Happy almost Valentine’s Day! If you follow us on Instagram, you’ve seen us hinting about this little story, and we’re so excited to bring it to you in full today. When we were approached by K-Y, the #1 brand in lubricants*, about this collab, we were sort of blown away by what a natural fit it was.
Romance as a genre is about joy and helping women advocate for their own pleasure and needs, and one aspect of that is comfort and satisfaction. And as writers who started out in fanfiction, we love nothing more than a prompt. Enter: K-Y Yours & Mine. By weaving the couples lube into a playful romantic storyline, we were able to hit all the normal romance beats, while also including the real-life details that don’t always make it to the page. Our goal was to help normalize the use of a lubricant in a way that feels honest, real, and incredibly sexy. Add in one of our favorite tropes—friends to lovers—and the words just started flowing.
Thank you to everyone who reads and to K-Y Yours & Mine for understanding the power of the romance genre, and trusting us to play in their sandbox a little. We had the most fun.
And now . . . Hugo and Sabrina!
THE HOMECOMING
A short story by Christina Lauren
“I don’t understand,” I say, inspecting a giant avocado before dropping it into a produce bag. “Why would we go to the actual event? Except for Hugo, we already all see each other almost every month. I want to hang with you guys, not a bunch of people I didn’t even like when we were in school.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and as it prolongs, I squint into the distance, trying to decipher whether Rachel is agreeing with me, or exasperated.
A long sigh, and then: “Because the event, Rina—you know, our ten-year reunion?—is why he’s flying from Boston in the first place.”
Exasperated, then.
“You’re saying wallflower Hugo Valentine, the guy we had to bully into going to his own birthday party, is insisting on attending an organized social event?” I ask.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I thought we were just using the timing as an excuse to finally get together in California. I mean, the last time we tried to arrange a group trip, the world was hit with a global pandemic.”
“Fair.” Rachel laughs dryly. “Come on, Rina. Let’s just go for a little bit. I already bought a dress.”
In front of a perfectly stacked pyramid of red onions, I pause, closing my eyes to imagine the event: a cluster of near-thirty-year-olds milling about the Luskin Conference Center, watered-down drinks in hand, making polite small talk and ignoring all of the conversational bear traps about how our lives have not exactly turned out the way we expected them to.
Well, unless you’re Hugo, I guess.
The six of us—Rachel, Rose, Nate, Jack, Hugo, and I—met freshmen year at UCLA on the 8th floor of Dykstra Hall, or Dyks 8 as we would come to call it. Our little gang would meet at midnight in the 8th floor lounge and commiserate over our crappy roommate luck while devouring whatever snacks we could scrape together. Jack, a New York transplant, was unfortunately paired up with Sex-Sock-Sam. Nate, who moved only about fifty miles north from Laguna Beach had roomed with Don’t-Touch-My-Stuff-Davon. Hugo’s freshman roommate was studying opera and would make the walls shake every night at eight as he ran through scales in their room. As for me? Well, my roommate, Willa had no problem masturbating nightly with me only ten feet away in my own bed. Only Rose and Rachel were the lucky ones: they went from freshmen roommates to best friends to lovers, and now wives.
We joked that we had trauma bonded, but in truth we’d just bonded bonded.
Rose was quick-witted and hilarious; Rachel was grounded and calm. Nate was the mom—always texting the group to remind us about campus events, birthdays, and basically everything we’d pretend to remember on our own. Hugo was the brain we’d all turn to for advice and answers; Jack was the blender-brained hot dummy whose sexual exploits with co-eds gave us endless entertainment. And me? Sabrina Eleanora Moody? I guess I was the person who loved each one of them for exactly who they were.
“I want to rubberneck,” Rachel admits, finally, and now she really has my attention. Rubbernecking is my favorite sport, and she knows it.
I, too, am curious what kind of adult Sex Sock Sam has become, and whether Davon has softened or whether he would still be an absolute asshole about who touched his orange juice or toothpaste or hand soap. I want to know whether Opera Samir ever hit the big time, and whether I’ll be able to read Wanking Willa’s expression to know if she knew that I knew what she’d been doing every night. Did Hot RA Kyle, who banged a different female every night of the week, ever settle down? Who got married? Who divorced? Who got hot and who isn’t anymore?
Damnit, this reunion could actually be fun.
“You can still RSVP,” Rachel says into my pensive silence, reading me like a book.
“Okay, fine.”
She laughs. “See you Friday.”
The call ends, and as I tuck my phone back into my tote bag, for just a beat, my heart squeezes so tight at the thought of us all being back together that I briefly lose my breath. We’d tried a few times to get together over the past ten years, but life—or global viruses—always seemed to get in the way. I miss the energy of our friend group so much, I try not to hope too hard for this to actually happen, for fear that the universe will intervene to cancel it all once again.
##
Texts between Sabrina Moody and Hugo Valentine
Is a hotdog a sandwich?
Technically: yes. Emotionally: absolutely not
Are you having some kind of crisis? Is there a hotline I should call?
I’m distracted at work and my mind is wandering to important questions.
