Chapter 7

It’s Sunday, 2 p.m. I’m driving. Almost home.

What a week.

It was amazing. I smile.

Still behind the wheel. Not there yet.

Ping!

Who’s that?

Text from Kari:

We miss you already, honey. Friday can’t come soon enough:)

I shouldn’t text while driving.

Me::)

I grin like a fool. Oh, Kari. Ken.

Fuck yeah.

That was the best vacation ever.

Tomorrow, it’s back to work.

Shit. One ... two ... three ... too many days until Friday.

Oh well. I’ll wait.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or is it fungus?

Both?

Brit!

Why am I thinking about Brit?

Oh yeah ... she used to be my English teacher.

Fungus! Haha. That’s funny. I heard that in a song once. Or a movie?

Ping!

Kari again?

Wait—what the...

Brit? Speak of the...

Brit: I need to talk to you. Please call me!

Needs to talk? About what?

I paid my half of the rent. I’m not giving her another cent.

Me: No.

Whatever crazy thing she wants, she can text it. Not getting sucked back into her bullshit.

Ping!

Brit: Face to face. Wayne’s Coffee. In 30 minutes. Please!!

Please? How polite.

What the hell ... might as well get it over with.

Me: OK.

Ping!

Brit::)

A smiley face? At least she’s not mad. Although Brit can totally smile and be furious at the same time.

What a shame. She’s still so hot.

Hotter than Kari? No way.

But still ... damn.

Wayne’s Coffee.

Coffee and a muffin.

I need both.

I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes early, but Brit was already there—sitting at a table outside Wayne’s Coffee, sipping from a paper cup and smoking a cigarette like she owned the sidewalk.

She looked stunning.

No surprise. She always did.

That long, golden hair—thick, layered, gleaming—spilled down her back in waves.

Bangs? That was new.

Stylish. Sexy. I liked them.

She was wearing a white tank top and tight, low-cut jeans. One strap of her white bra had slipped down her shoulder, dangling there like bait. My eyes followed the line, down to her full, pear-shaped breasts pressing gently against the soft fabric.

It was that outfit. The one that always did something to me.

My favorite.

My mind wandered. Brit’s perfect, naked tits surfaced in my memory—soft, pale, warm in my hands. And of course, I compared them to Kari’s. How could I not?

Brit’s skin was almost porcelain—cooler, softer somehow.

Kari’s tan had depth, a kind of glow, and her body had that toned resilience that comes from endless hours at the gym. She was older, yeah—but in the way that made her even more magnetic. Her breasts were firmer, too—lifted, tight, bouncing with that athletic snap.

Brit’s were different. Not lesser.

Fuller, maybe. Softer. Her areolas were larger, her nipples pink and plush—less stiff than Kari’s, but no less delicious.

Tug-worthy. Suckable. Dreamy.

In conclusion:

I love boobs. Kari’s. Brit’s.

I’m not picking favorites. They’re all divine. And I want them in my hands, my mouth, all the time.

As I reached the table, Brit looked up. She blew out a slow, heavy cloud of smoke through her nostrils—those cute, flaring nostrils that always gave away her emotions. Her eyes, those deep blue eyes, met mine—and I froze.

She looked wrecked.

There was a kind of sadness in her gaze I’d never seen before.

Heavy. Raw.

“Hi,” she said softly, stubbing out her cigarette. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure,” I said, giving her a half-smile. “You all right?”

“No.” She blinked fast, but the tears still came. “Not even close.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, shifting into concern, confusion.

“Let me buy you a cortado and a muffin,” she said, standing abruptly.

“You don’t have to—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firm but kind. “After everything I put you through, I owe you at least that.”

“All right,” I said, slowly lowering into the chair as I watched her walk away.

And thought: What the hell is going on?

This wasn’t what I expected. The outfit, the emotion, the strange softness in her voice.

Is she playing a game?

I don’t think so...

But damn—that outfit. That sway in her hips. That look in her eyes.

She’s trying to seduce me.

“I treated you like shit,” Brit said, blotting her eyes with a napkin. Her voice trembled, raw and exposed. “I was horrible to you.”

I said nothing. Her confession hung in the air like smoke, heavy and fragile. She pressed on—apologizing for not appreciating me, not loving me enough, not treating me the way I deserved. She told me how bitter and jaded she’d become after her failed marriage, how she let her rage bleed into us, onto me.

“I don’t know what to say,” I replied at last, giving her a small, awkward smile. “I appreciate your honesty. And ... I accept your apology.”

Her eyes lit up. She exhaled—like she’d been holding her breath for months. But I wasn’t done.

I looked her dead in the eye. “But I haven’t changed. I’m still the same ‘gay’ guy—not good enough for your love or your company, remember?”

Passive-aggressive? Maybe. But I was tired of shrinking myself. If this moment was real, I had to meet it honestly.