I bit my lip, deciding on both our meals and then nodded, "Okay." I pushed the menu to the side of me and took a massive gulp of the still-airing wine. I smacked my lips, "I was at a party on Sunday; he was with this woman who is notorious for her affairs with married men. They were together on the balcony and then they were gone and she was so close to him—the body language was nuts. They held hands and walked off together, whispering in each other’s ears. It was obvious and not just to me." I took another drink.

He made a face, "Jack, I hate Phil, we both know that. But that’s not proof, baby. You sounded mad upstairs. Was he wearing the cape at the party? Was it a costume party?"

I took another breath, "It gets worse."

"Okay, is there a second story? Is this the shoe story?"

I nodded, finishing the glass, “Shhhh.” I took a deep breath and looked into his dark eyes, "The next day I walked into the house and he was having sex, the naughty way, with our nineteen-year-old neighbor. She had a weird outfit on with garters and a bustier and my red Jimmy Choos. She was calling him Mr. Bernard and he was pulling her hair. I think she’s nineteen. We just went to her birthday. He was fucking in a cape and some kind of outfit I couldn’t see. He wanted her to call him Mr. Bernard. He wanted that dirty costume sex and he defiled my shoes, my bed, and my pride by doing it. And he didn’t care. I even called him like ten minutes later and asked if I had those shoes, hoping he would lie and tell me I didn’t have them. But he didn’t. He let me think my shoes were fine, even after he had fucked her in them. I know it’s wrong that I care about the shoes, but I feel so dirty that they brought parts of me into their game. Like I am a joke to him. My role as his wife is a joke."

His grip on the bottle was intensifying. He looked like it might break as he lifted it to his lips and sucked the whole thing back. He lowered his trembling hand, "I'm going to kill him."

I shook my head, "No. You aren’t. I need you out of jail."

He leaned across the table, fighting his horrid temper, "You aren’t marrying him." It wasn't a question.

I swallowed hard, knowing what the turnout would be if I told him I had to, and shook my head.

“You chose him over me? His raising is better than mine? This is the man your family thinks is good enough for you?”

I shook my head again.

He got up, tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and grabbed my hand. He dragged me from the restaurant. I struggled, "France, that wasn’t enough for the bottle of wine."

He was done. He didn’t hear me. He dragged me to the elevator. I could feel him pulsating with rage as we stood there in the awkward silence of knowing. Knowing what was about to happen.

The door opened. He stepped in civilized but his grip was so tight, my hand was going numb. He pulled me into him as he hit the floor button. His hand went right for my skirt. His mouth lowered close to mine. He didn’t go all the way. I could feel his breath on my lips as his hands ripped the pleats from my skirt, tearing a long slit up side. He smiled but I jumped as the fabric tore.

We stood there, 90 percent in and holding. The elevator dinged for our floor. He lifted me up into his arms, wrapping my legs around him as he carried me to our room. I was about to ask him to kiss me when he asked, "You hungry?"

I nodded, swallowing hard and unsure. I felt the door to our room open and heard it close, but I never broke my stare from him. My hands had slid up into his hair. I was gripping to him. His fingers started to roam across my underwear as he carried me to the bed. He laid me back on the comforter and stood up. I could see something changing on his face. He looked confused as he stepped back and pointed at me, "Don’t move." He turned and left the room.

I could barely breathe.

I tried to stay there, imagining all the places he could have gone, but the look in his eyes told me everything. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t touch me and feel sorry for me in the same breath. Or he had left to murder Phil.

When the door kicked open thirty minutes later, he came with a box of pizza and a bag of something else. He laid it on the bed.

“What just happened?”

He shook his head and ran his hands through his dark, bushy hair, “I cant eat that high-faluting food and wine and listen to the goddamned hair-pulling story. And I can’t kiss you until you ask me. And your eyes are still puffy from crying over that douche Phil, so I can’t make love to you. So let’s get you good and drunk and eat normal food.” He dumped the bag.

I started to laugh. "Pear ciders?"

He nodded, "Remember the summer we started hanging out? I wasn’t allowed to leave for South Carolina because coach had too many summer practices I would miss. They billeted me out at Jimmy's house and his mom kept trying to sleep with me, so I hid at your place all summer. Your sister bought us these to drink. It was what she and all her friends were drinking at the time. You got sick and we slept outside on the patio furniture. You told me you were still a virgin and I told you I was too. So we had sex under the stars. It was the best and worst sex I ever had." His eyes were burning but he didn’t move.