Would you pack a hotdog in a lunchbox and look forward to eating it later?
Probably not
There’s your answer.
I’ve also been thinking about this reunion
While eating a hotdog?
Sadly no
Do you not want to go?
What I find odd is that you do.
You’ve never liked that kind of stuff!
It’ll be fun to see everyone
By ‘everyone’ I assume you mean your ~favorite~ roommate
(that’s me btw)
Who else would I mean?
#
After a year at UCLA, the six of us made the wise decision to move out of the dorms and into a rickety house nestled in Palms, in West LA. It was idyllic: long nights spent discussing what was the right way to experience our twenties, what success really meant versus what we’d been told it meant, and the micro-cultures of each of the dorms and departments on campus.
In the three-bedroom house, things had divided naturally: Rose and Rachel, of course in one bedroom—the smallest; Nate and Jack in another—the next largest; which left the big master suite for me and Hugo.
Surprisingly, it was never weird to share a bedroom with him. We were both neat freaks, both studied late into the night, both slept like logs, and never for one second dipped a toe into romantic territory. In hindsight, I could joke that Hugo wasn’t my type because in those days I was unwittingly drawn to the most selfish and flakiest of the male species, but given my recent dating adventures, it still seems to be true . . . so the joke wouldn’t be very funny.
Over four years of friendship, and three years as roommates, my bond with Hugo grew stronger and more effortless with time. At night, when the lights were out, one of us would invariably ask the other a question out of the black quiet: What fictional world would be the worst to live in? If you could restart college, what would you differently? How would you spend a hundred thousand dollars if you only had a week? Would you rather have perfect discipline or endless creativity? If animals could talk, which one would be the rudest?
In the stress and hustle of undergrad, Hugo became my person, my safe space. He was tall and gawkish, all elbows and nervous smiles, but had the purest heart I’d ever known. He was the one who would drive to the drug store at two in the morning to get me medicine for a urinary tract infection; he would pick my drunk ass up from a party without complaint. He helped me study for every exam. He would sit with me while I cried over whatever guy had most recently broken my heart.
At home, he would listen to our raucous banter, dropping a hilarious and incisive remark at the perfect time before going back to his gentle silence. Making Hugo laugh was an unspoken victory, even if it was only a quietly huffed exhale and a smirk. At parties, he was the guy glued to the wall, nursing a beer, checking his watch and avoiding anyone who wasn’t a roommate. We used to joke that Hugo Valentine was given the name of a lover but in fact took a fly-paper approach to dating: just waiting until someone came and stuck to him. I didn’t even need an entire hand to count the number of women he had dated in college.
Naively, I thought we would all be roommates forever in some sort of modern-day utopian commune. But the summer after graduation, one-by-one everyone moved out. Rose and Rachel found a place in Long Beach. Nate moved back to Orange County. Jack moved to Silver Lake, which was only eight miles away but took forty-five minutes for him to get back to Palms. We still got together once a week, at least for a while. But eventually, by mid-July that summer, it was just Hugo and me in the house, and then it was time for him to leave for Boston, for medical school.
I knew things would be different with him across the country, but I never expected that the day I dropped him off at LAX for his flight would be the last time in ten years that I would see my best friend.
##
Don’t worry. It’s not tragic; we didn’t have a falling out. We still text and talk almost every day—all together or in smaller groups. We try to video chat at least once a week. Like I said, the pandemic busted up our 2020 vacation plans, and other than that we were just poor twentysomethings; a casual cross-country flight was out of the question.
But there were times where I regretted not splurging to see him, just for the comfort and recharge he always brought me. We’ve all been busy, but in the past few years, Hugo finished his medical degree at Harvard, got a competitive anesthesiology residency, and then fellowship at Mass General Brigham and Women’s Hospital. He now shares an apartment with his younger sister who’s a junior at Boston College. He runs five miles every morning, takes his coffee black now but still hates celery, and reads voraciously. I still feel victorious when I can make him laugh, which is why I made him open his most recent Christmas present on Facetime: a pillow with a giant fish-eye photo of my face. I confide in him about all my great and terrible dates—like the guy who thought foreplay meant a couple of neck kisses, or the one who seemed wholly unconcerned with whether or not I enjoyed having sex with him at all and promptly fell asleep after he finished. Hugo still listens, laughs when appropriate, and reminds me that the right guy for me is still out there.
So, sure, we all change as we grow up, but it’s reassuring that Hugo is still Hugo.
It’s just that . . . seeing someone on a screen is different than seeing them in real life. In fact, the only one of us to have seen Hugo in the flesh in the past ten years is Jack. Three years ago, he flew to Boston for a conference, and they met up for dinner. When Jack returned home and we all met up for our monthly brunch at Blu Jam Café, we grilled him about the visit. Unfortunately, Jack was only able to tell us that Hugo was “doing great” and “looked good” which I guess is guy-speak for “we had dinner and hung out and I don’t know what other information you’re expecting me to share!”
