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“Oh, no. I enjoy sex sometimes. It’s just not something I crave most of the time or with most people. I’m more attracted to, well, what we’ve been doing. The sweet little shared moments of intimacy.”
“If we were really dating?”
“Then coffee would still mean coffee. But if you wanted to sleep over, I’d like the idea of cuddling. It’s been a long time since I woke up in someone’s arms. Other than Saint.”
“You two sleep together still?” I try to keep my tone neutral.
Carl fidgets his fingers on the steering wheel. “Sometimes? Not often anymore. It gives people the wrong idea. We aren’t together romantically. I wasn’t lying when I said he’s my best friend, but I do still love him platonically. And he loves me. It’s complicated? This is another reason I don’t do well with dating…” Carl blows out a loud breath.
“Guess we’ve got that in common. How did you figure it out?”
“Saint bought me a book about two ace men falling in love.” Carl shrugs. “That’s also how he figured out that he’s aromantic. Meaning he doesn’t really have romantic attractions, so our marriage was basically doomed from the start.”
“I’m sorry.” I want to comfort him at the pain in that wry observation, but I’m not sure how. He covers the emotional wound fast with a forced chuckle.
“It is what it is. We were making ourselves miserable trying to meet each other’s opposing relationship needs. I crave all those little gestures that will never come naturally to him. Even when he tried, like with the cookies I told you about.”
The sweet gestures that have so attracted me to him. All the little things like holding hands in the moonlight and kissing under the mistletoe, skating until the rink closed, nostalgic snowball fights among the Christmas trees, baking cookies together, and planning future dates. Picking out matching ugly sweaters earlier today for his sister’s party tomorrow. Freezing our balls off to enjoy the light parade. All of it is so perfectly Carl and I want to know him more.
“Um. So it doesn’t mean you hate sex?”
“No. Some people do, but that isn’t me. I just don’t care about it enough to pursue sex for its own sake when there are so many other things I’d rather be doing with a partner.”
Those words flip a switch in my head. They slot into the part of me that has felt broken every time a new ex throws my lack of sexual interest into my face.
“Oh.”
There’s a word for how I’ve felt. For all the frustration and relationships that fizzled after a few promising dates. For the crushing disappointment when engaging conversations with a crush ended in frantic couplings. Sex that didn’t do half as much for me as the anticipation of going to an interesting movie or a night of stargazing at the planetarium or almost anything else.
Carl flashes me a sad smile. “That’s why this week has been so perfect.”
“Um. Yeah. It’s been perfect for me too. I think…” I lick my lips, not sure enough to actually say the words aloud. Am I ace like him? Except I want to have sex with Carl. I want our sweet kisses to lead to more. It’s too soon to claim that identity for myself when I don’t really understand what it means.
“You think?” Carl arches a brow at me as he pulls into his driveway to park.
“I really like you.” I chicken out. Not ready to face the possibility that his label for his sexuality might fit me too.
“I really like you, too. Come in for that coffee?” Carl pulls the keys out of the ignition and smiles at me.
Damn, he’s cute when he’s looking at me with longing in his eyes. And it’s even more enticing knowing that desire is unlikely to turn into lust overriding all our plans. That we can sit up for hours sipping coffee and discussing anything and nothing at all and it will all feel brand new the way everything has with him.
“Yeah. Coffee and cuddles. All night if you want.” Please let him want that. It would be nice to hold him while he sleeps. To wake up tomorrow to his sweet smiles and even sweeter kisses.
“That sounds perfect.”
Chapter 12
Carl—December 23rd
Iwakeupslowlywith the warm weight of someone’s arms around me. “Mm, lemme up, Saint,” I mumble into the muzzy predawn stillness of my bedroom. “Gotta pee.”
If it was up to me, I’d snuggle here all morning, but my bladder has other plans so I squirm toward the edge of the bed. It’s possible sharing a pot of coffee with Nick last night was inadvisable if I wanted to sleep in this morning. I freeze as the memory of coffee-flavored kisses before bed comes into sharp focus. It’s not Saint’s morning wood nestled against my back.
Not my best friend’s familiar arms holding me. Not his sleep-gruff voice in my ear, sending pleasant tingles down my spine.
“I’m no saint,” Nick says. Then he presses a kiss to my nape and rolls away from me. “But by all means, don’t let me keep you from your business.”
“Shit, sorry!” I scramble upright fighting the guilt at mistaking who he is. Worry roils low in my belly. Is Nick going to be less cool when confronted by the slip of my tongue versus just hearing there’s another man I share my bed with on a semi-regular basis.
