Page 102 of Best Served Cold

Afterward, we went back to her place to hang out with Otis for a while, spitballing ideas for possible locations for The Crafty Monster.

Sophie and I used the red condom that night, followed by the green. I didn’t stay over, because staying over would have meant we were something besides friends having a good time, and that’s all we’d agreed to. The rest was for show.

It was the following morning that I got the official Thanksgiving kiss-off, so I guess our little performance got noticed.

Then last night, Travis, Bixby and I got together with Sophie and her friends after our show. We talked and laughed, but I could tell something was weighing on her. Guilt, it seemed like, probably over my exclusion from a family event I’d never intended to go to. From what I can tell, she always feels guilty about something.

After I drove her home, something I insisted any good fake boyfriend would do, I asked her why she felt she neededto apologize for herself all the time. She insisted she didn’t anymore and then pulled me into her room to make use of the blue condom. I didn’t object. If she wants to keep using me for pleasure, or to get back at my brother, she can.

But I’m starting to think I want more.

Which is why I got up early this morning to attend the Saturday morning meeting of the Wise Women Group. To be totally transparent, I went on Wednesday morning too. Constance was the one who recommended the pizza place.

What can I say? I don’t have a sister, my mother’s in Montana, and this isn’t the kind of thing you talk to your buddies about, even though Travis is already getting on my case about my “weird thing” with Sophie. Not a relationship, and not really a fake relationship either. “A situationship,” Bixby called it, which I guess is the closest description. Although I didn’t like him using the same word he uses to describe his half a dozen friends with benefits.

“I knew she’d warm to the lotto tickets,” Ann says, shaking a finger at me. “No woman alive wouldn’t like it if a man showed up with some scratchers. Now, throw a Powerball ticket in there, and that woman will be taking your last name instead of your brother’s.”

“You mean the same last name?” Constance says gruffly, looking up from today’s crochet project. This one appears to be an ugly scarf, the same color gray as the ribbon Sophie and I bought last weekend.

I wore my boutonniere all day last Sunday, catching tons of crap from my friends about it. They knew there was no way I’d suddenly started making flower pins for myself.

“Huh, at least it would make it convenient for her if she’d already had stationery made.”

“Honestly, Ann, young people don’t have stationery made for themselves,” Constance says with a snort. “The majority of them have probably never handwritten a letter.”

Dottie furrows her brow. “What a sad thought. I have a drawerful of passionate letters from all of my beaus.”

Ann adjusts her hearing aid, then says, “You tie them up with bows? Does your man like reading them? Rufus always liked reading my dirty letters. It made him proud to be the man I chose when all those other men wanted me.”

Constance snorts. “You’ve got that dagnab thing in your ear, but you never turn it on.”

“I think we’re getting off topic,” Dottie says, then reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Did you try the other techniques we’ve discussed?”

“Yes, what about the wet shirt?” Ann asks. “We mentioned it again at our last meeting.”

“Does no shirt count?”

She considers this before shaking her head. “No, sometimes subtlety is better.”

I smile and rub the stone in my pocket. “Uh. I think we should clear something up first. I’m not out to marry her. I mean, she was just engaged, for one thing, and for another…I’m not at that point in my life.”

Another snort from Constance. “You’re, what, twenty-five?” Glancing at the others, she says, “Young bucks that age don’t settle down. It’s not until they’re thirty or so that they get half a brain in their head.”

There’s a teasing glint in her eyes, and I’m pretty sure she’s messing with me. “I’m thirty-one, actually.”

She makes ahumphsound. “You’d better get on that.”

“We don’t need to discuss marriage,” Dottie says, which is both surprising and a relief. “What you want is for her to know you love her.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut, and I can feel sweat beading on my forehead.

“I wouldn’t say Iloveher,” I tell them, forcing a laugh. “I mean, we’ve only been getting to know each other over the past month. These things take time.”

“Son, when you get to be our age,” says Constance, “there’s not much time left, and you start thinking about what’s really important.”

“Like winning the lottery,” Ann says with a smile.

“Or spending time with dear friends,” Dottie adds.

---