14
I’d barely managed to grab those few hours of sleep before my shift this afternoon. Every time I thought of Uzezi and what we’d agreed on last night, my chest did something weird. It felt like it got filled with air—a quick, uncomfortable inflation that was gone just as fast as it came.
It was probably some kind of foreboding, the universe warning me that diving headfirst into having sex with my best friend again—under the guise of sharing all our “firsts”—was a frankly terrible idea.
Fuck, I really shouldn’t have said yes. What would happen when this thing eventually came to an end? Matter of fact, how would we even know when to stop?
But the thought of calling him to tell him I’d changed my mind made me feel even more panicked.
Try as I might, despite all my reservations, I wanted more. I wanted him. If this thing had a deadline anyway, why couldn’t I enjoy it for as long as it lasted? Even though I was terrified I wasn’t referring to just the sex anymore.
I wanted to pretend he was mine for just a little longer.
The admission—even if it was just in my head—threatened to escalate my panic, so I tried to focus on the dishes I was washing.
Fiona, Bernice, and I were working at someone’s private birthday luncheon. It was an outdoor thing, held in the back garden of our host’s home, and there were only seven of us here, me, Bernice, and Fiona included.
It was early into the evening, now, and the party finally seemed to be winding down.
We were on dishwashing duty—the host had provided everything from the food to the fancy tableware—and we’d been instructed to clean everything carefully by hand, while the other four were in charge of serving the nine courses—yes, nine—and clearing the tables after each.
Well, the girls and I were supposed to be on dishwashing duty, but Bernice had her head pressed against the cool countertop and was moaning pitifully.
When we worked bigger events, we usually had a handler or two, but the host of this party had insisted on only us servers, wanting full control over our movements so her party went exactly as she wanted it.
And she had been that—exact. We were only getting a little break from her practically hovering over our shoulders because she and her guests—there were over forty of them, all members of her extended family, it seemed—were finally starting on their final course.
Our workmates were out there in the garden, standing in wait just in case she or the guests needed anything.
Bernice moaned again. “Why did I do this to myself?”
“I did tell you to stop,” Fiona said with uncharacteristic harshness.
I blinked. Bernice barely reacted; she must’ve been really hungover. Our girl had apparently gone to town at Felicia’s last night. I glanced in Fiona’s direction. I was washing, she was rinsing, and Bernice was supposed to be drying.
Fiona didn’t notice my stare, aggressively rinsing the dishes like they’d done something to personally offend her. I felt a flash of amusement.
“You good?”
“What?” She snapped her head up to look at me, almost guiltily.
I fought the urge to laugh, jerking my head in the direction of the dish she was currently dunking in the semi-clear water like she was trying to drown it. “Seems like something’s bothering you.”
“Oh. What? No. I’m fine,” she dismissed, though she did gentle her movements.
I let her be. When—or if—she wanted to talk about it, she would.
We continued working in silence. Once I was done with the washing, I decided to take over the drying since Bernice was being absolutely no help.
“You shouldn’t have accepted this shift if you knew you were going to be hungover,” I couldn’t help but scold lightly. She was damn lucky we didn’t have a handler today.
“I really, really need the mulla,” was Bernice’s muffled reply. “Just let me know when Karen starts heading toward the kitchen again.”
Fiona and I snorted, even though that was literally our host’s name. The sink we were using was right by the back door, with a window above it that looked out into a section of the garden. Every time Karen approached, we’d know.
Fiona finished rinsing and grabbed one of the provided kitchen towels to help me dry.
We’d been instructed to leave the dishes neatly arranged on a wide, three-tiered rack currently pushed to a safe corner of the kitchen; under no circumstances were we allowed into the cupboards.
The memory of the order made me inwardly roll my eyes.
Bernice had her cheek pressed to the counter now instead of her forehead, which meant I could see her face.
It looked like she was genuinely about to fall asleep.
Damn. I didn’t think she was a big drinker.
When we got home, I was going to talk to her in private, just to make sure she’d simply had a fun night and she hadn’t drank so much because something was wrong.
When Fiona and I finished drying—we had a fancy little cart where we could wheel the clean dishes from the sink to the designated drying rack, because Karen didn’t want us walking with the dishes in hand, risking them slipping and breaking—I noticed her glancing repeatedly at Bernice’s slumped form.
