Well, he’s back, and if he decided not to spend the evening with me, it’s not my problem after all.
I’m done with my bottle of wine, my crackers supper, and I’m deep into the fifth episode of my binge watching when the two distinctive knocks announcing Lars, resonate in the apartment. I jump off the couch and run to open the door, knocking over the empty bottle of wine on my way.
“You came,” I smile and throw my arms around Lars, happy to feel him more than just seeing him on a screen, but he untangles himself quickly.
Too quickly.
“Of course I came, Na. I knew you probably had nothing to eat; you were going to get your ass drunk with an old bottle of wine and watch the show without me.”
He smells heavenly after spending so many hours on a plane, but it might as well be the curry dish he’s carrying.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell him while grabbing the bag of Indian food and sitting it on the counter.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
He grabs a beer and walks to the sofa, picking up the bottle of wine on his way. “How much did you drink already?”
He smirks, and God, I love that smirk.
It means he’s not mad at me anymore. It means he’s ready to talk and be an adult about it.
It means I can use his lap to rest my head on it, if I want to.
“Just a few sips.” He raises an eyebrow, as if to tell me to get real. I chuckle. “Okay, I might have finished the bottle while being annoyed by your immature behavior, friend.”
“No beer for you then. I don’t need you plastered, drooling on me and babbling during a whole episode.”
“It happened once, Lars, once.” I plate the food. “I never get drunk.”
“You were drunk when we met.” He taps the sofa for me to sit next to him.
“I wasn’t. I was sober,” I say while taking my spot a little further away from him than usual. Lars frowns but doesn’t say a word about it.
“That’s why you had to run to the bathroom?”
He takes a swig of his beer, and my eyes fall on his bobbing Adam’s apple.
I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen him in a while or because we’re discussing the night we met, but I’m not indifferent to his sexiness tonight.
I close my eyes and scrunch my nose at the stupid ideas bouncing in my head. His Adam’s apple is not mine to lick.
His neck is not mine to sniff.
His jaw is not mine to…
“You know I needed to Google you.” I shove him with my foot, but he takes it in his hand, like he has done hundreds of times before.
“Less embarrassing for me if I tell myself you were drunk rather than admitting you decided not to fuck me after stalking me.”
His thumb rubs the sole of my foot, and it tickles, but not where it’s supposed to.
I try to remember the last time I had sex, or a man taking care of me.
It was when Lars was out of town.
It’s always when he’s out of town because otherwise we’re hanging out and the few times I tried to ditch him to have sex, it wasn’t good at all.
Call me superstitious, but I prefer amazing sex a few times a month rather than very bad sex a few times a week.
It’s called maturity.
I wrack my foggy brain for a timeline.
Lars was already gone, and Oliver was in town, so it’s been two weeks, more or less.
My starving vagina can’t be the source of my sudden desire.
I look at his profile.
His new hairdo is hot.
His honey-blond hair is now longer on the top and falling into his eyes, accentuating his long straight nose.
My eyes fall on his mole under his almond-shaped eye, his high cheekbones and the scruff of his jaw.
My best friend is a piece of art.
I inwardly grunt at his beauty.
“Sorry, did I hurt you?” he says turning his face towards me.
I take the opportunity to remove my foot from his hold and shove it under my butt.
“You know I hate foot rubs,” I lie, and he knows it.
“Since when? Last month, you begged me to massage your stinky feet after being in heels all day long.”
“Well, things change in a month.”
“You don’t say.” He pinches his lips and throws his hand in the air.
We’re both frustrated with each other.
He goes to stand, and my heart breaks.
It’s a stupid fight between two tired people.
It’s a miscommunication between best friends. It’s a load of crap between people who don’t do bullshit.
“What’s the matter with you?” I try to make him stay. “I’m sure we can talk it out.”
“With me? I’m tired, Naomi. I haven’t been in my bed in more than a month, but I was missing you so much, so I came here. And I don’t know if it’s because of your new boyfriend or something else, but you’re fucking strange with me. Looking at me, as if I repulse you, not letting me touch you, or wincing when I do. So I’m going to bed, and when you get your shit together, when you clear it up with Oliver, if I can hang out with you, then maybe we can discuss what’s with me.” His words are sharp, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on in his head, but I know he took the news of Oliver being my date more to heart than I thought.
“Ol isn’t my boyfriend!” Is all I can articulate because anger constricts the words in my mouth.
“What is he then? A glorified booty call? Because he’s the guy you call when you need to get fucked; he’s the guy you drop everything for when he’s in town; he’s the guy you’re going with to one of the most important events in our friends’ lives.” He sneers, his normally warm eyes looking at me coldly.
He crosses his arms waiting for an answer.
The answer I shouldn’t give without talking to Anna first.
The answer Oliver and I have kept secret for eighteen months.
It was when Anna and Julie left for London to see Dan because Lars called her when I was at my worst and needed a friend to get me out of the situation, I was in.
It was when Lars and I were fighting about Anna and Dan.
When I decided not to fly to London, and he slept with Julie.
When Oliver was the only one around.
When my father said he was thinking of retiring and asked me to come home to marry his protégé.
When I was asked to go back in the ranks.
When I wasn’t allowed to be simply Naomi, but I had to become Miss Tanaka again, daughter of the richest man in Japan, of one of the wealthiest men on earth, of a monster.
“So? Who is Oliver to you if he isn’t your boyfriend or your fuck buddy?”
I look at him, knowing I might lose him.
Lars and I don’t do secrets, and I kept an important one.
I stand straight because I’m not ashamed of what I did. I am proud of who Oliver is for me and of our unique relationship.
I know what it means and why we did what we did.
“My husband,” I tell him in a loud voice, thrusting my chest and looking at him directly in the eyes.
And when I see him dejected, his shoulders slump and his eyes sadden, I know that I just broke his heart and lost him forever.
Without saying a word, he leaves, and I stay behind, because I was raised to be diligent, and to be able to do the hard things.