13. Chapter 13
13
Brody
I’m married.
I have kids I didn’t tell you about.
I’m a convicted felon.
Porn wasn't on the list of things I expected her to admit to. She looks like the most innocent woman I’ve ever seen with her cute, flowy sundresses and her hair falling in soft curls around that angelic face. I almost laugh with relief, but something stops me.
“Please say something,” Sophie whispers, not looking up.
I reach for her wrist and pull it away, forcing her to lift her head.
“I’m not going to say it’s no big deal,” I warn her, letting go of her wrist. “But I have a… friend who does the same thing.”
“You don’t hate me?” Her eyes are wide with shock.
“Hate you?” I scoot my chair around the table and place my hand on her forearm. “Sophie, you’re gorgeous. You’re funny and clearly intelligent. You’re confident in who you are. Make your living how you want.”
She squints, waiting for the other shoe to drop. How could she think I would hate her? Do other men really feel so insecure that they would rather see their partner unhappy than in a career they love?
“I work with other people,” Sophie says slowly. “Men, women, transmen and women, nonbinary people. ”
“As long as you’re safe. Sophie, of all the things I thought you were going to admit, this wasn’t on my radar, but it’s not a deal breaker. It’s not-”
I almost said it’s not a big deal, negating the very words I said moments ago. It kind of is. She said she works with other people, all genders, just like Miles does. She’s fucking other guys. A man like me, inexperienced to the point of ineptitude–how would I measure up?
My face falls, my stomach churns. She’d never want me.
Before I realize what’s happening, Sophie leans in to kiss me, her lips soft and supple. I deepen the kiss, turning it hungry as my tongue slides into her mouth. Her hand reaches for my thigh. As it slips higher and I feel those sparks heading straight for my dick, panic mode kicks in. I pull back.
“I have to go,” I blurt, standing quickly.
“What?” Her eyes are round and I can see the hurt there, but I can’t breathe, can’t think. She’s looking at me with those beautiful brown eyes, amber in the soft light as the sun finally begins to set.
“I just-” I turn and race toward the door, leaving Sophie sitting at the table.
I’m not going to live this one down.
Miles is in the kitchen, filling the dishwasher when I walk in the door. He does a double take, then looks at the clock on the stove. It’s still not dark yet. I definitely shouldn’t be home already. He leans against the counter, eyes studying my face while drying his hands on a tea towel.
“The fuck did you do, man?”
I take a deep breath to tell him, but then deflate, letting the air out in a whoosh . Miles frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, still holding the towel in one hand.
“Seriously, what happened?”
“Why am I like this?” I blurt.
“Gonna need context.”
“The longer I go without-” I can’t say it, but Miles nods. “The weirder I get when there’s a possibility of that changing.”
“Still not sure how you fucked up. Is it because you don’t bang every girl you meet?”
“Am I broken? ”
Miles is taken aback by my question. Frankly, so am I. I’ve had the thought before, but I’ve never said it out loud.
“Fuck that.” Miles frowns and circles the counter before his fist makes contact with my shoulder.
“The fuck was that for?” I shout, rubbing the spot of impact.
“Not having sex with someone doesn’t mean you’re broken, dumbass.”
“Not with anyone , though?” My mouth is dry.
“You’re not broken. Now what the fuck did you do?”
“It just isn’t going to work,” I mutter and attempt to walk past him to my bedroom. He reaches out a hand to grip my arm, stopping me.
“I thought you liked her.”
I swallow, then slowly turn my head.
“I did,” I say, then quickly add, “I do. I just can’t.”
“If you screwed this up-”
“I’m sure I did,” I grumble, pulling out of his grasp, but turning my whole body toward him.
“Can you fix it?”
“Probably not.”
Miles sighs and runs a hand through his hair, messing up the curls even more than they already were.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
This is why he’s my best friend. Sure, he blamed me first and he’s right. But he’s more worried about how I’ll handle my fuck-up, helping me get on with things. He cares about me.
“No, I think I’m just going to…” I trail off. “I’ll be ok.”
I won’t be .
“Just give me a shout if you change your mind.” He calls as I leave him, “And remember your homework! If you’re not seeing her again, I want you sending three messages a day!”
“Brody.”
I barely register Mel’s voice .
“Brody!” she tries again, quite a bit louder.
