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I know this is unconventional. For that, I apologize. Thank you for agreeing to accept my message in the first place; I know you didn’t have to. Anyway, I don’t exactly know what to do here because I think I should just leave it – that’s probably the right thing to do – but I need her to know that I won’t be there this weekend. Mainly, I need her to know why I can’t be there. It’s not by choice. My father is in the hospital. He’s having surgery on Saturday, and it should be fine. It’s not major, but my mother wants all the kids there, and I need to make sure she’s taken care of. I know that’s probably too much information, but I need her to know that it’s not because I don’t want to be there. She’ll understand this, but if you can tell her that it’s not because of what we talked about last time, I’d really appreciate it. I’d really love to explain it to her myself, so if you could maybe just ask her if it’s okay for me to have her phone number, I’d love to call her and tell her. I know that’s a stretch and that outside of a few nights together, you don’t really know me, but I promise I just need to tell her why. If there’s an email address or something else she’d be comfortable with, I’d take anything. And if she’s reading this because you’re sharing it with her – I miss you.
The message isn’t signed, but those last three words stick out to me and make me smile. I pass the phone back to my friend and meet her wife’s eyes.
“What do you think I should do?”
“Whatever you want,” she replies.
“Maybe make a new email or something and give that to her instead,” my friend says. “Safer that way.”
“She’d only have my phone number. Plus, I don’t think I have anything to worry about,” I reply.
“It’s up to you,” she says, taking her wife’s hand. “We’re just passing along the message. For what it’s worth, I do think it’s cool that she’s reached out to us to let you know ahead of time. She didn’t have to do that.”
“What did she mean about the thing you talked about last time?” her wife asks.
“She’s dating someone,” I say solemnly. “They’d had a coffee date before the last party. I don’t know if it’s still going on or not, but it’s probably that.”
“Why would that–” My friend glares at me. “What exactly did you two do last time?”
“What we always do,” I reply. “We had sex.”
“And?” she asks.
“And, what?”
“Why would she care if you thought she was skipping the party to be with someone she’s dating?” her wife asks.
I swallow.
“What happened?” she presses further.
“Nothing. I mean… something, maybe. I…” I sigh. “When I was…” I look down at the floor. “When I came, I accidentally told her I loved her.”
“You did what?!” my friend shouts.
“It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I didn’t mean it like that. It was more that I love how she makes me feel, how she makes me come, and–”
“You told her you love her?” my friend asks.
“What did she say?” her wife asks.
“Nothing. She was a little busy.”
“She didn’t hear you or she just didn’t acknowledge it?”
“I don’t know. I came, and I was kind of loud, then I kind of dropped on top of her, and we stayed there for a minute, but she didn’t bring it up or anything, so maybe she didn’t hear me.”
“Well, if she didn’t hear you, why would she be worried about you thinking she’s skipping this thing to fuck someone she’s dating?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It just felt different last time.”
“Well, you did tell the woman paying you for sex that you love her,” my friend says.
“Hey,” I say back. “You don’t have to be an asshole about this.”
“It’s the truth, though, sweetie,” her wife says. “I know she pays the company, and the company pays you, but she is paying you for sex once a month.”
“I know that,” I reply.
