Twenty-seven
Liem
Even though Bri loves to eat—something I love about her—and she will absolutely enjoy my dad’s cooking, subjecting her to my family’s dynamic seems cruel.
She understands what happened when we were growing up, why my parents split up, why they’re back together now, and, most importantly, how that makes me feel.
Yet something about having her see it for herself has me intimidated.
She has my back no matter what. I’ve been truthful the whole time, but just like a therapist, she may see something I don’t and show me I’ve been looking at it wrong all along.
I don’t want to be wrong in my feelings toward Dad, or have May think I subliminally begrudge her getting more attention during our formative years. It’s . . . a lot.
While we sit and eat, Bri is the star of the show, beaming sunlight onto an October day in Tacoma.
She has my mom transfixed with a spirited breakdown of the museum design styles between two Franks and one of the Hadid sisters—I think, don’t quote me on that—and even gets the notoriously untrusting Bean to fall asleep in her lap.
When talking about our time in Brooklyn, she keeps it cute, playing up my success at work and my cooking talents, avoiding everything related to us sleeping one room away from each other, or with each other.
If I didn’t know her better, I wouldn’t catch all the ways she manages to steer the conversation away from any opportunity for them to backhand me while complimenting her.
For once, I get to enjoy my meal in peace.
Dad seems pleased by Bri’s presence. His version of a smile is usually more of a hint of enjoyment, but this time, it’s the real, cheek-creasing deal.
“You like it?” Dad asks in his gruff, quiet mumble. Bri is inhaling the spiced mango cobbler they make for the restaurant.
“It’s amazing! I’ve never had this with mangoes, and now I don’t think I can go back,” she lies.
Her voice has a slightly higher pitch and faster cadence when she fibs.
She would never deny peach supremacy. “Thank you for letting me experience this. If I lived here, I wouldn’t fit in these jeans, I can tell you that. ”
The four of them laugh together, and I’m in awe. Bri is lovable. Plain and simple.
“Can I help you clean up?” Bri asks Mom when she stands to clear the table.
“No, please. You are our guest.” Her eyes shift to me, telling me I should offer instead.
“I’ll help.”
I look to Bri to confirm she’ll be okay without me. She runs her hand over my arm with a smile. Of course my social butterfly will be fine. With a pile of dishes in hand and my security blanket in the next room, I have a feeling my mom is two seconds away from—
“I like her. She’s a good one. Are you going to marry her?”
—exactly that.
“She’s amazing, but she’s just a friend.”
“Well, make her more than your friend. I want grandchildren.”
“Mom . . .”
“I do! Think of how beautiful your children would be. Your eyes, her hair and skin. Beautiful!” This must be how Bri feels all the time.
Such a bold comment to make knowing nothing about Bri’s health or desires.
“She deserves a good man who will make her a wife before giving her a baby, so you should propose before—”
“Mom, that is not what’s happening here. She’s my friend. We’re not getting married and having babies together.”
She tuts. “That’s not what May said she saw at your apartment.”
That snitch. I cast a glare over my shoulder, hoping my sister will feel my eyes burning a hole into her cheek, to no avail. Bri still has her audience captured.
“What is the point of having a good job if it isn’t to provide for a family? You have been alone for so long, and now you aren’t. Why can’t she be more than a friend to you?”
Mom’s line of questioning doesn’t have a truthful answer that will satisfy her.
In all honesty, I would love to be more than friends with Bri—officially.
I’d move her in with me, pay for her school, erase her medical debt in a heartbeat, but she would never let me.
Her independence is important to her. My issues can’t be solved by chasing another woman whose life doesn’t align with mine.
To say that stops me from wanting Bri is a lie. I want her. Bad. But loving her means letting her be who she is.
Loving her?
“I like her. That is all I’m saying.” Mom cuts into my thoughts.
“You’ve said much more than that.”
She pats my cheek, dismissing me from the dishes and my attempt to argue.
Before I step out of the kitchen, I overhear Bri talking. About me.
“He’s such a good man, down to his core. You have an amazing son,” she says to my dad, then turns to May. “And brother.”
“Yeah, I know,” May says, nudging her shoulder against Bri’s. Of course they are fast friends. Even if May wasn’t into women, she would still be just as entranced by her. Bri has that effect on people.
Dad doesn’t respond, but there’s a grin on his face, as if he’s proud. If he is, he’s never told me. He likely never will. And for some reason, I keep letting that bother me.
“Ready to go?” I ask Bri.
~
Back in Seattle, Bri is in good spirits, tummy ache or not.
Meanwhile, I’m deep in my feelings, dealing with a different ache in my gut.
My mom wormed herself into my brain like mothers do best, bringing up all sorts of guilt without even trying.
I want to defend Bri, to keep my parents from damaging her the way they have me, but my dad being her best friend sent me back into my shell.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that he said more to her in one night than he’s said to me in months.
