"Want to stay over at my place tonight?" I ask him in the car. "Seems like a really long time since we’ve… you know... we've both been so busy." I rub his neck and give him a hopeful smile. It’s been thirty-two days since we did more than kiss and cuddle, but who’s counting?

"I don't think tonight's a good time." He doesn't take his eyes from the road. "But thanks."

"Okay. Maybe tomorrow." A piece of concrete the size of my libido sinks into the bottom of my stomach.

"I'm going to Chicago on Monday morning for that conference, so I think I need to spend tomorrow preparing. But thanks."

I have to ask. I have to. "Jamey, is everything okay? With us, I mean?" My fingers worry a thread on the edge of the upholstered seat.

"Of course it is," he snaps. "Why would you ask that? You are so needy sometimes. I told you I have to get ready for a meeting!" The growl in his voice fills me with shame. I’m not sure why.

I am taken aback. "I'm sorry," I stammer. "You're right. I apologize."

But he continues to stare straight ahead all the way home. When we get to my apartment in Southie, he helps me carry my purchases, plus the ceramic hand, up to the porch.

"Sorry I wasn't very good company," he says, giving me a quick peck on the lips. "I guess I'm just stressed. I have a lot going on right now. I'll call you tomorrow."

But he doesn't.

RYAN

After work most nights, Zeke and I head to this dive down the street from O, Tooney’s Bar. It reeks of old cigarette smoke and unwashed men, the soured beers of decades past all absorbed into the cheap paneling. Dart boards are everywhere, and the two stained pool tables in the bar are constantly busy.

An antidote to a shift at O. No environment could be more different.

Carrie normally works regular hours, so she’s not typically around for the night shift, which is what I pull four days a week. We pass each other mid-afternoon, like today, and then she leaves at 5:30 p.m. like all the other office drones, while the clients come pouring in.

Zeke and I spend the post-corporate hours massaging women, listening to them talk about their worries, flattering them, and trying to bring a little spark of fun and light into the lives of overstressed, overshamed, overwhelmed women.

Is our work frivolous? Should I go back to electrical engineering like my sisters all say I should? Robots don’t sigh with relief when you unwind a nasty knot in their shoulder. They don’t tear up when you tell them they’re beautiful without the tummy tuck their new rich boyfriend insists they get.

Then again, robots don’t pinch your ass, either.

“Made a move on Carrie yet?” Zeke asks as we grab a couple of bar stools and lean. My first shot of tequila goes down like that moment you get home and kick off your shoes.

“Shut up.”

“Just asking. She was combing over you with those sweet brown eyes.”

“Don’t talk about her eyes.”

His nose twitches. “Got it. Eyes are off limits. I’ll talk about her tits instead.”

I didn’t know I could growl. Was pretty realistic, too.

“She’s not yours, Ryan. She’s Ja-mey’s.” His voice goes sickly sweet as he says Carrie’s boyfriend’s name.

“It won’t last.”

“No shit.” He barks out a laugh that is half belch, half snicker. “Does she realize he’s gay?”

I bristle. We’re getting into dangerous territory. “You see it, too?”

“You’d have to be daft not to.”

“Carrie isn’t stupid.”

“Then she’s in denial, or they have some sort of an arrangement.”

“Arrangement?”

“You read Dan Savage’s column? Maybe he fucks whoever he wants on the side, and she…. I don’t know. Who cares?”

“I don’t think Carrie’s the kind of woman to have an arrangement.”

“You have no idea what kind of woman Carrie is in bed, Ryan. You’re too chickenshit to find out.”

“I know more than you think.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You made a move?”

“No.” Fuck. I just walked right into a trap.

“She talks with you about her sex life? Jesus, Ryan, why don’t you just braid her hair and paint each other’s nails?” For whatever reason, this sounds way worse in an English accent as Zeke sucks down half of his pint of beer. He orders it straight from the tap in those big Pilsner glasses, wide at the top and more narrow at the bottom.

I tense.

“Oh, man… you do braid her hair, don’t you? When you watch those stupid survivalist shows with her? Might as well cut off your cock and hand it to her.” He holds an imaginary knife and cuts off his dick in Pretendland.

“It’s not like that.” I give the pool tables a look. Long line to grab one. I groan inside. That means Zeke’ll want to play darts. I suck at darts. He’s a king. I am convinced they start teaching kids darts in England before they’re out of diapers.

Zeke continues pretending, cackling maniacally as he chops off his own dick. I’m damn close to moving him into Realityland.

“You friend-zoned yourself,” he says, then finishes his beer, slamming it on the scarred wooden bar. The bartender starts pouring him another, the dark lager contrasting with the white foam that forms up on top, like a beer toupée.

“Shut up.”

“Just tattoo ‘Friend Zone’ on your cock, man.”

“Who tattoos their own junk?”

Zeke just cocks — no pun intended — one eyebrow.

I hold up my palm. “I don’t wanna know. And besides, I hate that term. Friend Zone.”

“Because you’re it, dude. You turned yourself into The Nice Guy.”

“I am a nice guy!”

“Nice guys don’t get pussy.”

“I don’t want Carrie’s — ” Okay. Even I can’t finish that sentence, because it’s not true.

His eyebrow goes up, carrying the piercing along with it, like a ball of mercury in a thermometer, measuring something.

Measuring my stupidity.

“You want her bad, Ryan. Everyone in the spa can tell. We have a betting pool on you. There’s a grid and everything.”