The rest of the weekend on the ranch did not suck, unlike Madison, who reminded me her mouth was the eighth wonder of the world. It was the best time I’d had in months. Fine, years. The weekend consisted of good food, pleasant conversation, and mind-blowing sex. I would have low-key suspected I’d died and gone to heaven if it weren’t for the fact I got an email from my accountant reminding me my quarterly tax payment was due.
If I thought I’d mythologized sex with Madison after we’d broken up to console myself for the subpar fucks I had to deal with, I was wrong. The real thing was even better than I remembered.
Longer, harder, and wetter too.
The only downside to the weekend was that Ethan Goddamn Goodman was still on the premises, horseback riding with us, sitting at our table, flirting with Katie (who looked less grossed out by the prospect of making out with my girlfriend’s ex than I’d expected). For the sake of full disclosure, I didn’t mind him dating my sister. He was not, I realized upon reflecting on the matter more closely, the fuckboy I’d thought he was. He seemed like the playing-it-safe, ankle-socked churchgoer my sister would be happy with. I just didn’t think he was a suitable match to my Madison. I mean, Madison. Not my Madison. She wasn’t mine. I knew that.
The night before the morning we were all heading back to the city, Ethan had to rush back to Manhattan for an emergency. He offered Katie a ride, glancing at Madison, who gave him the thumbs-up with a wide grin.
That left us free of Ethan and Katie at breakfast. Which meant I was able to do the one thing I’d been fantasizing about since I’d come up with the fake-engagement plan. During breakfast, very casually and very offhandedly, I leaned down and kissed Madison on the lips. It was nothing more than a peck. I thought people who PDA’d ought to be publicly executed in the town square. But it was enough to show everyone it was real.
The look on Amber’s face—like she’d swallowed a fly—paired with Julian’s appalled frown almost made me laugh.
Now that we were heading home, I was irritated with the idea of saying goodbye. My ex-slash-current-slash-temporary girlfriend was delectable, and she kept my mind off Dad’s illness, which was definitely a bonus.
“Where do you want to sleep tonight?” I asked, driving at a pace that would make senior citizens look like delinquent punks. The rural view passed like flicking pictures, turning gradually into more concrete, higher buildings, and narrower pavements the closer we got to New York.
“My bed.” She laughed. “Where else?”
“Mine,” I said flatly.
“Daisy,” she pointed out. “She probably misses me a lot.”
“You could bring her to mine.” What the heck am I saying? Seeing women’s stray hairs on my pillow made me want to refurnish the whole apartment. A ball of fur on my floor would likely make me burn the entire building down.
“I think she’d freak out.” Mad paused. “Actually, I think you would too. No thanks.”
I waited for an invitation while Mad flicked through a wedding magazine she’d brought along with her. For research, I reminded myself. She knew the score. When we entered Manhattan, I finally said, “Or I could sleep at yours.”
She closed the magazine, perching it over her crossed legs. “Don’t you want your own space? We just spent a weekend together.”
“Getting laid regularly beats personal space,” I replied wryly. “Any day of the week. It’s science.”
“Does that mean you are giving monogamy a chance while we’re temporarily together?” It was more a taunt than a question.
“Do you want me to?” I countered. I sounded like my mother and sister passive aggressively trying to convince each other to eat the last slice of the pie on Thanksgiving.
“Do you want to?” she answered. My brain keyboard smashed a crass reply. Was she five?
“Sure,” I clipped. “I’ll do temporary monogamy. If you do.”
“If I do?” She grinned at me in my periphery. “Am I known for running around town bed-hopping?”
Good point. It was true that ever since we’d gotten into bed, it felt like I was losing a few IQ points every time I came inside her. It was like she sucked the logic out of me. The Delilah to my Samson, if he were a genius and she were . . . well, a quirky hipster. I took a sip of my coffee.
“Do you think if we ever made a sex tape, it would look weird? You’re so big,” Mad mused.
I nearly sprayed my coffee all over my windshield. “First of all, I would never make a sex tape—or document being affectionate toward another person in any capacity.” I tucked the foam cup into the cup holder. “But let me assure you, we do not look awkward in bed.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I watched us in my bedroom mirror when we were doing it.” Pause. “We looked fucking epic, thankyouverymuch.”
Mad played with her engagement ring, pouting as she processed all this. We were ten minutes from her house. She still didn’t tell me whether I could crash at hers. I got irritated with her again. Maybe it was a good idea to spend some time separately.
“I think I’d like to sleep by myself tonight,” she said finally. “You know, just to make sure the relationship is not too intense and we don’t catch any feelings toward one another.”
“Fine,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to correct her and point out that . . . well, I didn’t have a heart, so catching feelings was not on the menu for me.
“Great.”
