My Best Friend's Ex(8)By: Quinn & Meghan Quinn
No, it wouldn’t be the first time. Ohhh, Emma and Logan sitting in a tree, right? No. Well, sort of, but no.
We went out for drinks after our first year semester finals and ended up getting wasted, a little too wasted. Since his place is walking distance from the bars, we crashed in his bed, the top bunk. We made out for quite some time, fondled each other but then passed out due to intoxication. I woke up that morning with his flaccid penis in my hand and his bottom lip stuck to my nipple.
Not my best night, or best morning for that matter. After an extremely awkward morning, we came to the conclusion such copious amounts of liquid should never be consumed together because we didn’t want to ruin the friendship we had. We’ve made out on different occasions after that—what can I say? He’s a great kisser—but never took it any further. Nothing is quite like waking up with a limp penis in hand to ruin any romantic vibes. This past year though, strictly platonic, just the way I like it with my Logan.
Turning toward Logan, I say, “As much fun as it was sharing a tiny bed with you on top of crusty sheets—”
“They were not fucking crusty. Retract that statement. I don’t want people thinking I’m some jizzing asshole who never changes his sheets. Fuck me if I don’t use fabric softener. I think it’s a waste of money.”
A laugh pops out of me. He can be so damn sensitive sometimes. “Anyway, you have one bathroom between all six of you. It would never work.”
“We can fit you in the shower schedule. How do you feel about midnight showers?”
“Not favorable.” I laugh and take another sip of my drink, welcoming the burn of the alcohol down the back of my throat.
“Hey, Emma,” Adalyn whispers, leaning forward and looking over my shoulder.
“What?” I mimic her approach.
She nods behind me. “That guy over there keeps staring at you.”
Lifting up, both Logan and I say at the same time, “What guy?”
“Don’t look . . . ugh,” Adalyn groans when we both turn to see who she’s talking about.
Sitting in the corner of the bar, a short glass of what I know is whiskey in front of him, his shoulders slouched, but his gaze fixed on me, is the one and only hometown heartbreaker from where I grew up: Tucker Jameson.
When we make eye contact, his head tilts to the side and he smirks. Right there, that look—a slight smolder in his eyes, the broad set of his shoulders, muscles in his chest no man his age should have, and the scruff that lines his strong jaw—that is the look that broke many hearts.
Two years older than me, he was in a tumultuous relationship with one of my best friends, Sadie. For years they were on again, off again, pushing each other’s buttons until it all fell apart. It caused a ripple in our little inner circle as we were forced to choose sides. I was never a fan of their relationship, knowing the kind of strain it put on both of them, but once it was over, I focused my attention on my best friend. It took time and patience, but she needed to move on with her life.
I can still see the hollow look in Sadie’s eyes after she lost the baby, after she dropped out of Cornell University to be a mom. Life as she knew it was flipped upside down and then taken away from her. Smilly, our other best friend, had to pick up the pieces and luckily, we didn’t have to glue her back together, Andrew, her boyfriend, did that.
I grew up in a small town, a town where everyone knew everyone. There were ninety-five kids in my graduating class, so small is an understatement. But with a small town, comes strong bonds. To this day, four years after we went our separate ways from high school, we still get together during the summer and hang out, party, reminisce on all the good times, and create some new ones too. But this last year, Tucker was MIA and now that he’s only a few feet away, I can’t help but think about what he’s been doing all these months. Has he recovered from his relationship with Sadie?
Guilt consumes me as the back of my neck starts to flame from my neglect. Should I have offered more support to Tucker?
“Do you know him?” Logan asks, whispering next to my ear.
I nod. “I do.” I pick up my glass and hop off my bar stool. “I grew up with him.”