Page 32 of Best Woman

The older I get, the faster time moves. Every year seems to fly by, but there are days when an hour can feel like a decade, and today is one of those days.

Maybe it’s because of how torn I am this evening: part of me is anxious about seeing my entire extended family and being seen by them for the first time in years, all at once.

The other part is just as nervous, but it’s a hot flush of anticipation and desire, wondering what might happen with Kim after the rehearsal dinner.

A drink, a few more kisses…something more?

wyd after dinner tonight? texts Ben with stunning timing as I’m lying face down in bed, procrastinating getting ready.

I think about it for a second: finally getting my hands on Kim Cameron—and more important, getting her hands on me —after dinner, and winding down with an entirely predictable fuck at Ben’s as a nightcap.

There have been many nights in my life where I’ve done something similar.

I like sex. I’m not ashamed of liking sex.

Maybe fucking two partners of two different genders on the same day would make me a bit of a stereotypically wanton bisexual, but if the size-eleven shoe fits…

It’s not that, though. Over the past few years, it’s gotten harder and harder for me to have random sex with people who don’t care if I live or die, and Ben knows me, not just my body but me . There is intimacy there, and Ben offers it easily without expecting anything more than what I can give.

The difference is that I feel like I finally have something to give, and I’d like to give it to Kim.

hopefully tiring myself out with the maid of honor ;) I write back.

nice!!!!! suppose i’ll try my luck with that sexy cousin of yours

the accountant

with the arms

If you fuck jeffrey you MUST tell me everything, it’s ALWAYS the quiet ones I reply, smiling in relief.

ok perv ;) see u tonight

Well that’s sorted, thank god. Kim already knows that Ben and I have our recurring casual encounters, but I want it to be clear tonight that I’m hers for the taking.

(I would very much like to be took. Taken?) I’m pretty confident Kim wouldn’t mind knowing I’ve hooked up with Ben this week, and if she did I’d be more disappointed in her than anything.

But thankfully that’s one interpersonal snafu I don’t have to concern me tonight, which is good because I have so many others to fret about.

My phone vibrates with a FaceTime call from Kyle, who has an uncanny ability to know when I’m freaking out. “Thank god,” I say, answering the call.

“That bad, huh?” He’s behind the bar at Tony’s, restocking wine in a Hannah G concert T-shirt and tight jeans.

I miss him and New York and my life with a sudden, fierce pang.

I groan, flopping back on the bed and propping my phone up against my folded knees.

“You have no idea.” That’s not exactly true—I’ve already filled the group chat in on the bachelorette party and the kiss with Kim, but they’re only getting the highlights, not all the uncomfortable little moments buzzing around me like gnats in August.

“I hate who I am here,” I tell him. “The moment the plane touched down I turned into this whole other person.”

“Aw, but you’re so good at that,” he says with a grin. I narrow my eyes. “Haha,” I return, wooden.

He cracks open a bottle of rosé, perspiration clear on the glass even through our phones.

“Going home sucks, I don’t know what to tell you. And weddings make everyone crazy. You’re dealing with fucked-up family dynamics dialed up to twelve right now, but this too shall pass.”

“Speaking of passing, I have to shave. My mother was eyeing my chin over lunch earlier.”

“Ah yes, how’s Dana?” Kyle and Mom have a long-distance love affair established two years ago when she was in town to visit our relatives and came into the city—begrudgingly—and took us out to dinner.

They got on like a house on fire and now every time Mom calls and Kyle is there, one of them will insist I put the other on the phone so they can talk about reality TV.

“Oh, she’s drunk on power knowing she gets to be mother of the groom all weekend. It’s put her in a great mood. She only criticized my wardrobe, hair, and skin today, didn’t even make it to my career.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” He’s sipping wine and I wish I were there, having this conversation from my usual perch at the bar, a thousand miles away from anyone I’m related to.

“No, it’s whatever, at least I got a few hideous pairs of shoes and a slice of Godiva chocolate cheesecake out of it. How are you?”

He fills me in on Tony’s, his various sexual conquests, the party River dragged him to last night—though Kyle is rarely dragged anywhere.

He likes to roll his eyes and complain, but he is far too exacting to ever do something he doesn’t want to do.

When we first met and slept together, he’d turned to me afterward and said, “You’re cute, but we’re not doing that again.

Want to help me move this weekend?” I’d helped carry his antique dresser up four flights of stairs, bitching at each other all the way, and knew almost prophetically we were going to be friends forever.

Kyle took me to my first loft party in Flatbush and showed me how to find the rhythm in a house beat, introduced me to Daytona at a Disney-themed drag show at which she’d performed Scar’s “Be Prepared” from The Lion King .

If River is my fashionable fairy godmother—godthemer?

—and Daytona my ice queen sister à la Frozen, Kyle is the Timon to my Pumbaa, the Lilo to my Stitch, the fox to my hound.

Fuck, am I becoming a Disney adult? I need to get out of Florida. Quickly.

I try to chime in, ask him questions, and engage in the conversation because I feel like all my friendships have been focused in one direction (mine) recently, but it’s hard with the big question mark of tonight looming over me. Kyle can tell.

“Cheer up, Charlie.”

“Don’t deadname me.” Charlie is not my deadname.

“You are much too glum for someone about to scissor their high school crush,” he chides.

“I think you need two vaginas for that.”

“All right, you’ll staple. Or paperclip. Or three-hole punch. There’s a whole world of office supplies out there.”

I’m laughing, and for the first time today not thinking about tonight, which is exactly why I needed to talk to Kyle. It doesn’t last, though, and the doubts creep back in. “What if it’s bad?” I can’t help but ask. “Like, maybe she’s bad at sex.”

“Does she kiss like she’s bad at sex?”

“Very much no. What if I’m bad at sex?”

“You’re not. You’re very…eager, which is why we only had sex once.” He takes a snooty sip from his glass. “I require a more aloof lover.”

“If you want to be technical about it, we had sex twice.” He looks confused. “Remember? That foursome on Fire Island?”

“Oh that barely counts, my balls were in your mouth for like, thirty seconds max . I will be generous and say we’ve had sex 1.5 times.”

We fall into a well-worn argument we’ve been having for years, and the easy bickering carries us through another few minutes before Kyle is dragged away by a customer who, it turns out, has been sitting quietly waiting to be served throughout our entire conversation.

He makes me promise to keep him updated on tonight’s events, and I end the call feeling a bit more centered, a bit more me .

I can do this. I don’t really have a choice, but I can do it anyway.