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Yeah.
I shampoo my hair, rinse, scrub my thighs, let the warm water run on my tense shoulders, list all the reasons why having sex—the real kind—with Brady is not a good idea, convince myself it is a good idea, and then forget if I shampooed my hair. I shampoo again, rinse, apply conditioner, rinse, and then step out of the shower.
To have sex or not to have sex...
That is the real question here.
If we have sex, then I will have to admit to myself that this is real. This is going somewhere. This is heading in the direction of a relationship. Unless Brady doesn't want that. He's never acted like he doesn't. I'm sure he does. Why wouldn't he?
Focus, Iz.
If we have sex, then I risk losing my job. Angie made it clear there was a strict no-dating policy. What if she finds out? What if the Cohen Tech board finds out? What if I'm homeless, jobless, and poor again?
You will survive, Iz.
If we have sex, then I might end up in the same position I was before. Heartbroken and without Brady. I don't want that. I really, really don't want that.
There's still time to walk away from this. To be satisfied with a few heavy and hot orgasms administered by his tongue. To love him from a distance. To choose friendship. To choose to have him in my life permanently instead of the possibility of losing him forever.
Why?
Why does this have to be so hard?
Because you love him, dummy.
Great, now I'm talking to myself.
I dry off and run my brush through my hair. I keep trying to talk myself out of this instead of considering what might be.
What if we fall madly in love again and we get married?
What if we figure out a way to work together and have a life together?
What if we finally make it?
Finally make it.
That's what I want. It's what I've wanted for a long time. Longer than I should admit.
I toss the towel onto the sink and run my fingers through my hair.
I want this. I don't know if I deserve it, but I know I want it.
My fingers grip the muggy door handle as I take a deep breath. The door slips open and a sense of peace washes over me. It's Brady.It's Brady.
Quietly, my feet pad along the soft ground as I head toward the bed. Brady's sitting on the edge, shirtless, as he scrolls through his phone.
My teeth sink into my lower lip as I pause, breathing in the moment.
The first time we made love, I was a virgin. There was never anyone before him. I didn't kiss anyone. I didn't go to school dances or go on dates. It's almost like my heartknew. It knew that it was waiting for him.
It's been twelve years since that memorable night and I still feel the same way.
I clear my throat and Brady glances over his shoulder. He grins—shamelessly—as I shrug.
"Come here, Iz."
He says that a lot. But it's OK. I think it might be my favorite three-word sentence.