I parked in front of her brownstone and helped her with the suitcases. After depositing them in her living room, we kissed on the lips, and I turned around and walked back down to my car.
Stopped at the building’s entrance.
Made a U-turn and went back up, my fist already curled and ready to knock on her door. I raised my hand to knock, but the door flung open just as my knuckles were about to hit the wood. Madison stood there, panting.
I blinked, awaiting directions. Should I kiss her? Give her her space? Berate her for being so goddamn indecisive?
“Ground rules”—she raised her palm in warning—“because I know you don’t have feelings, but I do, and I’m here to protect myself first.”
I jerked my chin up, indicating that I was listening. I stood outside her apartment. She was standing inside. I wanted permission to get in. I’d probably agree to sell entire sections of Black & Co. for a blowie right now.
“One, no more than three sleepovers a week between both apartments. That’s the ratio.”
“Done,” I snapped.
“Two, you take care of Daisy while I’m out of town. It’s not fair for Layla to have to babysit her. You were the one who gifted her to me.”
“You said you always wanted a puppy when we passed an Aussiedoodle on the street,” I pointed out. I’d thought I was doing her a goddamn favor at the time.
She stared at me like I was insane. “I say a lot of things, Chase. I also said I want to get married in an Italian château.”
“And?” I stared at her blankly.
“And of course I’ll get married in my dad’s backyard!” She threw her hands in the air like it was obvious.
“Whatever. I’ll take care of Daisy when you are out of town and will not gift you anything that requires more than water or batteries to survive.” I made a mental note to gift her awful things only. Heating pads and flowery planners and hand creams that smelled like desserts. The cheap shit that made Mad smile. “Anything else?” I spread my arms theatrically.
“Hmm.” She tapped her lower lip. “Oh yeah. No telling anyone at our jobs about us. This thing between us has an expiration date, and I don’t want to look like you’ve dumped me. Twice.”
Mad hadn’t told anyone we’d dated, then or now. I, however, didn’t give a shit who saw me kissing her in the mornings when we came to work together.
“You weren’t dumped by me the first time around either.”
She waved me off. “They’ll just assume.”
She wasn’t wrong. People always assumed the person with the money was the one doing the dumping.
“And one more thing.” She lifted her finger in the air. I did hope it was just the one, because I was starting to think it might be a good idea to have my corporate lawyer present. Mad had a lot of rules for what was possibly going to be a two-week fling, if even that. My stomach churned at the thought of what that meant for Dad.
“Get it over with.” I rolled my eyes.
“When this is done, promise me you will never seek me out or try to prolong this relationship. You said I’m obsessed with weddings and marriage, and it’s not untrue. Those are things I care deeply about, even if it’s not feminist or hipster or Manhattan circa 2020. Promise you will let me go once and for all. Do the decent thing and stop pursuing me when we say goodbye.”
“I promise,” I said, taking a step forward, erasing the space between us. We were mouth to mouth now. Chest to chest. Cock to pussy. “I promise to spare your heart. Now may I please have the rest of you?”
She wrapped her arms around my neck. “After we shower, you may.”
I captured her mouth, kissing her with intent. I kicked my shoes off as I backed her into her apartment. The level of satisfaction and relief I felt at sleeping at her place should have worried me. Luckily, 90 percent of my blood flow was under my belt, so my brain didn’t have much to work with.
“Kismet,” she murmured into my mouth.
“Come again?” I asked. And again and again and again. On my face ideally.
“Layla’s word of the day was kismet on Friday. I just looked at her door.”
I made an indifferent sound to signal that I’d heard her, backed her the rest of the way into her shower, turned the stream on with our clothes still on, and peeled her dress off with my teeth.
Hands down the longest, dirtiest shower I’d ever had.
Two days later, Grant and I were jogging in Central Park. A habit we stuck to from when we were teenagers, since we both lived on the same block and were self-diagnosed with ADHD and needed to let out some energy. Sometimes we’d jog quietly; sometimes we’d talk about school and girls and work and shit (not literal shit, other than that time Grant had gotten vicious food poisoning during a ski vacation in Tahoe, which we’d discussed at length).
We usually topped the full loop, a 6.1-mile daily run, followed by a short strength training session in my building’s gym before starting our workday. Since I’d spent yesterday at Mad’s, only visiting my apartment to grab clean clothes and take a half-hour dump (it was decidedly ungentlemanly to occupy a lady’s studio apartment bathroom just so you could scroll through every single article in the New York Times while you sat on the shitter, I’d been told), we’d skipped a day’s worth of workouts.
