Willa
Itoss my phone down on the coffee table, the clatter of it sliding against the wood melding into the chatter on TV that fills the almost silence in my apartment. The only other sound to compete with it is the soft closing of a kitchen drawer.
That’s enough doomscrolling for one evening...
I’m not sure what I thought I was going to find. Something to distract me, I guess. As if such a thing were possible on a day like today.
Fucking Valentine’s Day.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m content in my singleness. I’m content being the only single one of my friends. The three of them have their men and are so in love that it’ll make your teeth ache. Which is exactly what each one wanted.
It was a long time coming for Dustin and Kenzie. Even longer for Sylvie and Camden. Bronwyn and Noel were a bit of a whirlwind no one saw coming, but they’re perfect together.
And really, I’m happy they’re happy.
Really.
I heave out a frustrated sigh, ignoring the sounds from the kitchen that grow louder by the second, picking up the remote and switching the TV back to the menu screen.
Much like the mindless scrolling on my phone, I don’t know what I’m hoping to find.
Something—anything—that isn’t sappy and romantic will do.
If only all my go-tos didn’t involve romance as some kind of subplot.
I settle for Murder, She Wrote, hoping that Jessica Fletcher won’t get up to anything unseemly. Other than inserting herself into a murder investigation, of course. Jessica should do the trick. She usually does.
Distraction quickly takes on another form though—this time in the shape of a dirty martini, two olives, gently being set down on the table. It’s a thing of beauty, the cloudy liquid calling my name, the two green orbs perfectly pierced and begging to be bitten into.
He who dropped it off isn’t half bad either.
Just don’t tell him I said that.
“What’s that look for?” he asks, settling into the other side of the couch.
Arms slung out wide, taking up as much room as humanly possible, he-who-shall-not-be-named, as I refer to him in my head, crosses his legs and rests his ankle on his knee, looking effortlessly sexy.
That stupid “I’m sexy and I mow it” T-shirt notwithstanding.
I laughed the first time he wore it. Because it’s an item of clothing only he would wear.
Not to mention, if there is one thing he’s good for, it’s a laugh. That and earth-shattering, mind-numbing orgasms.
“What look?” I take a sip of my martini. Ahhhh, perfection.
“That look.”
“I don’t have a look.”
He scoffs, taking a long swig of the Southern Brothers Party Mode I assume he grabbed from the fridge. “You sure do, Princess. I know you and your looks. That’s your I’m annoyed look.”
Ugggghhh…
I roll my eyes. "I’m annoyed with you. And your very presence.”
“Not true. Or I wouldn’t be here.”
“You’re here for one reason and one reason only.”
“And what’s that?” He smirks at me like he doesn’t know the answer.
“To service me and my needs,” I quip. Holding up the martini, I flash him an evil grin. “This is a decent start.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
“Sure it is.” I put my drink down, shifting myself so I’m facing him fully. “Because here’s the thing—my head knows you’re a bad idea. My vag, however, still thinks you’re a real good time.”
A quick waggle of his eyebrows and a Cheshire cat grin to match mine, he leans in, looking me square in the eye. “Not the only part of you that thinks that.”
Oh, fuck off…
I kick him, my long legs coming in handy as I make direct contact with his thigh. He laughs, the deep vibrato making my insides come alive. An effect that is almost as annoying as he is.
Almost.
“So,” he continues, leaning back into the crook of the sofa, “what’d you tell the girls you were doing tonight?”
“Quiet night in.”
“Left out the part about your hot date?”
“I don’t have a hot date,” I retort.
He bristles slightly, and I can’t tell if he’s actually hurt by the comment or not. On second thought, I know he’s not. There’s no way he is. This is how we roll.
Silence falls again, Jessica Fletcher’s sweet but inquisitive voice calmly pointing out that the most obvious suspect has an alibi. At least if he’s to be believed. Which, since I’ve seen this—and every other episode—so many times I could recite it, I know he can’t.
“What’d you tell people?” I finally ask, not really caring but feeling as if I should ask. Manners, after all.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?!”
He shrugs, like his single-word answer should have spoken for itself. “No one asked.”
“No one…gaaahhh! You are so fucking frustrating.”
“I’m sorry,” he says and then chuckles. “Did you want me to be all coy, pretending that I didn’t have some clandestine plan, all while letting hints drop just to keep the town guessing?”
“No!”