What I expected, Jack, are those in-person updates you can’t ask a person about but can only surmise upon inspection: Had Hugo grown that beard he’d been threatening to try? Was he still exclusively wearing T-shirts emblazoned with dorky science memes? Was he happy? Was his smile still the best prelude to the best laugh ever, and did it seem like he was sleeping enough? Eating enough? Because I worried. Hugo had never been good at the work-life balance, and just like he had in college, Hugo seemed to be working incredibly hard—to the point of exhaustion.
But, I remind myself now, Hugo is a grown up. We’re all grown-ups. We don’t have to protect Hugo’s energy anymore, just like we no longer needed to gently explain to Jack’s revolving door of hookups that he’s a good guy with zero commitment skills, or remind Rose to take her epilepsy medication, or check in with Rachel that her mother hasn’t been a toxic asshole lately. We trust each other to say these things when and if we need to.
And we’ll get to. We’re going to be together in a matter of days. I’m so excited, I can barely contain myself.
##
Texts between Hugo Valentine and Sabrina Moody
It’s the zombie apocalypse and you must convince the community you’re important enough to keep around. Plead your case.
Hello to you too
I’m killing time between rounds. Entertain me.
Okay, well. I make a great chicken stock
Your answer is chicken stock?
You’re an actual physician! This feels like an unfair comparison
You have an important job too, Rina.
You help people make transportation more efficient and less harmful to the environment.
Yes. All very important during a zombie apocalypse…
Chicken stock it is.
People might still get the flu 😂
##
As a sustainable transportation specialist—honestly, the stupidest job to pursue in the concrete sprawl of Los Angeles, but here I am, forever idealistic—I am required to mentally integrate a truly scary amount of data. This includes traffic patterns, emissions reports, rideshare usage, utility and municipality maps, all of which I must then somehow mesh with government policy and community input. Truly, it’s neural nonsense on an average day, but by the time Reunion Friday rolls around, I’m utterly useless.
I’d planned to work a half-day, but when my brain starts spinning in the hamster wheel of outfit options, something I really should have considered earlier, I end up leaving at ten, impulsively heading to my favorite local boutique to pick up a new dress for tonight. Unfortunately, the little pink mini that seemed adorable and flirty in the dressing room looks somehow both twee and slutty at home, which means I’ll most likely end up returning it and wearing my trusty LBD anyway.
Hugo’s plane is supposed to land at three, and given that I’m just north of the airport, Nate volunteered me to pick him up and meet everyone for some pre-gaming at The Wellesbourne. But at one, when I’m attempting to not bald myself with my heated round brush, my phone vibrates on the bathroom counter. Hugo’s name appears in a text preview.
Texts between Hugo Valentine and Sabrina Moody
My connection from SLC was delayed
Booooo. How long?
I land at six now, but I’ll just meet you there.
I can still get you!
No way Rina, it’ll be rush hour. Just let me Uber, I don’t want you waiting for me
I’ve waited ten years for you!
I stare down at my screen as Hugo types and then stops and then starts again. Eventually, the three dots vanish, but no reply appears for several minutes.
When my phone finally vibrates again, I glance down. After all that typing, all he’s said is,
No, seriously, I’ll just meet you there.
#
Rose and Rachel are the first ones at The Wellesbourne, holding a booth for us—which seems to go against every Los Angeles rule of waiting for your entire party to arrive before seating. But then I realize that Nate must have called and reserved us a table ahead of time.
Mother Nate. He’s a peach.
My two girlfriends stand to greet me, and when we’re done embracing, I hold them each at arm’s length to admire how they’ve put themselves together for the night. Tall and willowy, Rose is wearing a tailored pinstripe suit; her dark short hair is slicked back, and she’s got a white flower tucked behind one ear. Rose’s pale skin is typically flawless, her lips blood red, and I note that she has mastered the winged eyeliner in a way I’m sure I never will. Rachel is dressed to kill in a slinky deep cobalt dress and four-inch heels . . . bringing her petite frame up to exactly five foot four. Her natural curls frame the delicate shape of her face, her lips a glossy caramel against her deep brown skin.
A set of muscular arms come around my shoulders from behind and I hear a deep, rumbling voice: “Sabriiiiiiiina.”
Turning, I squeal and wrap Nate in a hug, squeezing. It’s been a couple of months since I’ve seen him; he couldn’t make the last two brunches due to business trips, but it feels like it’s been longer, and I don’t want to let him go.
At this rate, I’m sure to hug Hugo for a full hour.
Stepping back, I note that Nate’s gotten a haircut and also looks . . . broad. Squeezing his shoulders again, I ask, “What’s up, gym rat?”
He laughs, bending to kiss Rachel’s cheek and then Rose’s. “I gave up sugar and hit the gym.”
I wince. His mother owns a cupcake bakery. “How’s Mama Flores taking it?”
“Not well.”
Rose’s gaze lifts over my shoulder to the door, her jaw dropping slightly. We all follow her attention to see Jack walking in with a curvy redhead on his arm. My first reaction is annoyance that one of the Six-Dyks-Eight crew would bring a date to a group hang. My second reaction is shock that, of all of us, Jack is bringing a date to a group hang.
