degree in business and math and cut all ties with D-Phi and everything college. Then, he got a job as an investments manager at some big-deal firm in Denver, where he quickly climbed the ranks and is now vice president. He’s rolling, though you wouldn’t know to look at him most days, since he seems to favor the Paul Bunyan look over suits and ties. Aaron’s always saying what a “lucky son of a bitch” Miles is, but I think it’s a lot more than luck.
First of all, he’s a genius.
I’m not just saying that.
Oh, you know that beer pong he was watching the first night I saw him? He wasn’t staring dumbly into space, stoned. I learned later, when I saw all the napkins he had scattered around him, that he was working out a formula to find the exact trajectory and velocity or something—I wasn’t paying attention when he explained it—so that one of his brothers could hit a cup, every single time. And he’d been testing it with Aaron, which was why he was cleaning up against all the poor, unsuspecting girls who happened to challenge him.
Somewhere, in the drunken haze, I remember asking him why he didn’t play beer pong, testing out his own theories himself, and he’d actually said, “Because it doesn’t sufficiently interest me.”
I’d asked him what did, and he’d said, “You,” right before he kissed me.
My heart flutters a little at the thought, but I clamp a hand over it to remind it to chill out.
Wrong guy. Wrong, wrong, really fucking wrong guy.
As I pull into the parking lot of the Grammercy Acres, Aaron’s apartment building, I swallow a few times, trying to rid myself of the memory of Miles’ taste. Drunk as I was, I’ve somehow managed to keep so many memories of that night not only intact, but absolutely crystalline-clear. It’s a curse, I’m sure. Meanwhile, Miles probably doesn’t remember a damn thing.
I coast into Aaron’s spot outside the building, cut the engine, and hold my hand out to Miles.
But he’s already reaching for the door. As he slips out, he says, “I’ll get them. You stay here.”
“What? No.” I open my door and jump out, following him up the narrow pathway.
Halfway up the sidewalk, he wheels on me. He wags a finger in my direction. “What are you doing? Just go back to the car.”
I cross my arms, standing toe to toe with him, doing my best to stare him down even though he’s a foot taller than I am. “No. I want to make sure he didn’t forget anything else. Besides, I have to use the bathroom. I haven’t peed in five hours.”
He lets out a long breath. “Fine. Whatever.”
He heads to the apartment, walking fast, and I nearly trip over myself trying to keep up. Damn his long legs. When I get to the door, he’s already opened it and gone through, leaving it just barely cracked for me.
I push the door open and look around. Yep, it’s just the same as it was the day before he left, when I stopped by before we all caravanned it over the mountain. There’s clothing strewn everywhere from his whirlwind packing expedition. His giant red sectional is barely visible, it’s so covered in shit.
As I’m crossing to the bedroom, Miles appears in the door, holding a velvet bag. “Your rings.”
I take them from him and peek inside. There they are. A little thrill passes through me as I touch the cool platinum. The tension I’ve felt in my neck this whole trip starts to ease.
“Geez, this place is a shithole.”
I raise my head to see Miles’ eyes ping-ponging around the place, that superior glare back. I’ve never been to his flat in downtown Denver, but I imagine that his housekeeping staff must hate working for him.
But he’s right. It’s a bachelor pad. There’s not a painting on the wall or a decorative element anywhere. “So he’s not Martha Stewart. I’ll fix things when I move in.”
“Will you?” He seems doubtful.
Well, I’m sure nothing I ever do will be up to his standards. Sometimes I’m surprised I even made him come as many times as he did.
Ugh, why am I thinking of that?
I hand him the rings. “You should take these, then. You’re not going to lose them, are you?”
He takes the bag, opens the flap on his flannel shirt pocket, and tucks them in. “No.”
It’s sad that even though I hate him, I trust him. Miles is a man of his word. He promises, he delivers. Aaron should have entrusted the rings to him to begin with; then maybe none of this would’ve ever happened.
Stepping through the minefield of discarded crap on the shag rug, I head toward the bathroom door, which is right across the narrow hallway from Aaron’s bedroom.
Suddenly, Miles says, his voice an octave higher than usual, “Wait. Where you going?”
I point to the bathroom. “I told you.”
“Oh. Right.” Relaxing, he thrusts his hands into his pockets and strolls around the living room, taking it all in. He kicks one of Aaron’s sneakers with the toe of his boot and shakes his head.
Aw, Mr. Clean is about to blow a gasket.
As I walk toward the bathroom, though, I get a distinctly odd feeling. It only grows as I yank my leggings over my thighs, sit down on the toilet and pee.
Aaron insisting Miles come with me.
Miles fidgeting when I pulled up at the apartment and trying to get me to stay in the car.
Miles being nervous when I walked toward the bedroom.
As I’m finishing up, looking for some soap and a towel so I can wash and dry my hands, it hits me.
