Shit…
What am I doing?
I should have faked a flu bug and cancelled. Or thrown myself down the mountain while Bran and I were skiing yesterday and broken my leg. Better a broken leg than a broken life, and my life will be broken if I lose Nancy.
Yes, I’m close with my brothers and little sister, but it’s not the same as being close with a really good friend. Nancy never had any obligation to love me or put up with my bad taste in music or inability to feed myself without takeout menus, but she did.
She chose me, and I chose her, and I want to keep choosing her.
As a friend.
Friends are forever, sexual relationships last five or six months. Tops. And that’s if you’re really lucky. I have female friends who haven’t made it past a first date in years and half the men I know have given up on dating and are in deep, co-dependent relationships with their jobs or dogs.
The modern dating scene is fucked, and I’m one of the jerks who made it that way.
At twenty-two, I had no shame about being the inventor of a hook-up friendly, sex-positive dating app. At thirty-four, I wonder how much longer I can keep SizzleWhiz going.
I’m still sex positive, but I’m sick of hook-up culture and ashamed that I’ve contributed to making dating even harder than it was before. I’ve reduced the hunt for human connection to a two second swiping decision and turned people into products I exploit for advertising revenue, all while giving them nothing in return but a one-night stand. And yes, people should be able to fuck ‘n run as much as they want, but they should also be able to find lasting, loving relationships when they’re ready.
Unfortunately, I have no idea where to start looking for that kind of thing.
The other apps aren’t any better than mine and the bar scene is dead, even in the city. The last time I hit a “single’s bar” every person in there was on their phone.
Half of them were on my app, in fact.
Oh, the irony…
I hate irony. Almost as much as I hate the fact that my easy, breezy relationship with my best friend has suddenly become dangerously complicated.
Bran finds the turn and guides the Rolls-Royce Cullinan SUV up the steep road leading to the resort. I tug at my scarf but loosening the fabric does nothing to ease the vice-like grip of anxiety tightening around my throat.
“Would you be able to pick me up later?” I ask as we wind our way through a veritable winter wonderland, complete with fat silver bows around the snow-covered trees. “If I decide not to stay the night?”
Bran shoots me a narrow look out of the corners of his eyes. “Sure, I guess. As long as you call early. I don’t plan on drinking much, but I don’t want to be out driving after ten, either. Too many drunks and moose on the roads.”
“You’ve never seen a moose,” I challenge. “Not a single time in all the years you’ve been driving in Vermont.”
“No, but there’s always a first time, and I don’t want that first time to be on New Year’s Eve. The ambulances will be busy with drunk drivers and people who lost a finger setting off fireworks and they won’t have time to reach me before I freeze to death in a ditch.”
I consider telling him that he’d probably be dead on impact if he were going faster than thirty miles per hour—moose are enormous, and I’ve heard the same moose-collision horror stories from the locals that Bran has—but suddenly the road opens up and the lodge appears.
The resort is small by ski chalet standards—only three stories arranged in the Swiss A-frame style, with about fifty rooms total—but classy. You can tell time, money, and thought went into every detail, from the dark, polished wood on the exterior to the massive awning built to protect guests from the elements as they unpack and all the touches in between.
“And you’re going to have a great time,” Bran continues, joining the short line of vehicles waiting to pull under the awning. Kayley requested we be dropped by a friend or family member, if possible, as she’s taking advantage of the lack of paying guests to have several holes in the parking lot repaired. “You and Nancy always have a great time together and one weird conversation isn’t going to change that.”
“You’re right,” I say, forcing a smile even as my gut assures me that he’s wrong.
Everything has changed and I’m not sure if my relationship with Nancy will ever be the same. Kind of hard to maintain that chill, prank-playing, old-friend vibe when one person can’t stop thinking about the other person naked.
Shit.
And now I’m thinking about Nancy naked. Again.
“See you tomorrow,” I tell my brother as a valet dressed in a puffy silver parka opens the passenger’s side door. “And Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” Bran says, a twinkle in his eye as he adds, “and for what it’s worth, if you and Nancy do decide to make a baby, I’m pretty sure it’d be the cutest kid ever. You’re not bad looking, and she’s ridiculously hot.”
I glare at him, but say nothing, conscious of the no-doubt-eavesdropping valet collecting my small overnight suitcase from the trunk.
Besides, what am I going to say? If I tell Bran to stop talking about how hot Nancy is before I punch him in the knee, I’ll only be confirming his smirky little suspicions. He’s baiting me. He clearly thinks there’s a chance Nancy and I could end up more than friends, but he’s wrong.
I would never put my relationship with her at risk that way. I’d rather abandon all hope of making my sex dreams a reality forever than roll the dice on a future without her in it. I don’t know how to make relationships work. Maybe no one does, these days, but my track record certainly isn’t anything to brag about or any reason to believe I could be what Nancy needs.
I’m only good to her as a friend, not a fornicating partner.
Friends not fornication. Friends not fornication.
I chant the silent mantra over and over again as I breeze through two sets of sliding glass doors into a spacious lobby. The ceiling soars up two stories, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, granting a stunning view of the neighboring mountains. A massive fireplace dominates the center of the space, surrounded by leather couches and cushy armchairs. There’s a softly lit bar on the left side, with a pool table, a small stage, and a large, family-style table covered with board games. On the right, is the check-in desk and a shop featuring products from Kathy’s Kountry store.
Right in front of the shop, stands Nancy, looking effortlessly beautiful in a fluffy white sweater and clingy black leggings. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her cheeks are pink as she laughs at whatever the Nordic beast in front of her just said.
The man is easily six feet seven inches, as blond as Nancy, and every bit as classically beautiful. They look like a power couple on vacation from Norway, where they run an eco-retreat for billionaires and rescue injured reindeer on the side.
They are stunning and perfect together, and I instantly vow to do whatever it takes to keep Nancy from being alone with this gorgeous piece of human garbage. Because the thought of her taking Bjorn to bed and using him as her one-night stand, sperm donor makes me want to burn down the world.
Or, at the very least, throw Nancy over my shoulder, stomp on Bjorn’s foot, and shout “Woman mine!” in a caveman voice.