He approaches with caution. Even our clueless goofball must realize that a head’s up about this plus-one would have been good, but when I catch a view of Jack’s expression of pride when he glances at her, all my irritation melts away. I have never, not once, seen Jack look at someone this way.
“Guys,” he says, smiling. “This is Jessie.”
Rose grins. “Well. Hello Jessie.”
Jessie is not Jack’s normal type. She’s not model-thin with enormous fake boobs, not wearing a micro mini, not holding her phone for a flurry of selfies in the flattering light of the bar. She’s wearing straight-leg trousers and heeled boots, a cashmere sweater that hugs her natural curves. Her full cheeks are rosy, her auburn hair long and wavy, her smile a little nervous, but genuine, with a sweet gap between her front teeth.
Holy crap, this isn’t just a date, this is Jack’s girlfriend. We really are all growing up.
We slide into the booth and order drinks. With a new person joining us, conversation is initially a bit formal and surface-level. I mean, we can’t exactly ask Rose and Rachel for the update on their upcoming IVF or ask Nate about the latest with his father’s business partner who disappeared with half a million dollars in company funds.
But Jessie fits in perfectly, and conversation soon melts into something natural and lively. She’s funny, matching Rose’s wit, making it clear that the two of them immediately like each other. And it’s a good thing, too: Rose was always the unspoken gatekeeper. If she didn’t like someone, they stood no chance of making a regular appearance at the Six-Dyks-Eight house.
Everyone has a couple of cocktails, but I stick to club soda, my mind on the remaining person who has yet to arrive, half hoping and half worried that Hugo will call when he lands and want a ride from the airport after all.
But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t answer my texts. At seven, we pay our tab and head over to face our former peers at our ten-year college reunion.
##
There’s a delusional part of me that thinks Hugo might beat us there, but there’s no one waiting for us outside at the conference center except a woman sitting behind a table, who acts like we should recognize her. Her nametag says “Ashley Chu, 2016 USAC President,” and reading it is the first time in my life I register that UCLA had student government. She checks that our names are on the list and gives us our own nametags. Like children, Jack writes Nate’s name, and Nate writes Jack’s name, and we follow the embarrassingly thumping bass into the party.
It’s reminiscent of a high-school dance but given that I’m not sure how else one would decorate a reunion, I can’t be critical. The drinks are free, the music is solid, and I’m relieved to see that there’s plenty of seating—another bit of evidence that I’m getting older.
With drinks in hand, we find a cluster of chairs at the border of what seems to be a dancefloor but is currently just an empty square in front of the DJ setup. I glance around, wondering how many people I’ll recognize, and the immediate answer is zero, but I do register a number of women catching sight of Jack and glaring. I meet Rose’s eye, and we grin. Ah, memories.
Nate leans over me to tell Jack, “Dude, there’s Sam.”
Let the rubbernecking begin.
Without any subtlety whatsoever, we all swivel to look where he’s pointing. Sex-Sock-Sam is indeed in line at the bar and looks . . . completely normal in every way. He’s wearing a suit and sneakers. His hair is wavy, curling softly over his ears. When he smiles, his teeth are even and white. He has dimples. He’s actually. . . cute?
I exhale, staring into my drink at the realization. Am I at the place in life where I would be attracted to Sex-Sock-Sam? If I didn’t know he was Sex-Sock-Sam, would I go out with him?
Oh, God. Have I already dated a Sex-Sock-Sam of a different name? Wait—is every guy a Sex-Sock-Sam at some point in life?
I tilt my drink back, downing it to drown out this horrifying thought. Turning to find reassurance from Rachel that I would not, in fact, date a guy who used to have sex with a sock, my attention is instead caught by a figure in the double doorway leading into the room.
Tall, broad shoulders, short dark hair. He’s backlit and therefore featureless, but I know it’s Hugo, even without the details of his face. My heart does a grateful happy maneuver in my chest, swooping low, squeezing tight. A ten-year-long tension eases inside me as an internal voice whispers, He’s home.
I watch as he glances around, searching for us. The moment he spots our group, all it takes is for him to make one step into the room for my mind to melt into blankness.
##
“Jack,” I hiss.
“What?” he asks absently, stealing a mini quiche from Jessie’s plate.
“You failed to mention Hugo’s glow-up.”
Finally, he glances up. “Oh. He’s here.” He pops the bite into his mouth, speaking around it. “Yeah, I told you he was doing good.”
“Doing go–?” I cut off the rest of the word and stand with everyone else as Hugo approaches.
He’s always been tall and lean, and now that I can see his face, I know that, objectively, he doesn’t look that different to the man I last saw at the airport a decade ago and whose face I see on my phone screen weekly. But there’s something undeniably new happening here, in person. An authority in his stride. A confident squaring of his broad shoulders. A casual-hand-in-the-pocket self-assuredness.
Hugo Valentine has developed Big Dick Energy.
I would have lost that bet. But right now, I am enthralled.
I stand to the side, letting everyone else get their hugs in while I try to shake this weird lightheadedness. Is it because I slammed my drink? Is it because my trusty little black dress is just a smidge too tight?
