Page 32 of The Best Bad Decision

“Ugh, why did I ask you guys?” I sigh.

“Because you love us, and you know we’re right,” Ruth answers. “Now, shit or get off the pot, A. Call him and have it out.”

Ruth clicks off the call first, then Lo waves goodbye with a mouthful of toothpaste. Finally, it’s just me and Katy.

“Call him, love,” she says softly. “Don’t let this become your relationship. Don’t let this sour everything. If not for you, do it for Maisy. I love you.”

Katy ends the call, leaving me alone.

I scroll quickly and hover my finger over another name.

What if I reallydidmisunderstand everything? What if Maisy is all he wants from me? We’ve spent the last few weeks talking every night, and it’s been amazing. I’ve felt seen and respected, we’ve laughed. We have a lot in common, and talking to him is so easy, even when it doesn’t involve Maisy. Every night, he reminds me why I let myself be drawn to him in Singapore.

What if he doesn’t want to be friends with me? What if all we are is co-parents for the rest of Maisy’s life? Can I live with that?

Can I live with myself if I don’t at least try?

I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m not hopelessly head over heels for him. I don’t know how much longer I can run from my feelings before I’m all out of road.

Before I can talk myself out of it any further, my thumb hits the green circle.

“Amie? What’s wrong, is Maisy okay? Are you okay? Are you sick?”

He squints at the screen of his phone, shafts of daylight streaming through gaps in the blinds.

“No, she’s—we’re fine. I just needed to talk to you,” I say. He sits up in the bed, rumpled sheets pooling at his waist. He’s shirtless, nakedfrom the waist up, and I lick my lips as my thighs clench of their own traitorous accord.

“Okay,” he says, still squinting against the daylight spilling into the dark room, and I hear the faintest whisper of a curse as he rolls his body and stretches.

“God, I can’t believe I slept so long,” he presses on, shaking his hair out and pushing the locks from his face.

“You must have needed it,” I say in a small voice. He hums in agreement.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Did you mean it? When you said we weren’t friends?”

“I never said we’re not friends, Amie,” he says. Confusion colours his face.

“You said—”

“Yousaid friends first,” he says gently, cutting me off. “And I never disagreed. We’re friends, Amie. At least, I hope we are. I hope we can be.”

He rubs a hand down his face, an action I’ve seen him do numerous times. It seems to happen when he’s tired or stressed or frustrated, and right now, he looks like he’s probably all of the above.

“I want to be friends,” I say quietly. I want to be more, but I don’t think he does.Friendsseemed to shake him up enough; I think the concept ofmore than friendsmight send him running for the hills. No matter how badly I want him. No matter how the sight of his bare chest has my mouth drier than the Sahara, or how the mischievous twinkle in his eyes takes me right back to Singapore and all the things he did to me that night. No matter how the rich, low timbre of his voice sends shockwaves right to my core.

Or that after seeing him love our little girl, and then hearing his voice for an hour every night leaves me clenching my thighs and ruining my underwear.God, it’s getting so hard to bejust friendswith Camden Whitehouse.

“Good,” he says. “Friends.”

“Friends,” I repeat, testing the word on my lips.

He sits forward, resting his upper arms on his knees and using one hand to run through his hair as the other holds his phone. Rogue light brown locks fall loose in front of his face.

“I like being friends with you, Amie,” he says. So, we’re friends. But the way he’s looking so intently at me through the screen…

There goes my underwear.

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