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But Dare, with his hand around his cock, and my name on his lips—
It's hot in this coffee shop. It really is. And the warmth of my cappuccino doesn't help matters.
Maybe that's okay.
Sure, it's a little awkward to broach the I saw you touching yourself conversation, but it's less awkward than I have to tell you something. I didn't sleep with Archie. I don't want to sleep with Archie. He's in on the whole thing, and he convinced me to pretend to make you jealous, but that's ridiculous, isn't it?
The words sound hollow, even in my head.
The evidence is there in the text. And, sure, the events are open to interpretation, but the sheer magnitude of evidence is overwhelming.
Who watches Sabrina and thinks "money should triumph over love?"
At this point, the Dare wants Val evidence is nearly as strong. I can't deny it anymore.
He wants me.
And, even if it ruins our friendship, he deserves the truth.
I order two iced lattes to go and return to the apartment.
Dare nods hey as I step inside. From his spot on the couch, he studies his sketchbook. "Morning." He keeps his voice neutral, as if I didn't walk in on him this morning, or make out with him last night, or send him away to screw Archie between those two events.
With the same neutrality, I reply. "Morning." I hold up the iced latte. "Oh. I forgot you had one here."
"It's in the fridge," he says.
"Should I bring this over?"
"It's a pretty long way for me to walk." He shoots me a classic I'm ridiculous and you love it smile, but it's lacking its usual spark.
"It's dark in here."
"Is it?"
Sorta. The blinds are down. "Hangover?"
He motions kinda.
"You kept drinking after I left?"
"When in Spain…"
"Drink gin tonics until the bars close?"
He nods exactly and looks at the floor. With great struggle, he asks, "Did you have fun?"
I want to tell him everything now, but I just can't find the words. "It was a good night." I set our drinks on the coffee table and open the curtains.
He squints and lets out a low groan. "Is that necessary?"
He is hungover. That happens. With too many drinks. Or your best friend pretending to sleep with someone else.
Dare grabs the iced latte, takes a long sip, lets out a groan of pleasure.
I can feel it in my throat, the way I did yesterday, the way I can today. If I tell him. If he forgives my deception.
If we risk everything.
I join him on the couch, take a sip of my coffee, try to find the words to confess. They jumble in my throat, so I try something easier. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He doesn't ask for clarification. "Do you?"
"I'm okay."
"Me too." He doesn't sell it.
And I don't push him to expand. "Should we head out then?"
"We have a plan for the day?"
I nod. "Two museums."
"Which two?"
"Would you rather see modern art or Picasso?" I ask.
He shoots me a really look.
"I thought so." I ease into the conversation. Dare and I talking about paintings. Something I can manage. "Modern art. Then sex."
"The Museum of Sex?"
I nod.
We gather our stuff; we head to breakfast; we talk about anything besides the elephant in the room.
The walk to the modern art museum is the same. Thankfully, the second we step inside, his attention goes to the work. The beauty of a best friend who adores the visual arts. It's easy to keep his mind elsewhere.
And, really, the place is arresting. The first floor is recent work, the sort of avant-garde stuff people criticize as pointless or childish.
Dare defends every piece. Not that they need it. The descriptions on the placards are surprisingly fanboyish. The street art exhibit upstairs is the same. We fall into a rare dynamic, Dare sharing his passion with me, inviting me into his world.
I bask in the intimacy, the familiarity of it. This is the way he talked when we were kids, when he was just discovering drawing, when we spent hours and hours sharing our passions.
The morning turns to afternoon. We talk about the world through an easy lunch (we share a chicken kebab plate). We sip cappuccinos and shop for fancy chocolate and walk through the Gothic Quarter at ease.
Then we arrive at the Museum of Sex and the elephant bursts into the room. We make it through buying tickets, past massive iron phallus, and the History of Porn: drawings, then photos, flipbooks and zoetropes, then short clips designed to excite the customers at a brothel, the explanation of kink—whips and chains and handcuffs galore, past the wall of dildos in every color, literally glued to the wall, and the pussy chair in the garden, past the wall of sex records, all the way down the stairs, into the gift shop, before he asks.
"How was it?" He swallows hard as he pretends to study a strawberry-flavored lube. "With Archie last night?"
