Page 101 of End Game

I let out a quiet sigh of relief that my dad isn’t the one setting off the alarms. If he felt better, he would probably try, he would think it’s funny.

Mom pulls aside a curtain and—there he is.

My daddy looks different. He’s sleeping, snoring, with a trail of drool coming out of his mouth. His left knee is wrapped and elevated and there’s some sort of contraption around his right leg.

There’s a chair in the corner. Mom settles into it and pulls out her book.

“You’re reading? How can you be reading at a time like this?”

“He’s sleeping. I was here last night and as soon as visitor’s hours opened this morning. It’s a long day. It will… It’s going to be awhile.”

Standing at the foot of the bed, I stare at the man in the hospital bed. He looks like my father, and he snores like my father, but the man I know is not this bed-bound creature in front of me. I don’t recognize him. My dad barely takes sick days, and he never catches colds. He’s never ill. And now he’s hurt and sick.

“Sit down, baby girl,” Mom says. “It’ll be awhile.”

Collapsing into the chair beside her, I rest my head on her shoulder and stare unblinkingly at the bed. I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I don’t know how to process this.

As a psychology major, I can recognize that I might be helped by a little bit of talk therapy. Tucker and Mason are both in therapy and have both said it’s helped them. Maybe I should try that. Maybe then I won’t try to cope with terrifying situations by having sex with my best friend.

I have no idea what came over me last night. I was scared, and I was horny, and I was anxious. It felt good to get off, especially with an actual person that isn’t my vibrator. Two orgasms helped keep some of the anxiety and helplessness at bay overnight. I couldn’t do anything last night. I might not be able to do anything now. I’m here, I’m present, and sometimes, that’s all we can do.

I hope Barrett and I are okay. I pretty much begged him to let me suck his dick—and he let me, which might be the most crazy part of all of it. He’s the one who insisted on returning the favor… which, yeah, I do appreciate. He gave as much as he let me take.

I’m the one who insisted on taking it a step further. I’m the one who begged him to go inside of me. I’m the one who got on my hands and knees for him to fuck me. He didn’t protest, yeah, but he didn’t seem all that enthusiastic.

Until he slid inside of me. Until he fucked me. It’s sex, instinct probably took over for him. There was a naked, wanting, willing woman in his bed. He probably didn’t stop to think about what would happen to our friendship if we went through with it. I know I didn’t.

Is it bad that I kind of want to fuck him again?

It feels wrong to dissect the amazing sex I had last night while my dad is lying hurt in a hospital bed, but if the alternative is coming to terms with the reality that my dad is lying hurt in a hospital bed…

I’ve always used sex as a distraction. It helps me escape when the everyday monotony of my completely normal, everyday life gets too much to bear. Although typically, I pick a guy I won’t have to see again or talk to after the fact. We can go our separate ways and that’s that.

As much as I want to talk to Barrett, my best friend, I don’t know that I’m ready to talk to Barrett, the guy I slept with last night. The guy whose dick I sucked. The guy who went down on me. The guy who fucked me, but didn’t kiss me the entire time. I’ve never had sex with someone I’ve never kissed… until now.

I know Barrett. He’s been my best friend for fourteen years. And now I know him intimately, in a way I never expected. I know what his dick tastes like. I know what his orgasm face looks like. I know how it feels to have his dick inside of me, fucking me, pulsing as he came inside of me.

Mostly I know that I want to do it again. Not the fear, not the anxiety—I want the comfort and familiarity of the best person I’ve ever known, as I’ve embarked on a journey there is no coming back from. We can’t ever be “just friends” again.

After rounds, my dad is released to a general admission room to await his surgery this afternoon. He’s awake sporadically during the day. The pain meds make him sleepy and a little out of it, so he’s not up for chatting. He dozes. My mom reads her book. I stare unseeingly at my phone screen.

By lunchtime, I need a break. I haven’t eaten anything all day—there was no way I could eat this morning, I was too amped up. Now I can’t sit here, sitting still and doing nothing. I take a trip to the hospital cafeteria and scarf down a truly disgusting turkey sandwich. I didn’t realize they could make something so simple taste so bad. It’s only two slices of damp and somehow stale bread, a single slice of Swiss cheese, and a few pieces of turkey, and somehow it’s the most vile thing I’ve ever eaten.

I bring a sandwich back for my mom. She hasn’t moved. She’s still reading, though she’s switched from her tablet, charging in the corner, to a paperback book. She has a soft canvas bag beside her laden with books, water bottles, and snacks.

Dad is awake now, inclined slightly in the bed.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says when I walk back into his room. “I missed you.”

“I’m right here, Daddy.” I take his hand in mine, careful of the IV. “How was your nap?”

“Oh, I’ve had better,” he says.

I force a laugh. “I suppose so.”

“They’re going to take me back for surgery in a bit,” he says. “Listen, your mom—she’s doing the best she can. We all are. We’re all doing the best we can.”

“I know.”