Friends don’t sit on each other’s laps, either, but for once I don’t say what I think, even though this is one time I definitely should.
one
June 1988
My obituary will read, “Randall Hamilton was a loving son, brother, and friend. He died a slow, agonizing death due to Wendy O’Halloran’s indifference to his charms.”
Currently, the woman in question is lying on her couch, her head in my lap, chattering about one of her PR clients who has been more than a handful. However, I’m paying more attention to my fingers sliding through her long, silky, red hair than to what she’s saying.
It’s weird to have a close, platonic female friend. I’ve never had one before. It turns out I like having a woman to talk to without romantic complications—someone who can help me put my life into perspective. But the more time I spend with Wendy, the more I want to crush her to me and find out how her lips would feel against mine. She seems perfectly content not to kiss me, though, so I’ve kept myself in check. I respect her and value her friendship too much to try to take this to a level she doesn’t seem to want. Cuddles and conversation are what we agreed to, and I’m going to stick to that, no matter how difficult it may be and how idiotic that idea was in the first place.
When I truly think about it, I’m not sure I’m ready for another relationship so soon after Colleen, anyway. And if I ever do take things to the next level with Wendy, it will be for a real relationship, not a friends-with-benefits situation. Wendy deserves better than that. In fact, she needs a man who’s much better than me, so I should put any notions of a potential relationship with her out of my head right now.
“Randall?” Wendy pokes my leg.
I snap to attention. “Hmm?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yep.” I nod to emphasize my semi-lie, even though she’s lying on her side and not looking at me.
“What did I just say?”
“You were telling me all about Pamela Sanders and how she’s driving you bananas.”
“But what exactly was I saying about Pamela?”
Wendy rolls onto her back so she can look up at me. I brush some hair out of her face as I gaze down into her emerald eyes.
“You were saying she’s going to marry her German Shepherd while juggling knives and roller skating around Buckingham Fountain. Which sounds like an amazing PR opportunity to me, though you might want to steer clear of the flying knives.” I grin at her.
“Well, I tried to convince her to juggle puppies instead, but she simply wouldn’t listen.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I say. “It’s all fun and games until a puppy gets a finger to the eye.”
“Or worse,” she adds.
I chuckle. “I’m not sure I want to know what’s running through your mind right now.”
She smiles, but then a confused look crosses her face. “I should be mad you weren’t paying attention.”
“But you’re not?” I’m running my fingers through her hair again.
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t focused on you.” Actually, Iwasfocused on her, but not in a way I want to tell her about.
“You have good reason not to be.” She sits up.
“Hey.” I take her by the shoulders to try to move her back where she was. “Come back here. I’ll pay attention now. Scout’s honor.”
“No.” She removes my hands. “It’s not you. I promise. I’ve been rambling way too long. I should let you get home. Ash is probably wondering where you are.”
My brother, who moved in with me a few weeks ago, couldn’t care less where I am. “He and Leslie are out tonight. He won’t be in until late, if at all.”
“Still,” she says, “I’ve kept you here way too long. You were the one who came over to talk, and I’ve monopolized the conversation. Will you be okay? Do we need to talk about Colleen any more?”
I ran into my ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend—my former friend—when I was picking up takeout on my way home from work. I drove home in a daze, parked my car in the garage, and decided I didn’t want to head up to my empty apartment. Instead, I walked to Wendy’s and shared my food with her, and then we ended up talking on the couch together, like always.
