Page 9 of Shifted Desire

“Was it against the rules to find out more if you hit it off with someone?”

Damn Mona and her intuition. The way she’s asking questions makes me think maybe I was the subject of one of her portentous dreams.

“Not sure if it was allowed or not. I didn’t ask.” It was definitely against my personal rules.

Even if it killed me to let that man walk out of the room knowing it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever see him again. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know it was him. It was too dark, and his mask covered too much of his face, and I’m certain he pitched his voice to sound different. I know I did.

Mona’s lips twist into a slight frown. “Would you want to see anyone you met again?”

I shrug. “I’m not looking for anything serious. Sorry to disappoint.”

She nods, but I can tell she’s not saying something. I want to ask what that is, but that would open me up to questions about my love life that I absolutely don’t want to discuss with two people that are head over heels with each other.

“So, anyone want to bet on how long it takes Claire to spill that she’s pregnant?” I ask, pushing the conversation away from me.

“Claire’s pregnant?!” Mona exclaims, eyes wide.

“Shit, Sam, we weren’t supposed to tell anyone!” Max grumbles.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t tell me! We should’ve gotten her something. Or at least not brought her favorite wine,” Mona argues.

Perfect. With the focus off me, I can stop with all these annoying thoughts about the man from last night and how jealous I am of the couple in the car with me and their happiness that I wish I didn’t crave.

4

No amount of concealer can disguise the bags under my eyes, try as I might to make myself presentable in the harsh light rimming the bathroom mirror. Whoever lived in this place before me must’ve been a makeup artist or something, because it’s like backstage theater levels of brightness, which isn’t helping the throbbing at my temples at all.

I lean forward over the sink, scowling, as if my being angry about my haggard appearance will make it better. But there’s no disguising my sleepless night, or the years of increasing fatigue that’ve preceded it.

I thought getting laid might smoothe out some of the ragged edges, but that was before I realized the woman I fucked reminded me of my best friend’s wife, and I spent the rest of the night lying in bed trying to figure out how I’m going to face them tomorrow.

I’ve never wanted to be with Elle. At least not after I got over the initial wave of sexual magnetism that comes from her being a succubus. Sure, I wondered what sex with a succubus is like. Who wouldn’t? But those thoughts never were about Elle specifically.

I love Shane and Elle more than my family, even if I don’t see them more than once a year, but I don’t want to be with them romantically. I want my own version of what they have.

But now when I close my eyes, I see a weird mixture of the woman on her knees from last night and my best friend’s wife, and I’m wondering if maybe I’ve been wrong about my desires. Oblivious to what’s been right in front of me for decades.

As I brush my teeth, I try to play through what it would be like to be intimate with the pair. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that they’d come as a package deal.

Shane is bisexual, and while in my youth I claimed to be “100% straight,” that’s blurred some for me over the years. When I imagine kissing him, and feeling him hold me in any way other than a platonic hug, it does nothing for me. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s also not anything close to sexual desire.

I imagine Shane watching me as I kiss Elle, and to my relief, there’s not even a dick twitch.

I even let myself picture Elle on her knees for me like the woman was for Declan last night, and while I’m sure she’d be good at it, I still don’t get excited.

The thought experiments help calm my nerves, but I’m still going to feel awkward as hell when I see them. Especially since Elle will sense any whisper of sexual interest toward her.

I mentally bounce between addressing it head on, making a joke of it, or pretending nothing is different on the drive over to their house, cursing when I realize I left the bottle of wine I’d bought for our reunion dinner back on the kitchen counter.

Great, now I have to see them for the first time in almost a year empty-handed, looking like a ghoul, and worried I’ll imagine Elle naked the moment I see her.

With nothing to do but face the discomfort, I park in front of their adorable brownstone and do one last check of my appearance in the visor mirror to confirm that yes, I still look like shit.

My hands shake a little as I ring the doorbell, nerves flaring.

It’s ridiculous. I’m a sixty-three-year-old man who has spent decades honing my stoic, calm demeanor for work. People look at me, and they’re the ones that get nervous.

But standing here on my friends’ threshold, I’m transported back to the version of myself that was young and hopeful and not crushed by a life of locking everything away to be what’s expected of me. The version of me who laughed louder than anyone else in the room. Who made friends just with a smile. Who had dreams and fears, and wasn’t afraid to share them with the people he was close to.