"It was an amazing way to lose it. Most of my friends were pretty much date-raped or pressured into doing it. No one did it with their best friend poolside and under the stars."

He nodded, "I agree."

I couldn’t read his face. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I had a feeling it wasn’t rowdy sex.

He cleared his throat, "I just wanted us to try to remember being best friends. And I want you to know I am here for you, jokes aside. I didn’t know you saw him doing that. I didn’t realize how embarrassed you feel. I can’t take advantage of that, as much as I want to." He sat on the bed with his back to me and opened the pizza. He took a piece and passed me the box. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I took a piece and tried to choke it down. He was saving himself from the tragic affair he knew would end with me going back.

He cracked a cider and passed it to me. I sipped the sickly sweet drink, picking at the label. He looked back, "You want to watch a movie?"

I nodded.

He got the remote and started fiddling with it. I stared at his broad back and thick arms and imagined the weight of him on me. I loved that feeling. It had been four years almost, but I still remembered it. He was the only person I liked touching me. Growing up with no one ever touching you, you’d think I would have worked hard for any affection, but I went the other way. I grew to be like them, my parents. I hated affection from anyone. I never liked being touched or hugged. It felt too foreign to me, unless I was trashed or high. Then I liked drinking and fucking but that wasn’t the same thing as having someone touch you. France was the only one who could touch me and make me feel safe.

Not even Phil ever reached the level of comfort that France did.

He picked a movie and crawled up onto the bed. He patted his chest. I abandoned my pizza and cider and crawled over to him. He wrapped around me, kissing my head. I closed my eyes and pretended that was my life. That was my reality.

Thursday Morning

The warmth around me was suffocating me. I tried to push it off, but when I opened my eyes, I realized it was France. I smiled and let the weight of him press me into the bed. He moaned and slid between my thighs. We had stripped to our undergarments when we decided it was bedtime. Now in the light of the morning, it seemed like that had been a bad plan. He was used to waking next to a puck fuck. His erection pressed against me hard as his face dipped into my neck. My breath became a moan as his body woke up. He slid against me, cupping and gripping. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him into me more. His lips started leaving kisses along my collarbone and nape. He lowered more, dragging my bra strap down with his lips. His kissed his way to my nipple. He kissed around, teasing and licking. Finally he landed his whole mouth over it, sending chills everywhere. I moaned, wrapping my legs harder and pressing myself against his rigid cock.

His hands made their way down between my legs, pushing my underwear to the side. I was freeing him from his underwear at the same time.

He rested his tip between my legs but paused. He sat up from my breast, "You going home to him?"

I tried to move my pelvis to force his entry but he pulled back with my movements. I groaned, "I can't decide now."

He cocked an eyebrow, "You going back?"

I bit my lip and nodded, "I have to break things off, I have to go back and talk to him and get my things."

"You gonna let your parents tell you to stay with him?"

I pushed him back, "Screw you, Mike." I pushed my underwear back into place and tried to get out from under him but he didn’t budge. He stared me down. I turned my face to the side, feeling the red-hot rage of unsatisfied sexual urges.

"I wanna screw, J.D.” He saw my face and laughed, “It was a bad joke. Look, I don’t want to start this up, if it is just ending with you and him again."

I refused to look at him, "I don’t know, okay? I don’t have an answer for you. Stop saying screw, it's gross."

He kissed my shoulder, "I want you to be mine. That hasn’t ever changed."

I wriggled away and turned my back to him. His cock was still pressed into me. I wanted it so badly, I closed my eyes and tried to think about my grandma. Instead, he kissed my neck and rubbed himself against me and made me think about him playing hockey.

"I love you."

I laughed, "You love all women; that’s sort of always been your problem."

He shook his head, "I know being with you would make me an honest man."

"That’s a pretty big risk on both our parts, considering the friendship we have is the only good thing in my life."

"You've always been the best thing in my life." He pushed his cock up against my butt cheek. I turned over, annoyed and impatient. I pushed him on his back and slid down the bed fast. I grabbed his cock and wrapped my lips around it. He jumped, unprepared and completely taken aback. I sucked like I was being paid to do it. I remembered that filthy party I'd been to with Diane. The lady had told us to stroke as we sucked and meet in the middle. I wiggled my tongue as I sucked up and down the shaft.