Page 85 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Right. Nothing happened. Just practice. Just my best friend giving me my first orgasm with another person while looking at me like I hung the stars in the sky. Nothing at all.
When we finally got home, Vincent and Holly were waiting by the door like furry little judgmental parents. Vincent immediately headbutted Gryff's shin while Holly grabbed my shoelace in her teeth and pulled, clearly punishing us for our abandonment.
“I should deal with them,” Gryff said, already scooping up Vincent under one arm and Holly under the other.
“Yeah, I should... unpack,” I said, even though I barely had anything to unpack.
We fled to opposite ends of the house like we were on fire.
And we stayed like that for a week. Everything between us was awkward and weird and horrible.
I went to practice and work and sucked at both. Gryff went to practice and played so bad in his game on Sunday that he got benched in the first quarter.
The next week went exactly the same.
And the next.
Moving to the UK was starting to look like a good idea.
Mid-week I was rotting in my bed when my phone buzzed.
TYSON
Hey, would love to reschedule for tonight if you're free? That Fox Daws movie's still playing.
I stared at the text. Three weeks ago, I would have been excited. Tyson was perfect, handsome, sweet, genuinely interested in me. But now, after Vegas, after Gryff's hands and mouth and the way he'd made me feel...
Tonight works.
What was wrong with me? Why was I agreeing to this?
Because Gryff had made it very clear in Vegas it was just practice. Because I needed to prove to myself that I could do this. Because maybe if I went out with Tyson, I could stop thinking about my best friend's mouth between my thighs.
I found Gryff in the kitchen, making a protein shake and studiously not looking at me.
“Tyson wants to reschedule that movie date for tonight.”
His head whipped around and I prayed he was going to tell me not to go.
Stop me.
“Oh. Right. That's... cool.”
“I should probably get ready for my date,” I announced, watching his face carefully.
Tell me not to go.
“Cool. Have fun.” He didn't even look up from the blender.
Tell me that night meant something.
“I'm going to shower,” I said, louder than necessary. “For my date. With Tyson.”
Why couldn't I just tell him how I felt? Because it clearly didn't matter.
“Sounds good.”
I stood there for another moment, willing him to say something, anything. Willing myself to do the same. But he just kept adding ingredients to his shake like it required his complete concentration, and I just stood there.