“So things are getting serious, then.” Grant was the vision of a runner, with his cushioned running shoes, running shorts, ball cap, Apple Watch, and special gel socks. All he needed to complete his look was a goddamn number plastered onto his back, à la Usain Bolt. I was more understated, with—you fucking guessed it, ding ding ding—black running shorts, a black tee, and black sneakers Katie gifted me every three months to ensure the soles of my feet weren’t made exclusively out of blisters. I wasn’t into half marathons like Katie and Ethan, though. I worked out because I didn’t want to die young or sport a midthirties gut.
“Au contraire, Gerwig. We have a tight deadline, so I’m making the most of it. I have it all worked out.”
Once Dad died, so would the relationship with Madison.
“I would love to hear this,” Grant said, pretending to prop his chin over his fist, not breaking his pace. “Tell me how you worked this out.”
“I’m going to spend the days with Dad. Go back to his place every day after work, play chess, have dinner, watch TV, talk, then go to Mad’s in the evening and spend the night with her. That way I enjoy both worlds without getting played again.”
“Getting played,” Grant repeated, waiting for further explanation.
“Last time, I got sucked into a black hole of dirty fucks and clean conversation. Never again.”
“It’s called falling in love, you idiot. You fell in love and got butt hurt nobody sent you the memo. So you proceeded to do something mind-blowingly stupid, regretted it, got a second chance, and now, from what I’m gathering here, you are about to screw it up again.”
Fell in love. Those were the words he’d used. Grant was certifiable. Of that, I was certain. The fact I trusted him with my father’s health concerned me.
“I don’t want a relationship,” I clipped out.
“Well, you are in one.”
“She knows it’s not real,” I said, even though it wasn’t lost on me that we were about to shit all over the three-nights-a-week rule.
“It’s not her I’m worried about, Chase.”
We were rounding the curve, going uphill. I remembered my dad had told me the roads in Central Park were curved to prevent horse-and-carriage racing. I wondered how many other fact nuggets he hadn’t had the chance to tell me yet. Grant fell behind, and I took the opportunity to flip the conversation on him.
“What about you and Layla?” I asked.
“It’s over.”
“Interesting,” I said. It wasn’t interesting, though. Grant and Layla were about as compatible as Daisy and Frank. Grant wanted a serious relationship, and Layla wanted to fuck as many people as she physically could before meeting her maker.
“Yeah.” Grant sighed. “I found out she doesn’t want children.”
“You knew she didn’t want children,” I countered. It had literally been her first line of conversation when he’d met her. Hi, I’m Layla. I don’t want children, but I’m a preschool teacher. Please save me your opinion about that. Oh, hey, nice shirt.
“Well, I thought it was flexible. You know, like people who say they won’t overeat during Thanksgiving dinner because they’re watching their weight but still pig out when push comes to shove.”
“Children and pumpkin pies do have a lot in common,” I drawled sarcastically, quickening my pace. Grant caught up to me. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t let the relationship run its course while having a steady lay.”
“Because I’m not a complete idiot,” he explained through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to wake up two years from now with a woman who wants the exact opposite of what I do.”
“How did she take it?” I asked, because it seemed like something I should do.
“Quite well, seeing as she did the dumping.”
“Crap,” I offered. “Sorry.”
Obviously, I was an excellent friend, with great, valuable input.
“Don’t you think it’s ironic? Layla dumped me because I wanted to get serious. You tried to scare Maddie away because she was serious. Things would have worked perfectly if only Madison and I had met before you and she did. Then she could have set you up with Layla.”
“You and Mad?” I bit out. “No chance. She’s too weird, and you’re too . . . you.”
“Is that so?” Grant asked in amusement. He was goading me.
“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you could make a good couple. Doesn’t matter. Bro code determines you can’t touch her with a ten-foot pole because I touched her first.” I paused. “And I touched her everywhere.”
“I don’t think it works like that.” Grant laughed, and I felt my body stiffening. I wanted to race him up the hill just so I could roll him down it, hoping he’d break a goddamn hip. “We’re not in high school anymore. You don’t even like her very much. According to you, anyway.”
“What the fuck are you insinuating, Grant?” I stopped running, scowling at my friend. Grant kept running in place. I’d always thought running in place was the international sign of being a pretentious dick. Hadn’t Ethan done it just the other day? Suddenly, I couldn’t stand the sight of my best friend.
“Don’t be so upset. Even if I ever decided to make a move on Maddie, she will never date me. Bro code may not be a thing, but sister code is real, and Maddie is a good apple. She’d never do it to Layla.”
I knew he was right. I continued jogging, ignoring him chuckling beside me. It wasn’t that funny. So what if I didn’t want my best friend to sleep with my ex? That didn’t mean I was in love with her.
“As for what I was insinuating,” he said through a wide smile, “I believe the term I was looking for is you, my friend, are royally, crucially, and officially fucked.”