There’s something in Aaron’s bedroom that he doesn’t want me to see.
I dry my hands on my leggings since I can’t find a towel, telling myself I’m being stupid. Aaron sent Miles along with me because he didn’t want me going alone. He cares about me. That’s all there is to it. And Miles was acting nervous and weird because, well, Miles is weird.
Still, by the time I’m ready to open the door, I know I will not be able to leave unless I know for sure.
Taking a deep breath, I crack open the door to the hallway. Not seeing Miles, I step across the hall as quietly as possible and push open the door to his bedroom.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. A naked woman sleeping there? Long blonde hairs all over the bed? The last time I’d slept here—in fact, the last time we slept together—was nearly two months ago. I suggested—and Aaron agreed—that our wedding night would be much more exciting if we hadn’t gotten any in a while.
I find everything as I expected. White, unpainted walls, scuffed in places, except for a giant framed painting of the Boulder Flatirons at the head of his bed. I’d given it to him a month ago, for his birthday. I’d gotten it from a local artist’s gallery as the start of a promise—that when I moved in, I’d make this place homey and livable. I’d make it ours, not just four walls and a roof.
Other than that, his king bed, sheets all rumpled in a pile at the very center. His dresser, all but one drawer open and vomiting clothes.
Nothing else.
But then my eyes settle on the night table drawer. I’ve never looked in there before, but it must be where he keeps important things, since he kept the rings there.
I hurry over to it and yank it open.
The first thing my eyes fall on is a dog-eared picture of us, at the D-Phi semi-formal, taken years ago. It’s my favorite picture; I actually have a copy of it blown up and framed in my apartment. I sit down on the bed, lifting and admiring it. We’re so young there.
My eyes fall back to the drawer…and the yellow box of condoms.
I tamp down the initial urge to freak out. Sure, I’ve been on the pill forever, and we stopped using condoms four years ago. They could just be old. And Aaron’s a pack-rat. He never throws anything away.
Even though he only moved here a year and a half ago…there’s got to be an explanation.
I lift it out, looking for the expiration date.
As I do, I notice the half-used tube of lube.
Half-used…and I know he’s never used it with me. He’s always trying to get in my back door, but I’ve been pretty firmly closed for business on that front. I mean, really. What is the allure of anal, anyway?
Don’t guys use lube to masturbate? So, that’s probably not a big deal. But that, and the condoms, and the fact that Aaron clearly didn’t want me snooping in here…
I look up suddenly as Miles’ form fills the doorway.
He’s gazing at me, and at the condoms and lube in my lap, with an expression I can’t read.
Then he says, “Are you ready?”
I replace the contents quickly and stand up. “Um, yeah.”
As I follow him out the door, I can’t breathe. Because I thought I’d resolved this with Aaron. And now there are all these doubts. Less than twenty hours before I’m supposed to marry him.
I need air.
I need to talk to Eva.
I need Xanax.
I most definitely do not need the six feet three inches of sarcastic man-flesh that I’m doomed to spend the next five hours with. Aaron’s partner in crime, who I think may have actually been working in cahoots with Aaron to keep this from me.
I walk through the apartment behind Miles, in a daze, and part of me wants to punch him.
He goes to open the door, but I attack it, slamming it closed. “Is that why you came here?”
He looks annoyed. “What?”
“I mean, the condoms, the lube…we never use any of that, and—”
“Huh? Get out of the way, Shorty, or you’re gonna—”
He’s deflecting. I won’t have it. “No. You know what I’m talking about. Did Aaron make you come here because he wanted you to keep things from me?”
He glares down at me for a long moment. I brace myself for the news. I can already almost feel it, harder than a smack across the face.
But it doesn’t come.
He easily nudges me out of the way and opens the door. “Your upcoming nuptials are making you into even more of a headcase than usual.”
He goes through the door and down the steps, leaving me alone.
Miles is right.
I am being a headcase.
But this is the rest of my life I’m talking about. And…
I step outside and pull the door shut as he’s reaching the bottom of the stairs.
“Miles!” I cry desperately.
He stops on the last step and turns to look up at me as he puts on his mirrored sunglasses.
“Please. You would tell me, right? If he was…” I can’t bring myself to say the word. “You know. Right?”
His mouth stays a straight line. I know what that means.
I’m Aaron’s friend. Not yours. Don’t ask me these questions.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, tilts his head to the sky, and lets out a breath. “Want me to drive?”
I swallow and follow him down the steps. No, he wouldn’t tell me. He’s loyal to one person only: Aaron. His best friend. His only friend. “No. I’ll drive.”
I didn’t notice the clouds coming in, or the air getting colder. When I reach the car, an arctic blast of wind rips across the parking lot, making my teeth chatter and my bare toes curl. I rip open the door and slide into the warmth of the car.
And as if I couldn’t feel any worse, the second I start the engine, the first tiny snowflakes scatter across the windshield.