Bri returns from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of my sweatpants and the one long-sleeved shirt she brought. She was cramping after last night. The addition of rich foods probably didn’t help.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
“Yes. Overdid it on the cobbler, I think.”
“We all do.”
She sits next to me on the couch, curling up against my side. “Your family is so nice.”
“To you.”
“It’s always like that, huh? Everyone is on their best behavior for a guest.”
“It’s annoying. Suddenly, Dad is so interested in what I’ve been doing. Like he couldn’t have asked me at any point in time.”
“I’m sorry.” She inches closer, her bent leg leaning onto mine. “Have you ever told him how you feel?”
“There’s no point. I’d have better dialogue with a wall.”
“What if you just let it out, no response needed? Would it make you feel better?”
“If I could cuss him out and not have to face him for three months afterward, maybe, but I can’t figure out how to explain what I feel without it sounding like I’m resentful of May in the process.
I can’t heal myself by hurting her,” I explain to myself more than Bri.
“So, no. I guess it wouldn’t make me feel better. ”
Her gaze rests on me for a moment, her fingers stroking back and forth against my jaw. “Can I make it better?”
The way her eyes drop to my lips while she spins the strings of my hoodie around her finger tells me all I need to know. I still ask, just for fun. “Probably. Have anything in mind?”
She leans closer, her eyes lifting to mine briefly before returning to my lips, making them ache to feel hers again. “Why don’t we do what we were going to do before your sister interrupted?”
My dick answers her question before I can. “Yeah, we can do that.”
I move her to lie beneath me on the couch.
Making up for lost time, I pull off my hoodie, then her pants, then mine.
She pulls her shirt off, the last piece of clothing hiding her perfect body from my view.
I take in the sight of her, loving the way the low lamplight gives her skin a warm glow.
She curls her knees up then lets them fall open, showing me everything.
The sight gives me a rush until she says, “I’m yours.”
The way my heart flips in my chest gives me pause. I spent the evening trying to explain away my attachment to Bri. Now that I’m hearing it from her lips, I realize it might be more complicated than I thought.
I have feelings for Bri. Of course I do. As much as I try, I won’t be able to separate the deep trust I have with her from love.
“We’re still friends, right?” I ask.
“We’re best friends, babe,” she confirms.
“Best friends who occasionally have sex.”
“Best friends”—she takes my hand and places it against her, pushing my fingers inside—“who occasionally have great sex.”
I can’t register her compliment behind the pressure building in my chest, the feeling of her body growing slick around my fingers while I flex them inside her and rub my thumb against her favorite spot, the rush of blood trying to claw itself out of my underwear.
Fuck, I want her so bad. I want to feel her again.
I want to feel her in ways I haven’t felt before. And I don’t want her to leave. Ever.
“Tell me how you want it,” I say.
Smiling, she slips my hand from her and rolls to her stomach, perking that exquisite ass up in my direction. “Like this.”
I tug her hips up, pulling her to her knees. Face down, ass up for me, I bury my face between her legs, tasting all of her while I roll on the condom. The moment it’s on, I don’t waste another second before moving up, placing myself against her, and sinking into her warmth with a moan.
It’s shallower but more intense this way, angling me to push hard against her front wall in a way that gives her everything she needs in exactly the way she wants. Barely a minute in, I have her panting, eyes rolling, begging me not to stop.
I lean down, whispering to her, “Don’t fight it. Come for me.”
Bri cries out my name, body shivering beneath me while the orgasm rolls through her. She looks back at me while trying to catch her breath.
I slip from her, lifting her chest, her hands bracing against the arm of the couch, giving me more space to slide my hand between her thighs. When I push back in, she gasps.
Then I spend the rest of the night stealing her breath away again and again.
~
The problem with having great sex is that it knocks me on my ass afterward. I wanted to savor my time with Bri, bask in those last few hours staying up late, chilling and talking shit the way we did in Brooklyn, but I spent hours worshipping between her thighs then passed the fuck out.
Now that we’re at the airport, I’m regretting every second I lost.
Bri’s head lies against my chest while mine rests on top of her head, arms around her shoulders. I breathe her in, hugging her tight as if it will keep her from leaving. I’ve been holding her for too long, but I need this. I’ve needed it since the last time I had to say goodbye to her.
When it’s time, she pats me on the back, telling me to let her go. Reluctantly, I do.
“Don’t cry or I’ll cry,” she says.
“I’m not going to cry,” I say past the tightening of my throat.
Tears glisten in her eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Sooner than you think.”
“Right.”
She lifts up on her toes and presses her lips against mine. I close my eyes, willing time to stop so I can linger here forever. It doesn’t work.
“Call you when I land, Hoodie.”
I brush the tear from her cheek and steal one last kiss. “Bye.”
“Not ‘bye.’ See you soon.”
I might lose my will to live if that proves untrue. “See you soon.”
She walks away from me, and a piece of my heart goes with her. The broken thudding in my chest worsens when she disappears from my view.
When will I find a good enough reason to make her stay?