I wasn’t sure what to make of that tingle sliding down my chest. I had Jack. My hookup pal. The guy I was interested in.
I definitely wasn’t interested in River.
Except, this wave of goose bumps rolling down my back said otherwise. It shouted that I was into my friend, the guy with the surfer smile, the breezy vibe, the ink on his arms that pops on his fair skin. Most of all, the never-ending banter.
But I wasn’t Gay Harry, who couldn’t see past lust to what else a person had to offer. I agreed with River that friendship mattered and shouldn’t be risked lightly.
“I think if we slept together,” I answered slowly and thoughtfully, “you and I could stay friends. Because we are friends.” I tried my best to answer logically. “And I’m not Ansel.”
“True,” River conceded. “Still, I’m not sure I’d ever want to take that gamble with you. I wish I hadn’t taken it with Ansel because I lost a friend.”
“Or maybe you learned who he really was,” I posited.
“A lesson I didn’t want to learn. And I don’t want to gamble with our friendship. Even though you are a cutie, Owen,” River said, shifting tone. The man could be the textbook definition of a flirt.
“Cute is for chipmunks,” I scoffed.
“Oh my God! You’re a chipmunk hater. We definitely won’t ever sleep together now that I know that you have a grudge against chipmunks.”
Sleep together.
Right then, I knew three things. One, the way he said sleep together turned me on immensely. Two, I couldn’t act on that feeling. Because, three, I didn’t want to gamble with our friendship either.
“I had no idea you had such strong feelings about chipmunks,” I said, when I was really thinking—Do you want to sleep with me?
“I have strong feelings about everything,” River went on, waving a casual hand my way. “I called you a cutie because I can’t call you a hottie,” River said. “Even with those Clark Kent glasses. I can’t call you hot because you’re seeing someone. And because we have too much fun together. Because you make me laugh, and I make you laugh harder.”
“Someone thinks highly of himself,” I said.
“And I think highly of you, Owen,” River said, his tone utterly sincere now, no trace of flirting in it. His soft brown eyes turned serious. “And I don’t gamble with important things like friends.”
Like River, I also didn’t want to lose a friend on account of some kernel of attraction which would surely fade. Lust was temporary. Friends were forever. “We’ll make a deal,” I said, acting on bravado. “A pact that we won’t ever sleep together. It’s the brand-new When Harry Met Rod rule—friends don’t gamble on sex with friends.”
River’s eyes twinkled with humor—or maybe delight that I saw things his way. “That’s it! Doesn’t matter that you’re a cutie. No going back, now—we have a pact. A no-sex pact. Which, to be clear, means no blow jobs either.”
I nodded. “And no hand jobs.”
“No kissing. Anywhere,” he added.
When I laughed, it was definitely harder. But then I frowned. “Damn, those are all my favorite things.”
“Mine too. But that’s my point—we have too much fun together to risk it, even for our favorite things. We need to seal this.”
River stopped and lifted his coffee cup. I did the same, tapping the rims together.
“To friendship,” I said.
“To the Friends Don’t Bang Friends Treaty,” River added. “By the power invested in coffee, I hereby declare we’re never having sex ever.”
We stuck to the pact—past college, through breakups and brief flings with other men, through good times and bad—never gambling with the thing that mattered most.
Now, eight years later, we’re still great friends thanks to the pact.
But then, the way you feel at twenty isn’t always the way you feel at twenty-eight. Wants and needs change, and so does what you’re willing to risk.
1
River
Present day, November
This is the year I’m going to learn how to make a pie.
“How hard can it be? You get crust and pumpkins and apples and pecans and stuff like that. If I can mix drinks this good, surely I can make a terrific pecan pumpkin apple pie,” I say to Owen as I mix a Negroni for a customer.
“Because Campari, gin, and vermouth are the same as pecans, pumpkins, and apples? Also, you do realize most pies don’t call for pecans and pumpkins and apples in the same recipe?” Owen points out, dragging a hand through his dark brown hair that has just the right amount of swoop to it as it hits his forehead with the perfect bit of bounce. Like a shampoo commercial.
“Details. Besides, who made you the pie-meister? Maybe my pie will taste good as an Everything But The Kitchen Sink Pie. I’ll toss in gin too,” I suggest, then bring the Negroni to a tall Asian guy at the end of the bar who’s transfixed by his phone, but nervously tapping his fingers on the wood at the same time. My guess? He’s meeting someone from an app here any minute, and he’s worried the guy won’t show. “Bet he’ll be here soon, hun,” I say, with a grin.