It’s enough to bring me back to reality. I shake my head.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Yes, customer C-022749. I haven’t heard from him since last week.”
“And this new file I sent you?” Her voice is shaky and I can’t seem to figure out why.
“I’m still working through it,” I admit. “There’s a lot of information.”
Mel nods. Though I can’t really tell through the video call, I know those hazel eyes are studying me. Even the little beauty mark below the left corner of her mouth seems to be judging me.
“I know it’s a lot, but you’re the only one I feel I can trust with a project of this size.”
“Do I have a deadline?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. I’m dying to ask for details, but it’s not my place.
“As soon as possible.”
“The fewer clients I have to deal with, the sooner I can finish it.”
“I’m not taking away any of your clients,” Mel says with finality.
I shrug.
“Worth a shot.”
“That’s all for now. I don’t think I’ll have anything else before our lunch next week.”
“Talk to you then.”
I end the call and close the video conferencing window. Every program used by Harp Solutions is custom-built, mostly by Mel and me. When she recruited me out of college, I had been about to accept a job in software engineering for a cryptocurrency company. Her dream sounded far more interesting and I’d get to work from home once we’d established things.
Everything from the communication with clients down to the video calls within the company–all of it is encrypted, pathways hidden so that even if one layer of defense falls, we’ll be safe. Our clients will be safe. All of our payments are routed through a dozen different banks or more. My own salary doesn’t even go to an American bank. It was in my contract. When I signed it, I felt like I was joining some kind of spy ring. I didn’t realize I’d be helping knock-off Bill Gates catch his wife cheating.
I scroll through my emails, flagging things for my to-do list–running reports, tracking a few bank transfers, checking internet searches. It’s mindless work, but it takes most of the morning just to get through the emails that came in after I left for my date last night.
Sophie .
I really fucked that one up. It was going so well until she told me and I had to go and be a spaz. Miles is the most understanding, open-minded person I’ve ever met in my life and it’s mostly thanks to his job. I find it hard to believe Sophie isn’t the same. Honestly, if anyone is going to be up for the challenge that is my lack of sexual history, it will probably be her.
Would have been , I have to correct myself. Could have been if I wasn’t such a moron. With a groan, I stand from my chair and stretch, twisting my neck from side to side. Maybe I need to move on. I haven’t checked the new messages that have come in on KinkRink .
Twenty minutes later, sitting at the kitchen island with a salad in front of me, untouched, I scroll through the messages. I’ve gotten more than I would have expected, given that my profile has nothing more than a fully clothed photo that doesn’t even include my head and a very brief ‘About Me’.
Pass.
Nope.
I scroll through message after message from women and a few men being overly aggressive. After another half-dozen, I swipe up on the screen, ready to close the app. But something gives me pause. I should reach out to Sophie one more time. Attempt to apologize, beg forgiveness.
“Whatcha got for lunch?”
Miles slaps my back as he walks up behind me before rounding the island to go to the fridge.
“Salad,” I mutter, still staring at my phone.
“Oh, did you use the last of the ranch?” He opens the fridge to scan the shelves.
“Still in the door,” I say quickly and watch his head whip around to find the bottle.
“Sweet!” Miles grabs more ingredients to throw together as well as the cold grilled chicken he made on Monday morning, ready for the week. “Hear anything from paint girl?”
“Paint girl?” I raise my eyebrows and then my eyes widen. “Oh shit, the paintings.”
“When are you supposed to pick them up?” Miles takes a large bowl from an upper cabinet and sets it on the island to begin preparing his salad.
“Today,” I groan, running a hand down my face.
“Use it as a peace offering.” He’s not looking at me when my gaze finds him. “See if she’ll forgive you for… whatever you did.”
“I ran out,” I mutter.
“What?”
I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me or if he doesn’t believe what he heard, so I repeat myself.
“I ran out.” My voice is a little louder, if still weak.
“That’s what I thought you said.” Miles nods with a sigh. “Have you considered therapy?” He studies me with a gaze that I know penetrates far deeper than I want it to at this moment.
“Well, that’s not what I expected you to say.” A breath of laughter forces its way through my nose.
“It would probably help.” Miles shrugs. “But if you don’t want to talk to a stranger about it, you know I’m here.”
“I know, man, I know.”
Do I even try with Sophie?
She deserves better than to have someone run out on her.