Or is it . . . him?
The blood drains from my face, and as he turns to me, taking a step closer so that we can hug, I feel the way I’m shaking in his arms. Holy shit, he smells incredible.
“You okay?” he asks. His voice . . . has it always been this smooth and deep?
Absently, I nod, pressing my cheek to his chest. “Just excited to see you.”
“Same,” he says, a quiet rumble against the top of my head. “God, it’s been too long, Rina.”
The hug lasts longer than any of his other greetings, but no one seems to think much of it. In the breakdown of our even-numbered crew, Hugo was always mine—my partner for game night, my teammate for trivia, my roommate by default elimination—and I knew that because of this, we were closer to each other than anyone else. But this hug feels different, loaded. It feels like seeing family, but not quite. It feels like seeing a lover, but not quite that, either. The only thing I can think is that I didn’t realize until just now how much I needed to see him and only him.
The spell is broken when Nate claps Hugo’s shoulder and he slowly lets me go. “Let’s get you a drink.”
Hugo steps back and smiles down at me as he speaks to Nate. “Sure. Let’s.”
The three guys head over to the bar, leaving me, Jessie, Rose, and Rachel to watch them leave.
“Is it me or does Hugo seem . . . different?” I ask, nearly unable to blink.
“It has been ten years,” Rachel reminds me.
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, well, well. Would you look at Sabrina Moody,” Rose says, smirking. “Finally noticing Hugo Valentine.”
I frown at this, dragging my attention away from the back of his broad broad shoulders. “What does that mean? Hugo is my best friend. Of course I notice him.”
“Yes, but you’re noticing noticing him. Like, horny noticing him.”
“Rose, what—?”
She cuts me off, tilting her head toward Rachel’s and murmuring, “Is it really happening?”
Rachel giddily curls her hands into her chest. “Maybe?”
I lean in, catching their attention. “Hello? Are you two really having this conversation as if I’m not standing right here? What are you even talking about?”
“Yes,” Jessie says, leaning in. “Fill me in. This sounds good.”
Rachel turns to her, dark eyes alight. “Hugo has carried a torch for Sabrina for years.”
“He—what?” I ask, feeling my skin flush. Hugo? I shake my head, laughing. “You’re totally misunder—”
“It sounds weird if you say it like that,” Rose interjects to Rachel, ignoring me. She angles to Jessie explaining, “Freshman year he was down bad. But he was such a goob, and she was—” She cuts off to gesture to me.
“Ah, yes,” Jessie says, nodding.
“Stunning,” Rachel says, shaking her head with a grin. “He friend-zoned himself, preemptively.”
I hold up my hands. “Guys, what the f—”
“And then they were roommates,” Rose continues over me, “and so Hugo really had to . . .”
Rachel finishes the sentence for her wife: “Bury it.”
“Right.” Rose lifts her drink, taking a small sip. “And God, their friendship was so sweet. You should see their flirty texts.”
“’Flirty?’” I ask. “We don’t flirt.”
“And then he left for medical school, and stayed on the east coast,” Rachel explains, ignoring me completely.
“Well,” Rose says, “I thought he might say something when we planned to get together in 2020 but …”
Jessie nods in understanding. “The year of cancelled plans.”
“Exactly. And then tonight,” Rachel rolls on, gesturing to the bar, “he shows up looking like that, and maybe he won’t have to say something. Maybe it’ll just happen.”
Everyone turns their attention back to where the three men stand in line, now at the front and ordering. As if he can feel our attention, Hugo turns to look over his shoulder at us. Catching my eye, his face breaks out into the most breathtaking smile.
“Oh, shit,” I say on an exhale.
Beside me, Rachel claps.
“I don’t think you’re right about the history here,” I say absently, still watching as Hugo turns back to the bartender to order. “But I admit he looks . . .”
“Good,” Rose says, nodding. “Hot? Completely and absolutely bangable? And that’s coming from someone who is one-hundred percent gay.”
I reach up, pressing my hands to my face. I feel suddenly uncomfortably hot, mildly tipsy, and can now confirm that this dress is definitely too tight. “I need to get some air.”
On unsteady legs, and with my friends’ amused laughter trailing in my wake, I make my way to the exit and out the front doors of the conference center, sucking in a deep breath. It’s a warm night, mid-May, and the air smells like blooming jacarandas, which makes me oddly nostalgic given that I live here, but it’s a specific nostalgia for Hugo.
I tilt my face to the sky, trying to sort my thoughts into order.
The thing about this reaction is that it’s dangerous. Hugo is the kind of friend that will be in my life for the entirety of my days on this planet. No matter what I do, he will be there. If I lost my job, he’d want to help me. If I were sad, he’d do anything to make me feel better. If my heart was broken, he’d know what to say to make me feel whole again.
That is the perfect friendship, and the only way to break it is to try to make it into more.
But maybe Rose and Rachel are right, and it’s been more for him all along.
Has it been more for me?