“Didn’t think so.” Taking another long swig of beer, he winks, then points the long neck in my direction. “We’ve managed to keep your little dick appointments a secret for more than a decade now. Not that there’s anything little about my dick. You’d think you’d trust me by this point.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“Got a better name for it?”
I start to respond, but then snap my mouth shut. I don’t. Mostly because I've put a lot of effort into not naming whatever this is.
One does not need to slap a label on secretly hate-fucking the person they can’t stand the most.
“Didn’t think so, Princess.”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“All the more reason to keep it up.”
Uggggghhhhh…
I swear to God, he’s going to be the death of me. I have no idea why I still put up with this. Oh wait, yes I do.
Earth-shattering, mind-numbing orgasms.
I turn back to the TV once more, choosing to ignore my couch companion. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him shake his head, continuing to get a kick out of driving me crazy. Something he’s naturally good at.
Doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing, it’s like he lives to get a rise out of me. And it works.
Because make no mistake, when it comes to this man, I only see one thing—red. And not as in the color of love.
Nonetheless, his presence on the other end of my sofa is oddly comforting. I can’t explain why, but I’m at ease with him here. Like my soul sees itself in another.
Which is insane. But here we are.
“You hungry?”
I shrug, my eyes glued to the screen and the fabulous late eighties outfits. Ahh, the glory days of shoulder pads.
“I could eat. Anything particular you’re thinking?”
“Your sweet pussy comes to mind.”
Grabbing the turquoise throw pillow to my left, I smack him with it and shoot him a glare. I walked right into that one.
“But that’s probably better saved for dessert.”
“You're so…” I struggle to find the words. How exactly does one express that they can’t believe he just said that, while also not turn down such an offer? “Such a dude.”
“Pretty sure you like that about me.”
“Your dick might be the only part of you I do.”
“Oh, burn!” He makes a sizzling noise, tapping his finger to his skin. I giggle, unable to help myself. “Seriously, though, I could order a pizza.”
“You mean I could order us a pizza.”
“Wills, I’m capable of ordering a pizza. I’m not a complete Neanderthal.”
I roll my eyes. He doesn't get it.
“What are you gonna do, call up Little Slice of Heaven, have them put it on your account, and then deliver to my place?”
“Sure?”
“Seriously?!”
I hop up, twisting to face him, tucking my legs underneath me.
I’m tall, but I’m mostly legs, so this gives me a chance at some kind of height advantage.
But only a small chance. At six three, he still towers over me, his long, lean torso casually resting against the arm of the couch.
He looks good enough to eat—pun intended.
Maybe his initial idea wasn’t such a bad one.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Are you kidding? Hickory Hills is a small town. And tongues waggle like puppy dog tails around here. The fact that you’re at my place, ordering dinner, on Valentine’s Day will be all around town before the sun comes up tomorrow.”
“Two friends can’t have dinner together on a Saturday night?”
“Not when that Saturday is Valentine’s Day. And we’re—”
“Don’t say we aren’t friends.”
My mouth hangs open, a retort eluding me. That’s not what I was going to say. Okay, maybe it was. I don’t consider us friends. That term is simply too…chummy. We’re frenemies. Although that’s not a concept I expect him to understand. He is a guy.
“Not what I was going to say.”
“Sure it wasn’t,” he comments, rolling his eyes and drawing out the word sure. His deep southern accent makes the word sound like it’s coated in chocolate, waiting to be savored. “Fine, you order it. As long as you don’t put green peppers on it, I don’t care.”
That’s it. The final straw.
I always knew that it would be something simple that broke us. At least this version of us. Past us took a much harder hit, with a much sharper weapon. One that has brought us to this version— secretly hate-fucking frenemies still holding on to a grudge from more than a decade ago.
The two of us will argue over anything. In fact, this is the longest we’ve gone in a good while without being at each other’s throats. Or in each other’s pants.
I give us five more minutes. Max.
“If I want green peppers on my pizza, I’m putting green peppers on it,” I inform him, head bobbing with attitude.
Do I want green peppers on my pizza? Eh, who knows. They weren’t really what I was feeling, but now that I know they’re going to irk him, I might need extras.
“God, you are so difficult sometimes.”
Excuse me?!
“Wanna try that again?”
“Sorry,” he snarks. “High maintenance.”
He pushes up from the couch, walking into the kitchen, empty beer bottle in hand. I watch as he goes, eyes laser focused on his ass, the rest of me fuming over his comments. I know he’s doing it to get a rise out of me, and I’m doing my damnedest not to rise to the occasion.