“Peace offering,” Miles says again, pointing at me with the knife he’s using to cut onions.
“Fine,” I sigh, holding my phone up to type out a message I hope she’ll read.
It takes me several seconds to get started. What do I say? Sorry, Sophie. I flipped my lid, but I’m good now. Can we go out again? I promise I won’t freak out .
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I mutter sarcastically.
“What’ll work?” Miles asks.
“I don’t even know what to say.” Before Miles can open his mouth to offer assistance, I add, “I’ll figure it out.”
“Will you, though?” The skepticism is evident on his face.
“I don’t need any lip from you, Mr. Falls In Love With a Co-Star.”
“I’m not in love,” is all I hear him mutter under his breath.
Returning to my phone screen, I take a deep breath and begin to type.
Hitting send is the most nerve-wracking thing I’ve done, second maybe to meeting her in the first place.
She responds almost immediately with her phone number and two words: Call me .
I nearly jump from the bar stool to go to my bedroom, leaving a rather surprised roommate and my uneaten salad in the kitchen. I quickly dial the number as I close the door and wait with bated breath, my heartbeat racing faster with each ring.
“Hello?”
Just hearing her voice creates goosebumps on the back of my neck.
“Sophie, I’m so sorry.” The words tumble from my mouth so quickly I’m not sure she can catch them. “I just-”
“You’re the first person I’ve been on a date with since moving here,” she interrupts me. “I wondered if I should wait to say something about my job, my career because I know how hard it can be to accept.”
“Sophie, that’s not it.”
“I’m talking.”
My mouth snaps shut.
“You ran away.” She pauses and I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to apologize again or if she’s trying to think of what to say next. “My roommate told me to move on because I deserve better than someone who bolts at the first thing that doesn’t fit into a perfect, picket-fence life. You’re going to have to have a pretty solid excuse for me.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out away from the receiver. What do I even say to that?
“Did I do something wrong?” The hurt in her voice is like a dagger to the heart.
“God, no.” My voice is too loud. “I swear, you’re… you’re perfect.”
“Is it my job?”
“No.” My throat hurts, my mouth is dry. Why can’t I find better words? “I wasn’t lying. That’s not a problem for me.” That sounds fucked up. “I mean, I’m not a big sharer, but this is different.” Still not right. “You can do what you want.” Shit.
“Then what is it?”
“Can I explain in person?” I croak. “I know you don’t owe me that. We’ve only been on two dates,” as if she needs reminding, “but I want to show you how sorry I am.”
“Show me?” Sophie asks and I can hear the skepticism. There’s no rage, though. No frustration. Fuck, she’s not mad. She’s disappointed.
“I’m not the best cook, but I’d make you dinner if you’d let me,” I offer. I’ll have to ask Miles for help, but I’ll do it. “And if you want to leave before we even eat, that’s fine too.”
“Brody, I don’t even know why I told you to call me.”
“You want your painting back?” I ask, hopefully. She chuckles. I can hear her try to hide it, but it’s there. “You pick the day. I’ll go get the paintings this evening and be ready to earn that forgiveness.”
“Next week,” she says after what feels like the longest pause in history. “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” I agree. “Perfect. I’ll send you my address. Any allergies?”
“None. I’ll see you Tuesday at six.”
“Thank you.”
I’m not sure if she hears those last two words before she hangs up the phone. It sounded like I was beginning to soften her, but maybe she just really values that painting she created. Who knows?
Tuesday. I have a whole weekend to freak out about what I’m going to do. What I’m going to say.
Before I set my phone down, an email comes through from the clinic Miles referred me to. My STI test results are in. I know there’s nothing to worry about, but a part of me panics when I click the link until I see the green CLEARED bar next to my name. The clinic is part of a network for performers, so it shows when they’re cleared to work.
I open up the full list and stare at the capital letters NEG next to several of the listed infections. A few read as a number on a scale, but it must be all good or that green bar would’ve been red. I run a hand through my hair and sigh with relief. It’s not as if I expected to test positive for anything, but the little green bar allows me to breathe easier.
I recall Miles refusing to use the word “clean” when referencing his results to a fellow performer. He believes that perpetuates the stigma, the way society views STIs. Anyone can get them, even the most careful people. “Clean” and “dirty” only contribute to the problem people have with speaking up or speaking with a partner if something does show up on a test.
I’m not “clean”, I’m negative.