I move to a bench, putting my heads in my hands as our past reels out before me. Hugo never, to my knowledge, pursued another woman in college—the fly-paper joke might have been misguided all along. He always got me a bouquet of my favorite flowers—hydrangeas—for my birthday. He made my favorite dinner—his mom’s Bolognese—whenever I was studying for a big exam. He was my designated driver whenever I went to a party. As a roommate, he was respectful and appropriate; as a friend he was fully present. He asked me questions every night of the three years that we shared that bedroom, our twin beds on opposite sides of the wide space, each beneath a window with a jacaranda outside. And he didn’t just ask questions, he listened to my answers. He cared, he was curious, he remembered.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.
Until tonight, I never saw him in that way.
But it’s been ten years. Did I miss my chance?
##
I open my phone, scrolling back through months and months of texts between me and Hugo. Stopping at a random flurry of texts from December of last year.
Texts between Hugo Valentine and Sabrina Moody
I miss you
I miss you too
Was this brought on by something specific or am I just generally great?
Both
But I had a bad night
Are you ok?
Yeah. I just. Had a baddate
Andmaaaaybe a glass of wine
(or three)
after he left
But you’re ok? I’m at the hospital but I can call if you give me a minute
Noooo
You’re sweet but I’m ok
Cross my heart
Hey question, do we still talk about sex?
Is that a think we can do
Never stopped us before.
And I mean as friend Hugo. Not Dr Hugo.
Omg do people call you Dr. Hugo???
That’s so hot
It’s usually Dr. Valentine
Tell me what’s going on
Ok this guy. Let’s call him Aaron
No wait that’s his real name
IGNORE BUTTON
Let’s call him TODD
Its like it was his first night with hands
and a 🍆
and it was so fast and I was like just nottt ready
iykwim
You mean there wasn’t any foreplay?
You know that’s not ok right?
Bodies need time to prepare for intercourse, and sometimes they need help
It’s completely normal
I would make sure you were ready
Rina?
Rina??
;LKASHDG;LKAHGALKADDDDDDDD
JKFSLD:SJFJSDL:FSJSD:JFSSKREUREIEIII
777777877777777777777777777777
I’m not kidding, Sabrina.
No srry
I fell asleep on my phone
With my face
And drooled
gross
Hug I’m really tired
Call me when you wake up?
Ok
You promise?
Promise
Ily friend
I love you too, Sabrina
###
“What are you doing out here?” A deep voice asks from behind me. “Are you avoiding me?”
I shove my phone into my purse, turning to face him, and feeling hit all over again with a proverbial hammer. My attraction to Hugo is immediate and undeniable.
His smile tells me he’s joking; he knows I would never avoid him. But there’s something else there, something guarded behind his hazel eyes.
“I needed some fresh air.”
He nods. “It’s warm in there.” I watch him tilt his face up, taking a deep breath. “I forgot how much I love this time of year here.”
“It’s pretty great,” I agree, lamely.
Hugo’s gaze returns to mine and in the silence, energy hums between us. We text all the time. We talk all the time. So why does it suddenly feel so awkward?
Literal crickets chirp in the quiet, but Hugo doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to speak. He just gazes at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m a warm cup of tea and he’s settled down with me by a crackling fire. I’m being savored.
“Do you want to go back inside?” he asks, finally. “Do you want to dance with me?”
This breaks the tension, and I laugh. “Dance?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his drink to his lips, takes a sip. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s what happens when people move rhythmically to music.”
“You, Hugo Valentine, are asking me to dance? On an empty dance floor? In front of other people?”
He looks around playfully, in a Sure, why not expression. “It’s not totally empty now. There are a few people cutting a rug in there.”
“Who even are you?” I ask, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance. And did you just use the phrase cut a rug?”
Hugo reaches out and takes my hand. “Come on.”
##
To my immense relief, a slow song is playing when we walk back in. Not only because it means I can touch him—a definite perk, of course—but because I really cannot imagine anything more awkward than getting down on the dance floor with Hugo.
He pulls me close, sending a strong arm around my waist and linking his other hand with mine before curling it into his chest. I can’t help the way I melt into him in relief and comfort and hunger. How on earth did we stay on opposite ends of the country for so long?
I get a peek of our friends as we move—all of them having turned their chairs to face us—but my senses are so entirely full of what’s happening between me and Hugo that it’s easy to ignore their gawking.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, pulling away slightly to meet my eyes.
Absolutely not, my brain screams.
“Of course,” I say. “Why?”
“You’re usually a chatterbox.”
I pull my lips between my teeth, feeling the words rise up, holding them back until I can’t. “Can I ask you something weird? And if the answer is no, can you promise that we can go back to who we’ve always been?”
Hugo stops moving, his dark brows pulling together. “Yes, of course.”
“Did you have a crush on me? In college?”
His expression clears and he huffs out a small laugh. “A crush? No.”
Mortification sends ice into my veins, and I pull myself back into his arms, pressing my face to his chest and coax us to start moving again. Rose and Rachel are going to get an earful. “Okay. Delete the last thirty seconds from the hard drive. Remember, you promised we could go back to who we were before I asked you that.”
