Chapter 11 Logan #2
“Look,” I say, “she’s one of my closest friends.
But we don’t have a romantic relationship, we’ve never had sex or fooled around.
It’s not like that between us. She’s like a sister to me.
I don’t know what that picture was. I’ll figure it out when I see her.
I’m not hiding anything from you.” I pause.
“I wish you hadn’t seen it. After everything. After the dance…”
She nods slowly. It’s progress.
“Do you believe me?”
“I… Yes. I think I do.”
“You think?” I’d really like to get that to a yes. The last thing I want is her to think I’m fucking Pearl. The thought makes me shudder.
“Years of watching Pearl pine over you, and the way you constantly defend her make it a little hard, but… I mean, yeah. If you’re telling me you aren’t sleeping with her, that you never have. I believe you.”
“Pearl doesn’t pine over me,” I argue. That’s ridiculous.
Her eyebrows go up. “Umm, okay.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Sure.”
I frown, brushing off the idea, focusing on something else she said. “I’m sorry about what I said the other night. I was a dick to you, and I—”
“I know. You apologized already.”
“I did, but I’m realizing I maybe don’t know her as well as I thought I did.
When I defended her… it was from a place of shared history with her, not because I—” I stop.
I almost say not because I didn’t believe you, because the truth is, I didn’t.
Not at first. I thought Rose was jealous, or paranoid, or both.
But now I do, or I’m starting to. And it wasn’t the sex that changed my mind. I don’t know exactly when things shifted. Somewhere in all the time I’ve spent with her, it’s gotten easier to trust her.
“I believe you, Rose,” I say. “About the things you’ve told me. That first night, when you asked for a clean slate—I want that, too.”
Her face is carefully blank, but there’s a slight tick in her jaw, like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Had I known what a revelation this conversation would be, I’d have pushed to stay in the motel room where we could have more privacy.
But now that she’s opening up to me, I don’t want to let the opportunity pass.
“Since that’s cleared up, and I know what upset you at the bar, we should probably talk about last night. Safe sex, in particular.”
“Bit late for that,” she muses, sipping her coffee.
“Was kind of a heat of the moment decision, I’ll admit. I don’t… I’ve never been in that situation before. I’m prepared, usually, and… well, I just wanted you to know, it’s not like me. I’ve never fucked without a condom before.”
It sounds like a line, but it’s true. Even sex is typically organized, or at least, anticipated. My schedule is too rigorous for spontaneity. Also, as a doctor, I really have no excuse not to understand the consequences of unsafe sex.
Rose sets her cup down. “I got tested after my ex—twice, actually. Once right when we split and again a few weeks ago.”
Right. The cheating asshole.
“I’m sorry about him.”
She shrugs. “Not yours to be sorry. Anyway, I’m on birth control, though you coming all over my stomach was pretty hot.”
I cough, then glance around the coffee shop. This fucking woman.
“I got a vasectomy a few years back,” I say, lowering my voice.
“It’s not a hundred percent, but between that and your birth control, we’re covered.
For the record, this isn’t me petitioning for bareback, but since we already have, and we’re safe…
” I pause. “It’s completely your call. I just know I’d like to keep going without one, if you’re open to it.
But we can stop for condoms on the drive today. ”
What I actually want to say is Can I please fuck that pussy raw again?
—so fucking tight and responsive, matching me beat for beat, every clench, every gasp.
There’s very little I wouldn’t give up just to spend another hour inside her.
I found paradise between those thighs, and I’m not sure my dick will ever be satisfied with anyone else.
It’s all I can think about right now, which is a little out of character for me.
I’m a grown ass man, sitting across from her in a coffee shop, and my dick is half-hard.
She tries to hide her blush. “Well… since we’re both safe.”
“Since we’re both safe…” I repeat, staring at her lip as she drags her teeth across it.
“Wait—” she shakes her head. “Did you just say you got a vasectomy?”
“It’s reversible,” I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee.
“And it’s safe. Female birth control—depending on the type—can have several side effects.
If you’re looking at the safest option for both people, a vasectomy’s usually it.
” I’ve had this conversation more than once since I got it, and it still surprises me how low the bar is.
