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Chapter 1
Carl—December 18th
“So,howwasyourdate last night?” Saint asks, as though he’s been waiting to spring the question on me all day. Maybe he has. I sign into the fitness center and head for the lockers, avoiding the question for as long as possible, for all the good that will do me.
My best friend and ex-husband follows me as I enter the locker room. Like a dog with a bone, as usual. I snort to myself, because I doubt Saint’s ever met a bone he didn’t like, and he’s got a stubborn streak a kilometer wide.
“Well?” he asks, leaning against my locker.
“It was fine. Until he invited me back to his place for ‘coffee.’” I turn to face him as I hook my fingers into air quotes.
“Oh.” Saint’s face falls, his broad grin turning into a frown. “Was there not coffee?”
“Nope, apparently I was supposed to realize ‘coffee’ meant sex, and going on five whole dates constitutes being more than patient enough when it comes to waiting for sex. Who knew?”
“I’m sorry, Carl. You two seemed to hit it off so well.”
“Yeah. Well, he hasn’t texted me back since. So I think it’s over.” I shrug and wrench open my locker to get changed. Saint claps me on the back so I’ll turn for a proper hug.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he murmurs. Then he drops the subject and we both get changed for our usual workout.
It’s not the first time I’ve broken up with a guy over my lack of interest in sex; I doubt it will be the last. There was a time when that bothered me more. When I tried desperately to change.
“So, how was your weekend?” I ask as I grab my water bottle, heading out to warm up, Saint follows, giving me a vague rendition of his weekend plans and then pivoting to some show he watched last night. Ah. So he probably had company this weekend. We don’t talk about his active sex life most of the time.
I spent years, even after breaking up with Saint, where I hated that loving him with all my heart didn’t somehow magically make me love sex with him.
It’s not that the sex with him didn’t feel good. It was fine. Perfectly adequate. Messier than taking care of myself in the shower, but fine. Except, I’d wanted to feel all those euphoric highs I’d read about in my older sister’s romance novels. I wanted it to be this transcendent soul-deep connection with another person. Some sort of spiritual experience or something. I wanted to look at him and feel that unquenchable desire. Just like in those books.
I never did. I’ve never felt that way about anyone. For the longest time, I thought it meant I was broken.
I jump into a few gentle stretches before hitting the weights. Saint follows my lead, putting our conversation on pause as we get our heart rates up.
We got married young, and it didn’t take Saint long to realize something was wrong. He badgered me into admitting I don’t really care for sex. And he was more mad about me forcing myself to do something I wasn’t into than he was about not having sex as often.
Still, we weren’t good for each other as partners. He’s my best friend and getting a divorce a year into our marriage was the best thing we ever did. We were still in university, and it was a spur-of-the-moment marriage, fueled mostly by the giddy joy of finally being allowed to get married once it was legal. Our relationship shifted after that. It got deeper because I knew I could trust him with anything.
“You too distracted to spot me?” Saint arches a brow at me. I shake off my revelry and force a smile.
“I’ve got you,” I say, rolling my shoulders. I will always have his back, the same way he’s always had mine. Even when it hurt us both to admit we couldn’t meet all of each other’s needs.
The first time Saint plopped a romance book about an ace character in front of me, I cried at seeing someone who felt the same as me. At seeing someone like me who wasn’t damaged or wrong. The character got to have a big sappy romance that didn’t center around sex and it was perfect.
So that’s what I’m holding out for when I go on dates. Not someone who is willing to settle for me, but someone who loves me with or without sex being part of the equation. It was funny, because as we read more about asexuality, Saint discovered himself too. He’s aromantic, so we couldn’t have been less compatible in that department if we tried, since romance does it for me. As friends, though, we’re perfect. He’s still my platonic life partner. I just want that romantic connection with a boyfriend too. It’s probably too much to ask, judging from my abysmal dating track record.
“You going to try the apps again?” Saint asks as we head toward the free weights to do some circuit training.
“I’m not sure.”
“You can’t give up, man. How else am I going to get out of alimony?”
I guffaw. “Sorry, Saint. Guess you’ll just have to keep me in the manner to which I am accustomed forever.” I wink at him.
He doesn’t actually have to pay me alimony. We were only married for about a year. Once we realized that we wanted different things from our marriage, we got a quiet divorce. But we still lived together as roommates for the better part of his time in law school after our separation became official.
He needed help around the house to get through his rigorous studies and I was happy with our arrangement as I established myself in my career after undergrad. My job paid the bills and kept us both in ramen. So he insisted on supporting me after law school, at least until we both got on our feet financially.
After he passed the bar, we sold our condo in Toronto—gifted to us by his parents when we got married because even in the early aughts, Toronto real estate was absurdly expensive—and bought a duplex back in our hometown of Elk’s Pass, Ontario together. And Saint offered me eight years of spousal support or until I get with someone else, whichever comes first.