Hugo laughs, and it rumbles from his chest and against my cheek. “It wasn’t a crush, Rina. You were it for me. I was madly in love with you.”
Heat streaks through my limbs and I lift my gaze to his. “‘Was?’”
A half smile curves his lips. “Well—yeah. I mean it’s been ten years since I’ve seen you.”
“No, I know, I mean—”
“I had to live,” he says with a shrug. “I dated. I moved on. I didn’t expect it to happen for us. Ever.”
“No, of course, I mean, I didn’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t know—”
“Sabrina.” Hugo stills, reaching a hand up and gently cupping my neck. “Did you just figure it out?”
“I . . . yeah, I had no idea. Rose and Rachel said—when I saw you—” I flounder, taking a deep breath to try again. “Until tonight, I didn’t know that you’d felt that way. You never said anything, and I didn’t see you like that. You seemed young. Like someone I needed to protect, a little bit.”
His smile turns wry. “The curse of the late bloomer.”
“You don’t seem like that person anymore.”
Hugo laughs again, a tiny, amused exhale. “I would hope not.”
“Are you . . . with anyone?” I’m trying to sound casual. I am not successful.
“Not at the moment.”
I gnaw at my lip, my head spinning.
“Why do you ask?” he asks me, finally.
“Did I figure it out too late?” I ask, searching his face.
His smile grows, relief blooming in his eyes, and he slowly bends, pressing a perfect, soft kiss to my lips. “No, Rina. It’s not too late.”
##
The most romantic moment of my life is shattered by the raucous cheers from the sideline clowns. Hugo and I make our way back over, ready to take the crap our friends are dying to dish out. Through their congratulatory You guys are so cute’s and Called it’s and About freaking time’s, tension vibrates distractingly in my blood. Even though some unspoken agreement has been reached between us—we’ll connect later to discuss this all further and maybe kiss some more—enabling me to calm down and enjoy the night with everyone, the truth is that I want to grab Hugo’s hand and drag him out of here.
I tell myself to be cool, for God’s sake. To give it a couple of hours. But after only thirty minutes of banter and shouted catching up over the increasingly loud music, I thread my arm through Hugo’s and look up at him.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
His brows slowly rise. “The Biltmore.”
I pull back, frowning. “Were you hoping to be murdered by a ghost on this trip?”
He laughs. “I’ve never stayed there and it looks beautiful.” After studying my expression for a beat, he seems to understand that I am ready to get the heck out of here. “We could go to your place instead?”
Taking his hand, I lead us toward the door. “Yes. It’s like a million times closer. And probably not haunted.”
He laughs. “Probably?”
“More than likely?”
“Then lead the way.”
##
I’m so distracted by him next to me, it’s a miracle I don’t get into an accident on the twenty-minute drive to my apartment. He seems to fill my car entirely. Not just his long limbs, but his energy. This calmness he’s always had that has morphed from shyness into confidence, from insecure reserve into sexual restraint. His hand rests casually on his thigh, fingers long and graceful, and I imagine them gliding up my spine, around my wrists, cupping my breasts.
“Isn’t that your street?” he asks, angling in his seat to point to the turn I’ve just missed.
“Damnit.” I make an illegal U-turn at the next intersection, and steer into my parking spot.
I’m so nervous, so excited, so amped up that I’m shaking and it takes me two tries to get my keys into the lock. Behind me, Hugo huffs out another quiet laugh, cupping his hands on my shoulders as if to ground me, but it doesn’t help. Once the door is open, I tell myself that we’ll walk into the kitchen, pour a glass of wine, sit and catch up, but it doesn’t happen like that.
I turn into him just as he’s reaching for me and we come together, urgent and hungry, in a kiss that is deep and lingering and perfect. I feel the years of pent-up longing in his touch, in the way his hands cup my face, in the deep inhale he takes, in the way his eyes squeeze closed from the sweetness of it all.
But the sweetness melts into heat as my hands roam his back, his chest, his arms, his neck. I push off his jacket and unbutton his shirt, desperate to press my palms to his warm skin. His body is hard and lean and I map it with my fingertips, reveling that it feels familiar somehow, but at the same time new, tantalizing, fascinating.
His hands run up over my backside, dancing up my spine to toy with the pull of my zipper. Stepping back briefly to meet my eyes, I nod, and he slowly draws it down, before guiding the fabric from my shoulders. The dress falls in a puddle at my feet, and I step out as he bends to unfasten the straps of my heels. From his knees, he looks up at me and I feel something in my chest roll over, something monumental.
“Come here,” I urge, cupping his jaw.
He kisses my knee, my hip, my stomach, the swell of my breast above my bra. My neck, my jaw, my mouth. “Do you have anything?”
In my lust fog, I have no idea what he means. “What?”
“Protection?”
I groan. “Oh my God. I threw them all out and swore off men after the Aaron/Todd fiasco.”
“It’s okay,” he says, swallowing. “I’ll just run to the store and grab some.”
“No, no—”
“Sabrina,” he says, kissing me again. “It’s two blocks away. Let’s do this the right way. I’ll be back.”
