To my surprise, nothing much happened for the rest of the summer. We just worked out, chatted and flirted. It was a very normal bestie friendship. We never talked about our hug or the flirty text exchanges we'd occasionally have. I became convinced that there was nothing serious in it. It seemed we were both in a mindset to make our marriages better.
Brianna was an elementary teacher, so as the school year approached, her life got very busy. Our workouts became less frequent. Instead of twice a week, it was more like once every two weeks. I would just write her routine out or text it to her. When we did workout, it was less of a hangout session like it had been in the summer. We chatted, but there was a clear purpose in both of us to finish.
As the school year started, our joint workouts stopped. Instead, since we started to miss each other, we began meeting each other at Target whenever one of us needed to buy something. It started when she wanted new decorations for her classroom. Then, at random every week or so, we'd meet again. I'd text her that I was going for something and she'd text back that she was one the way.
Neither of our husbands thought much of it. Neither of them knew we were going to the store together; they just thought we were going to the store. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. To them, we were just friends. Tye could never guess that I felt a naughty undercurrent of desire. I wondered if it still went both ways. I wondered if Brianna had told Patrick anything.
Though life was busy, our friendship continued to grow. We'd talk about whatever was happening. We'd share funny stories from home and work. We'd complain about work frustrations, marital issues, society's ridiculousness and other things. We'd talk about plans with our husbands and hopes for the future. We'd commit to our friendship, our solo workouts and always to the next Target date. We decided to make them a part of our weekly routine. We couldn't make it on a specific day, but decided it was a weekly must-do.
In spite of my efforts, Tye and I had issues that were growing. Our romance had gotten cold. His allergies turned into regular sinus infections. Long work hours and a long commute led to tired, empty conversations at home. A tight budget, as we saved for a house, made date nights a rarity. The few date nights we had were underwhelming, short and dull. There was nothing ever new or creative. All of this made sex a chore, as I was simply not attracted to him. Though we still had sex, it was never really good for me. Nothing like the one night when Brianna had turned me on. I assumed he couldn't tell how unsatisfied I was.
"Honestly, I don't care if he likes the sex," I whispered to Brianna on the dinnerware aisle, "He's lucky he gets any."
"You're a good wife for not holding out. I know it's hard when you barely feel loved or cared for."
"I know he loves me. He just doesn't do anything to make me feel it. Life just isn't fun–which is fine. I can handle that. Just don't let it be dead."
"Yeah."
Brianna was having similar issues with Patrick, although he was much more attentive to their relationship (as I wished Tye would be). The problem for Brianna was his antics in bed. He was making sex more umcomfortable than usual, pushing to do things that she simply wasn't into. There was no love, only lust.
"Men just don't get it," I said. "Even when it's good, it seems like a fluke."
She looked at me with mischievous eyes, and asked quietly, "When's the last time you got a really good one?"
I shrugged nervously, "I've had a couple decent ones, but the last really good one was..."
"Yeah?"
I grinned at her and blushed. "The last really good one was after that sexy hug you gave me in the summer."
"Oh," she smiled back at me playfully, "Glad I could help."
"How about you?" I asked.
"Last week I got a really good one."
"That's good!"
"Mmm," she shrugged, "he wasn't there. It's been a while since he got me. Almost a year. I fake it most times and ... yeah."
She stopped as someone entered the aisle. I waited for her to continue as we went to the next.
