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Jason smells like sea breeze and summer time. He swallows you up in his arms when he hugs you, like fitting on an oversized sweater.
But his body isn’t soft. It’s hard—hard chest, hard muscles, hard.
Unwanted, a memory resurfaces: Jason between my legs, my stiff cock between his lips, and those sky-blue eyes locked on mine, questioning: is this good? Like this?
That one night years ago when Jason and I were more than friends and more than enemies. It ignites a flicker of desire than I need to extinguish. Immediately.
I pull back from him, putting distance between us.
“Okay—you can thank me by staying out of my way. Starting now.”
“Can do,” he says, but it’s with that warm, dopey grin that makes my blood hot.
I go to my room, closing the door hard behind me.
3
Jason
Every morning, I made Nadine coffee.
I knew exactly how she liked it, too. We had a French press, so I’d get up early, quietly slip out of bed so not to wake her, and get the pot going. No sugar, but she did take a splash of milk. I’d fill up her thermos so she’d had coffee for the day, then I’d pour some in her mug. She had three favorite mugs that I’d swap out and I tried to, occasionally, steer her day in the right direction with my choice of mug. If she was feeling run down at work, I’d give her the mug with the words “Boss Bitch” in cursive on the side. If she felt far away, I’d give her the mug her mother sent her on her birthday.
Obviously, her mugs didn’t dictate her day. But it felt good to be doing something, anyway. And she always seemed happy when I set her coffee down on the headboard that doubled as a bookshelf.
It’s strange to remember things like that—moments when we were happy. Easy, with distance, to forget all the things that didn’t make us happy.
Easy to miss her. Or miss myself, rather—whatever we were, even if it wasn’t made to last, I’d liked being married. I’d liked being someone’s husband.
I’d just been the wrong person’s husband. And that stings—no other way to spin it.
But old habits die hard. Which is why I’m up at 6 am, getting the pot of coffee ready. I meditate while it steeps and, eventually, I hear Donovan’s door crack open.
He shuffles out of the bedroom, hair askew, clothes wrinkled. He’s moving slowly, like he’s still half asleep.
“Hey,” I grin. If I were a dog, my tail would be wagging. “Good morning.”
He tilts his head, sniffs. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. I made a pot. You want some?” I’m on my feet before he can answer, pulling down a mug from his cabinets. I fill it and ask, “Milk? Sugar?”
“No.”
He flops down on the couch and pulls one of the throw blankets around his shoulders, bundling himself up. I set the mug down on the coffee table in front of him and he acknowledges it with a, “Thanks.”
I take the chair across from him and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “So, I was thinking. You have off today. I have off today. You wanna do something?”
He blinks at me. “Like what?”
I shrug. “We could go to the city. Or hang out here. Grab brunch at the Pelican.”
Donovan leans forward and wraps his fingers around his coffee, though he doesn’t drink it yet, which is honestly driving me a little crazy.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says. “I’m not your new wife.”
“I know, I just thought—”
“It’s my day off,” he continues, “and those are few and far between. I’m going to spend it decompressing with shitty sci-fi shows and I’m probably not going to move from this couch.”