##
The man must have sprinted to the drug store because in the time it takes me to put fresh sheets on the bed and run a brush through my hair, he’s already knocking at my door. Back inside, I see that he’s sweetly disheveled, having mis-buttoned his shirt in his haste to procure our goods, his hair a mess of soft curls from my wandering hands.
With the bag in one hand and the other on my hip guiding me backward to my bedroom, Hugo bends, kissing me so deeply it makes my head spin.
“Are we moving too fast?” he asks.
“Too fast? Please tell me you’re joking.”
He lets out a laugh and it’s still the best sound in the world.
Sitting on my bed, I scoot backward to the headboard and watch as he unbuttons his shirt, kicks off his pants, and climbs on after me. Hugo settles between my legs and pulls me toward him. His weight is perfection; his body so warm and firm above mine.
I feel him grow harder, rocking into me, spiraling me into the madness of want. He unclasps my bra, kissing his way to my breasts, sucking, licking, grasping. I arch into his touch, sending my fingers into his hair, desperate for more.
When I dig into his boxers, he groans, moving into my hand, pressing his face to my neck. It turns me on so much, thinking about how many times he’s imagined this. What did he think about? My hands? My mouth? My skin? I want to give him everything. I relish the weight of him, the length, desperate for that moment when he first moves his body into mine.
But after he peels my underwear down my legs, he shifts to the side, kissing me, drawing his hand up my thigh, stroking me with a quiet groan that vibrates against my mouth. I feel the way my back bends, the way my entire body seems to press into his fingers, my hips moving with the circular sweep of his fingertips. Too soon, he stops, digging into the paper bag which, along with 700 feet of receipt paper, has a box of condoms and . . . another box.
Hugo opens it, pulling out two bottles.
“Hugo,” I say, breathless. My body is aching for him. “I’m ready—I don’t need—I just want you inside me.”
“I know.” He bends, kissing me with a smile. “I can feel it.” Another kiss. “But what’s the rush?”
I melt back into the mattress, hearing the unspoken part: where he reveals that he knows me, he’s listened, he’s not going to be one of my past lovers that rushed into sex, that didn’t work me into a begging frenzy, that prioritized their own pleasure above mine.
Hugo pops the top of one bottle, pouring a small amount onto his fingers, and then returns to me, stroking, his gaze carefully on my face, gauging my reaction. Under his touch, the liquid tingles deliciously, cool and wet and achingly good.
“How does it feel?” His voice is a low rumble, his lips teasing at my jaw, my neck.
“Tingly. Good. So—good.” I am nothing but hungry nerve endings. “Don’t stop.”
“Yeah?” His satisfied laugh sends a soft tremor through my throat. “I won’t.”
With his lips teasing mine, his fingers stroking me into oblivion, I feel weightless, like pleasure blooming from where he’s touching me, up through my torso, and radiating down every limb. I haven’t come yet, but feel it building, a heavy, silvery storm unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
My legs begin to shake, and with uncoordinated hands, I reach for him, digging into his boxers, clumsily shoving them down his hips. “I need—”
“Wait,” he says, voice tight, and pauses only to kick off the boxers and reach for the other bottle, pouring some of it onto my fingers. This one feels warm, and slick, and when I wrap my hand around him, he releases a groan so deep, so primal, that it makes my skin hum.
Our kisses turn distracted and loose, his lips warm and soft against mine as our bodies move in easy unison. It’s not sex, at least not the kind of sex I’ve ever known. This is lovemaking, it’s intimacy in its highest form. This is the luscious exploration, the prelude to what I’ve always considered the main event, but somehow better than any sex I’ve ever had.
With that thought in my mind, I tumble over the edge, falling to pieces against his fingertips, with his mouth pressed to my jaw, teeth bared in hungry encouragement. After a final push into my hand, he follows me into pleasure, making a sound so erotic I feel immediately insatiable.
Hugo falls to the side, resting his hand on my heaving chest. Stillness settles over the room; only the sound of our gasping breaths fill the space.
“If that was only foreplay, you’re never getting me out of this bedroom,” I mumble, voice hoarse.
“My evil plan has worked.” He rolls into me, pressing a kiss to my collarbone.
“I’ve never . . . That wasn’t regular lube.”
“Mmm-mm.” He sits up, retrieving the bottles from where they’ve landed on the bed, handing them to me. It’s K-Y Yours + Mine. Tingling for me. Warming for him. Of course, Hugo saw this and got it for us. My conscientious friend, my new lover, and who I felt in my bones was the love of my life.
“I’ve never had a guy bring lube before,” I say with a small laugh.
“Because every guy thinks he’s Casanova and you won’t need it.”
I laugh, making a buzzer sound, and rolling to face him. He’s so close, his face is just a little blurry. I reach up, tracing his features. I know this face so well but have never touched it like this before tonight. His straight, perfect nose. His defined cheekbones. Full lips. Strong brow. “I’m glad you’re not every guy.”
“You’ve never been every girl,” he says quietly.
I drop my fingers to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
He smiles and leans in to press a lingering kiss to my lips. “And thank you for finally being impatient enough to drag me home.”