I thought she was going to say something pointed again, but instead she looked at me, lowered her voice to almost below a whisper, and blurted, “I kind of fucked Tamara and Ezra last night.”
I literally choked on my saliva. If Fiona hadn’t been blessed with cool, dark brown skin, her cheeks would probably be a telling shade of red. Instead, I saw her blush in the way she couldn’t meet my eyes, in the way she was pursing her lips.
“You want to elaborate on that, maybe?” I prodded when I got my voice back, my tone lowered to match hers.
“Okay.” She took what seemed to be a deep, fortifying breath. “So. Remember their housewarming thing last Friday?”
“Yeah ...” I said encouragingly.
“We kind of ... did a thing that night. Had sex. Whatever.”
“The three of you?” I asked just to be sure, taking care to keep my expression neutral.
“Yes.” She sounded pained.
I tried not to laugh again; she looked so forlorn. I hadn’t expected this, though. Not in a million years. I’d known the three of them were close, but not that close.
“They’d ... kind of, maybe, initiated it then. But last night, I’d been the one who—” She stopped to take several deep breaths. “It just—it feels—it felt like I’d used them for my pleasure. I don’t know. I feel so—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Hey.” I stopped stacking the dishes, gave a cursory glance outside the kitchen window for any signs of an approaching Karen, then walked around the rack so I could pull her into my arms. She was empty-handed so I was able to hold her properly.
Unlike my gorgeously fat self, and Bernice, who was mid-sized, Fiona was what Nigerians would refer to as telenge.
Or in English, petite. I was able to completely envelope her in my arms, and I hoped she found my embrace comforting.
When she’d stopped trembling, I pulled back to meet her eyes. “Did you put a gun to their heads?”
She looked so genuinely befuddled my laugh finally escaped me.
“You said you felt like you’d used them,” I explained with mirth.
“Oh.” Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “I mean—no. No, I didn’t put a gun to their fucking heads.” Her lips twitched.
“And I’m sure there was enthusiastic consent all around. Unless—?”
“No, there was,” she said immediately. A glazed look came over her eyes as she obviously thought back to whatever had happened last night.
With her best friend and said best friend’s boyfriend, apparently.
And here I’d thought my relationship with Uzezi was the only one in shambles. “It was ... enthusiastic all around.”
“There you go,” I said, perhaps a little too cheerfully. “I don’t think you used them. What if they feel like they used you?”
“What? No,” she scoffed immediately. “They would never do anything to hurt me. And besides, they weren’t the ones who—” She clamped her mouth shut, blushing again.
“Who what?” I prodded with an eyebrow wiggle.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“I don’t know. I just—they—we—” I didn’t think I’d ever seen her blush so hard.
She had to pause to collect herself. “Not only had I initiated it, but it had also felt very ... me-focused.” At the admission, she looked like she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
“Even the first time—the night of the housewarming—had felt very ...”
“Right.” I nodded. It seemed she wasn’t going to finish that sentence, but I got the gist of where it’d been going. “But they were the ones who initiated it the first time.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m assuming there was ... enthusiastic consent then, too.”
“Yes.” But it was said more grudgingly.
“And they’re not upset with you.”
“Not ... not that I know of.”
“Have they indicated that they are upset with you?”
She sighed heavily. “No, they have not.”
I gave her an amused look. “Are you perhaps ... overthinking things? Just a tad?”
“... Maybe.”
I huffed out a small laugh. I went back to stacking the dishes, and she automatically followed suit.
I had so many questions, but I didn’t want to ask them when it seemed like she was still trying to figure things out herself.
I also didn’t want to be nosy. Yes, I wanted her to know if the three of them ever decided to date, the rest of us wouldn’t judge them for it, but I didn’t know if that was something she actually wanted—or needed—to hear right now.
I for sure didn’t want her to feel pressured, or turn whatever was happening between her, Tamara, and Ezra into something it wasn’t.
Maybe it was strictly a sex thing, and maybe it wasn’t, and if she clearly wasn’t saying anything more about it, then that was my cue to mind my business.
“What about you?”
I jolted, nearly dropping the dish in my hand. “Huh? What?”
Fiona looked amused, though her gaze was piercing. “You good?”