Page 1 of Infidelity Rules

“Do you want to be the one who loves the most or the least in a relationship?” I ask my best friend Dezi as I nibble on a hunk of richly veined blue cheese from our shared charcuterie plate.

“That’s a doozy of a question, Quinn,” she says, turning her barstool toward me. “But I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you can control. It simply is what it is. You can’t control how much you love or who you love.”

Watch me.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and we snagged bar seats at Facci, a buzzy neighborhood Italian restaurant. We’re either indulging in a late brunch a’la the hangover crowd or a grandma-early happy hour, depending on how you look at it.

“But which would you prefer? If you could choose?” I persist, taking a sip of my crisp vermentino.

I watch Dezi frown as I top a fresh fig with a swoosh of goat cheese so supremely funky I know I’ll dream about it later.

“Here,” I say, handing her the fig and cheese flavor bomb. “While you’re thinking, some magic for your mouth.”

“The one who loves the most, definitely,” she says, setting the fig on her plate. “No question. Isn’t that the whole point of falling in love? To really lose yourself?”

I stare at her plate.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?”

Dezi rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m going to eat that. And you never change. It’s always about the food.”

“Come on now.” I give her the wonky eye. “It’s not all about the food.”

“Sorry, I left out the wine,” she says, shaking her head. “Forgive me. It’s about the food and the wine.”

“What else is there, really?” I squeeze fresh lemon juice over a ribbon of prosciutto.

“Well, considering you pretty much drink wine for a living, I get it. But friends, perhaps? Family? Love? Career? Designer shoes?” She crosses her legs, looking pointedly at her feet, clad in the palest of pink leather stilettos, a wisp of a strap magically keeping them in place.

I smile. “Yes, your shoes are gorgeous. And yes to everything you just said. Except for the love part. And honestly, I’m not so sure about the shoe part either.”

Dezi cocks her head and trains her vivid blue eyes on mine.

Uh oh. I know that look. She’s in therapist mode.

“Now, if we were the same shoe size and I could raid your closet, I might feel differently,” I say, aiming to distract and redirect.

Although I do wish we were the same size as her closet is a dream—arranged by color, organized by season and large enough to fit a velvet, lip-shaped loveseat.

Her closet oozes chic. I bet if I rolled around on the sumptuous carpet for five minutes, some of it would rub off on me.

But alas, we are opposites. Dezi is tiny — barely hitting the five-foot mark — with jewel-blue eyes and a pale blonde pixie haircut.

She is utterly adorable, like a doll, which belies her scary smarts and unnerving insight.

She also dresses as her stylish closet suggests, on trend and sporting sky-high heels, nipped-in waists and all the appropriate accessories.

I, on the other hand, am six-foot-tall in bare feet and have dark, wavy red hair that tumbles down my back and refuses to be tamed.

My eyes are as green as hers are blue, and my legs are long enough to render pant shopping a giant pain in my ass.

I try to channel Dezi’s sense of fashion when I dress for work—as a restaurant sommelier—but otherwise, it’s stretchy clothes and no bra for me all the way.

“Quinn, don’t you ever want to fall in love again? To really connect with somebody?” Dezi asks, looking at me over the rim of her wineglass.

Here we go.

“No.” I shake my head and signal the bartender for a refill on my water. I have to be at Persimmon this evening for my shift, so it’s a one drink limit today. “I like my flings. Nothing but freedom and great sex. Love just gets in the way.”

I avoid Dezi’s gaze and instead eye the baskets of oil-slicked focaccia parading out of the kitchen. The bartender must have sensed my longing as a stack of the warm, freshly salted bread appears before us almost instantly. Cha-ching, his tip just soared.

“You know,” Dezi says, folding her cocktail napkin into a tiny fan. “You can have both of those things and still have a genuine relationship. It doesn’t have to end up like it did with your exes.”

I sigh. I know she’s probably right. Dezi is not only my closest friend, but she’s also a sex therapist and psychology professor at George Washington University. She likely knows me better than I know myself.

She was there to help keep me afloat when Liam, my fiancé, abruptly discarded me two days before our wedding.

At my bachelorette party, no less. And then later, when I divorced after stupidly marrying a different man out of friendship, not love.

I had married Chris because he was safe, not because I couldn’t fathom a life without him.

Both relationships were doomed because somebody loved more, way more.

To this day, I honestly don’t know what’s more agonizing, enduring your own heartbreak or causing someone else’s.

But I vow to never be in either position again.

“Zero commitment works for me, Dezi. I can’t get serious again. I don’t know how to pick men for the long haul,” I say, biting into a rosemary studded pillow of focaccia. “That and I love my career. I don’t want to make time for a commitment.”

“Quinn, it’s your life,” she says, her blue eyes sweeping over my face. “But I worry about you.”

“Well, I’m worried about whether I can last the entire evening at the restaurant tonight in these godforsaken Spanx.” I squirm in my barstool, trying to release the Lycra pinching at my waist. “One more blob of cheese and I won’t be able to breathe.”

Dezi rolls her eyes. “Go yank them off. Why are you wearing those horrible things anyway? You’re gorgeous without them.”

I can feel the heat of a blush creep along my jawline and bloom over my cheeks. I want to free my parts, badly. But I also want my ass to look terrific tonight, equally badly.

“Are you blushing?” Dezi asks, smirking. “Spill it, Quinn.”

“Okay, okay,” I grumble, pushing the charcuterie board toward her. “Eat some of this, will you? Before I take it down myself.”

“Quit stalling.”

“I have a whopping crush on a man I’ve never met, never spoken to, and who probably doesn’t even know I exist.”

“A love interest, perhaps?” she says, a smile teasing her lips.

“Nice try. A fling interest. A three-months-of-mind-blowing-sex interest.”

“And where do the humongous undies fit in here?” she asks, biting into a fig.

“I keep seeing him at Persimmon, but we’ve never met. And I’m hoping to run into him tonight.”

“Ahhhhh. You want to look hot so you can snag this mystery man,” she says, still smirking at me.

“That’s the idea.” I drain the last of my wine. “I need to capture his attention somehow.”

“And you hope your ass will do the trick?”

“I figured it’s worth a shot. What do I have to lose?”

Dezi laughs. “You’re a woman on a mission. And you certainly wouldn’t be the first.”

“How do I look?” I run my fingers through my tangle of waves and smooth down my pencil skirt. “I have to get to the restaurant soon.”

“You’re lovely my friend, as always,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I hope you run into him, but be careful what you wish for.”

I nod. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

“I hope he’s single,” she says, pinning me with that blue-eyed gaze.

I hope he’s married.