He swallows with some effort. “Your loss.”
And now she really is irreparably stretching the Italian-cotton blend material, but for once, proper garment care doesn’t seem to be on his mind.
The boxers join the pile on the floor. If Josh feels embarrassed or awkward about being the naked one, he doesn’t show it. Under normal circumstances, she’d have no problem dispensing with her dress, but this isn’t exactly normal, is it?
She takes a step back, out of his reach. Without being too graceful or alluring, she rolls down her tights and underwear, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
The dress stays on.
“Bedroom?” he suggests. She can physically feel the word bedroom vibrating in her chest.
“No!” She’s almost surprised by the vehemence of her own response. They can’t do this in his bed, which is probably covered in crisp sheets with the subtle fragrance of expensive laundry detergent.
She looks around for the least romantic alternative. Couch? Too bed-adjacent. Chair? Too comfortable. Table? Her eyes land on something intriguing near the front windows.
Perfect.
It’s impossible to catch feelings on a Bowflex.
“Here,” she says, leading him over to the angled bench and pushing him down.
Josh glances at the five-way hand grips and lat straps. “Are you planning to torture me or something?”
“You should’ve bought the carabiners.” She turns her back to him, letting her calves press against the ripped black vinyl upholstery. Maybe they don’t need to look at each other at all. “Reverse cowgirl?” There’s a whiff of desperation in her voice.
“Ari.” Her name sounds different now when he says it—like things have already been altered on a molecular level. “Turn around? Let’s just…keep it simple.”
Turning around isn’t simple. Looking at each other isn’t simple. Nothing about this is simple. How does he not see that? They’re supposed to be ripping into each other. Releasing three months’ worth of pent-up sexual tension. Not gazing.
“It’s my favorite position,” she says, facing away from him.
“There’s no way that’s true.”
“It is,” she insists. “You’re saying you don’t want to look at my ass?”
“Later.” Even without seeing his expression, the depth of his voice makes her anxiety flare. Why is he promising a later? This is only ever going to be a now. “You’re skipping past some of the good parts.”
Except one person’s good parts can be someone else’s minefield.
A bit of motion draws her attention to the window—a dusting of snow pelting the glass.
“Look,” she says, standing up and walking in front of the north-facing window, possibly out of desperation to change the vibe. “It’s snowing.” She exhales and draws back the curtain and watches thick white clumps stream down from the sky in efficient diagonal lines. It’s like an establishing shot for a holiday episode of Friends.
She doesn’t mean for him to follow her but five seconds later his warm body brushes up behind her, but cautiously, like a zookeeper approaching a skittish animal.
They’re reflected in the windowpane, juxtaposed against the snowy scene outside. They could be a picture of any kind of couple: a one-night stand, friends with benefits, newlyweds, exes about to backslide. A dozen emotionally devastating scenarios unfurl in her mind.
“Is this okay?” he asks, grazing her arm with his knuckles so lightly, it raises goosebumps on her skin. Is it? What purpose is it serving besides digging this confusing hole even deeper?
Elsewhere in Manhattan, thousands of people are lying in bed with their partners, switching off lights, reading, cuddling, ignoring each other, having sex. Their hearts aren’t racing. Their mouths aren’t dry. They’re taking comfort in sharing a bed, not stacking up layers of anxiety like people playing a game of Speed.
A little montage of their friendship plays out in her mind’s eye, like an “In Memoriam” segment at an awards show. Is she really going to call him up on Wednesday night to watch a Kevin James movie after this? No. Half the city will be tainted with “walking around with Josh memories” when this goes awry.
“You don’t have to do all that. We’re just”—she glances down at her arm, swallowing hard—“getting it out of our systems.”
Josh stills his hand. “Are we?” He stares at their reflection, finding a way to indirectly look in her eyes even though she’s not facing him.