She stares at me, open-mouthed. I’m used to this reaction, though it never stops making me a little uncomfortable.
Maybe I’m more well-informed, given my profession.
Though even men in my field still shift most of the responsibility to the women they sleep with, unwilling to do anything that might cause a potential moment of discomfort unto themselves.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I groan and push back from the table. She follows me outside, and whatever tension she’d walked in with has lifted.
“You’re a unicorn,” she gasps. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Alright, lunatic, get in the car.” I can’t keep the smile off my face.
She throws her head back and laughs, and it’s the greatest sound. The rain has let up some, but the wind is still pretty intense. We get back on the road, and unlike the last half-hour, the drive passes with ease.
We talk about stupid things. Little things. Anything and everything. It’s so fucking easy. Things feel right-side-up between us, like it was always supposed to be this way.
Rose tells me she’s never been further south than DC—a middle school trip with her mom—and when I ask about her mom, she opens up.
How she was a great cook and her house always smelled of garlic.
She had a loud voice, and even when she was yelling about something stupid, like a messy room, it filled the house.
“You always knew where you stood with her,” Rose says, then giggles.
“It used to be so embarrassing, though. She wasn’t subtle—like, at all.
Four-foot-ten with the octave range of a banshee.
” I laugh, and she keeps going, sharing other anecdotes.
Pearl never talked much about her, except in high school, when she’d describe how hard life at home was. How this woman, Inês, seduced her father and stole all his attention. I remember feeling so bad for Pearl.
I was aware Inês had died. Rose opens up about that, too, but it’s only now I’m realizing it was the same summer Pearl booked us all on a trip to Bora Bora.
While Rose talks, it comes back to me in sharp, jagged pieces. Pearl telling us Roger had bailed on their trip—a planned graduation present—to take Rose and her mother vacationing in Europe instead.
That’s what convinced us all to book the trip, as a way to make Pearl feel better. She said her dad took her sister vacationing, and ditched her.
Rose says quietly, “It was my mother’s final wish.”
I say nothing for a second. Why the fuck would Pearl tell us they ditched her to go on vacation when Rose’s mother was actually dying?
This trip has taught me a lot about my good friend, and none of it is sitting well—but I can also see the memory pulling Rose under, and she doesn’t need to watch me work through these revelations right now.
All these little things about Pearl, finally hearing Rose’s version of events…
about Easton, about their dad, about this trip…
it’s all accumulating, and I’m not sure what to do with it, so I change the subject.
I clear my throat. “Have you been back? To Portugal, I mean?”
“No.” She picks at her hem. “I keep telling myself it’s not the right time, but honestly…
I just don’t want to show up and not be able to talk to anyone.
My tias don’t really speak English. My cousins do—most of them, my age or younger—but my Portuguese is terrible.
Mom spoke it all the time, around the house, but she never actually sat down and taught me.
Or maybe I was just too lazy to learn.” She pauses. “I regret it now.”
“There are apps. Duolingo, whatever.”
She makes a face. “I’ve tried. It doesn’t stick. My brain doesn’t work like that. I don’t take to languages naturally, and it’s actually a genuinely hard language to learn.”
“But you speak some, right? I mean, when you pronounce things—”
“Oh, my pronunciations are on point. Rosaria Margarida Lopes,” she says her name with a flourish, the first R in Rosaria catching in the back of her throat. “Eu falo português muito devagar e n?o muito bom.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded great.”
“I speak slowly and not very well.” She giggles, and that sound is almost as good as her big laugh. “My mom spoke five languages. It’s hard to live up to.”
“Is that something you need to live up to?”
“No. I’ve made peace with it.” She pauses. “She would have been proud of me, I think. What I’m trying to do with my life. Well—maybe not what I’m currently doing. My business did tank.” She laughs a little. “But the intention, at least. Even if I don’t speak five languages.”
She’s mentioned her business a few times now. Given everything Pearl’s lied about, I’m hesitant to ask. But I side-eye her enough that she must realize I want to.
“You know what I went to school for?”
I shake my head. I’m trying to remember—something about exercise, maybe? I feel like an ass. Rose knows about my family, my work, my education. I’m realizing I don’t actually know much about her at all.