As we pull apart and I head across the park to my place, her hug stays with me, a warm glow that follows me even when we’re apart.
It gives me an idea for number four on the list.
Last night I figured out what ugly thing I wanted to make beautiful, but I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to go about it until now.
Inside my apartment, I jot down some quick thoughts, my throat tightening, my heart clutching. But this feels right, and I’m excited to share the idea with Jesse.
I put on my painting clothes, check the time. I have an hour before I need to leave to meet my partner in crime.
Maybe my partner in something sexier than crime if things work out the way I hope they will.
I let my thoughts return to Jesse and his kiss and all the sizzling things he made me feel. Surely, benefits won’t ruin our friendship.
Besides, it took more than six months to reach the outer limits of the “falling for you” zone with Brian, and we never did really get there. And Chad, in three months, didn’t even come close.
There’s no way I’ll get in deep with Jesse in two weeks.
Inspired, I grab my idea notebook from my desk and write I would very much like to get naked with you at your earliest convenience, and smile.
If I hurry, I might have time to paint a mockup of the card before I leave to meet Jesse in SoHo.
11
Jesse
To sex or not to sex—that is the question.
I like to ponder these sorts of deep issues during a hard, sweaty run.
Letting the to-dos and the to-don’ts roll through my head as I pound the path around the park.
Friends-with-benefits sounds good in theory.
But does it work in reality?
Normally, I’d marinate on the possibilities as I ran the Prospect Park loop a couple of times while listening to one of those true-crime podcasts that make me consider becoming a detective if the whole “body shop” thing peters out someday. I like puzzles and shutting down bad guys. Or I think I would.
But today is Sunday, so I’m running with Max, who’s pushing Penny in her jog-friendly stroller while the genius two-year-old demonstrates—over and over again—that she can count to twenty.
I am not thinking about sex.
At all.
Penny makes it to ten, adds a hurrah, then scurries through the next few numbers, skipping fourteen. Also, seventeen.
“All done and no bad numbers,” she says in a singsong voice as Max pushes her beside me.
“What do you have against fourteen?” I ask. “And seventeen, for that matter?”
She gives me a toothy grin. “Ten is better, silly.”
I jerk my gaze to Max. “Explain.”
He shrugs. “Numbers. Some are scary. Am I right or am I right?”
I shrug too, then pat Penny’s stroller in solidarity. “Boo numbers.”
“File it away under ‘kids have an opinion on everything,’” Max adds, then he leans over and ruffles her shiny, nearly black hair. Max’s wife is Korean, and Penny is the spitting image of her mama. The only genes she appears to have inherited from Max are her long fingers and quirky sense of humor. “And that’s what makes you so awesome and brilliant and kind and smart and cool.”