“Yes, Ansel’s my Gay Harry. And I don’t want to see that movie again.” River tapped his chin, a little lost in thought. “And by that reasoning, a heterosexual man and woman can be friends, as long as the guy isn’t Straight Harry.”
I nod. “And queer men can be friends with each other, except for Gay Harry. Seems to me Gay Harry’s theory that we think anything with a dick is fuckable—”
“Does a great disservice to all the genuinely fuckable dicks of the world,” River said, holding his coffee cup high.
I raised mine as if we’re toasting. “To all the genuinely fuckable dicks in the world.”
Then we laughed because Gay Harry was full of shit, and men could be friends with whoever they wanted.
Only, I was curious what River thought would happen if one of his friends became his lover. “Seriously, though. Allowing that we, being reasonable adults, can be friends with someone bangable, did Ansel convince you that we can’t stay friends with someone we. . . banged? That sex will always get in the way?”
River took a long drink of his coffee, thinking it over. “It’s a big risk, with the friendship at stake. What if the friend turns out to be a Secret Gay Harry? Ansel didn’t seem like he’d be one, but he was. Sex is a powerful drug and thus a humongous gamble, so friends who want to sleep together should decide if it’s worth the risk. I hereby declare that the River Rule.”
I stopped at the street corner. “Hypothetically,” I began, as we waited to cross, “would you and I stay friends if we slept together?”
The question had begun as idle fishing for intel, but in the silence that followed, I cleared my throat, surprised at how much I wanted an answer, startled by my need to hear what River thought of me. But did I want him to say we’d stay friends, or that he wanted to sleep with me?
Or maybe . . . both?
River took another long drink of his coffee and gazed up at the clear blue sky of a spring day in California, seeming to weigh my question for a long moment. Finally, his light brown eyes stayed locked on mine, and he asked, “What do you think, Owen?”
I didn’t know what to think.
Or to feel.
Except I felt something electric.
Something that flashed even hotter when River’s eyes roamed over my frame in a way that felt . . . more than friendly.
I wasn’t sure what to make of that tingle sliding down my chest. I had Jack. My hookup pal. The guy I was interested in.
I definitely wasn’t interested in River.
Except, this wave of goose bumps rolling down my back said otherwise. It shouted that I was into my friend, the guy with the surfer smile, the breezy vibe, the ink on his arms that pops on his fair skin. Most of all, the never-ending banter.
But I wasn’t Gay Harry, who couldn’t see past lust to what else a person had to offer. I agreed with River that friendship mattered and shouldn’t be risked lightly.
“I think if we slept together,” I answered slowly and thoughtfully, “you and I could stay friends. Because we are friends.” I tried my best to answer logically. “And I’m not Ansel.”
“True,” River conceded. “Still, I’m not sure I’d ever want to take that gamble with you. I wish I hadn’t taken it with Ansel because I lost a friend.”
“Or maybe you learned who he really was,” I posited.
“A lesson I didn’t want to learn. And I don’t want to gamble with our friendship. Even though you are a cutie, Owen,” River said, shifting tone. The man could be the textbook definition of a flirt.
“Cute is for chipmunks,” I scoffed.
“Oh my God! You’re a chipmunk hater. We definitely won’t ever sleep together now that I know that you have a grudge against chipmunks.”
Sleep together.
Right then, I knew three things. One, the way he said sleep together turned me on immensely. Two, I couldn’t act on that feeling. Because, three, I didn’t want to gamble with our friendship either.
“I had no idea you had such strong feelings about chipmunks,” I said, when I was really thinking—Do you want to sleep with me?
“I have strong feelings about everything,” River went on, waving a casual hand my way. “I called you a cutie because I can’t call you a hottie,” River said. “Even with those Clark Kent glasses. I can’t call you hot because you’re seeing someone. And because we have too much fun together. Because you make me laugh, and I make you laugh harder.”
“Someone thinks highly of himself,” I said.
“And I think highly of you, Owen,” River said, his tone utterly sincere now, no trace of flirting in it. His soft brown eyes turned serious. “And I don’t gamble with important things like friends.”
Like River, I also didn’t want to lose a friend on account of some kernel of attraction which would surely fade. Lust was temporary. Friends were forever. “We’ll make a deal,” I said, acting on bravado. “A pact that we won’t ever sleep together. It’s the brand-new When Harry Met Rod rule—friends don’t gamble on sex with friends.”
River’s eyes twinkled with humor—or maybe delight that I saw things his way. “That’s it! Doesn’t matter that you’re a cutie. No going back, now—we have a pact. A no-sex pact. Which, to be clear, means no blow jobs either.”
I nodded. “And no hand jobs.”
“No kissing. Anywhere,” he added.
When I laughed, it was definitely harder. But then I frowned. “Damn, those are all my favorite things.”
“Mine too. But that’s my point—we have too much fun together to risk it, even for our favorite things. We need to seal this.”
River stopped and lifted his coffee cup. I did the same, tapping the rims together.
“To friendship,” I said.
“To the Friends Don’t Bang Friends Treaty,” River added. “By the power invested in coffee, I hereby declare we’re never having sex ever.”
We stuck to the pact—past college, through breakups and brief flings with other men, through good times and bad—never gambling with the thing that mattered most.
Now, eight years later, we’re still great friends thanks to the pact.
But then, the way you feel at twenty isn’t always the way you feel at twenty-eight. Wants and needs change, and so does what you’re willing to risk.
1
River
Present day, November
This is the year I’m going to learn how to make a pie.
“How hard can it be? You get crust and pumpkins and apples and pecans and stuff like that. If I can mix drinks this good, surely I can make a terrific pecan pumpkin apple pie,” I say to Owen as I mix a Negroni for a customer.
“Because Campari, gin, and vermouth are the same as pecans, pumpkins, and apples? Also, you do realize most pies don’t call for pecans and pumpkins and apples in the same recipe?” Owen points out, dragging a hand through his dark brown hair that has just the right amount of swoop to it as it hits his forehead with the perfect bit of bounce. Like a shampoo commercial.
“Details. Besides, who made you the pie-meister? Maybe my pie will taste good as an Everything But The Kitchen Sink Pie. I’ll toss in gin too,” I suggest, then bring the Negroni to a tall Asian guy at the end of the bar who’s transfixed by his phone, but nervously tapping his fingers on the wood at the same time. My guess? He’s meeting someone from an app here any minute, and he’s worried the guy won’t show. “Bet he’ll be here soon, hun,” I say, with a grin.