“Maybe,” I amended. “Or maybe you weren’t.”

He gathered me against his chest and I tried not to think about threesomes or Chelsea and Aaron or my vagina or the sticky residue of the un-brushed-off WhiteStrips. I closed my eyes and focused on his heartbeat and, after a few minutes, didn’t think about anything at all.

15

Another Monday loomed, and brought with it my period. I normally got emotional when it arrived, the initial bloodstain a giant F on my pregnancy report card. This month, given my extra sexual activity with Aaron, I almost welcomed it. It retaliated, coming at me with fists that hammered my stomach and twisted my ovaries into painful knots.

I made it through fourteen emails and a half-hearted series of cold calls before I took two Midols and started slacking off, focusing my attention off real estate and onto research on how to have a threesome. I was engrossed in a Buzzfeed article about a woman who was banging her boss and his wife when someone gently rapped on my office door.

I hissed out a curse and began minimizing browser windows. I was still busy, closing pop-up ads for penis enlargement and horny local MILFs when Maria Bott stuck her head in. I closed the lid of my laptop and spun to face her. “Hey. What’s up?”

Her eyes darted over the tight office, one that was barely larger than the supply closet at the end of the hall. She stepped inside. “Not much. You busy?”

“I’ve got a minute.”

“I saw that OLT listing hit the board.” She raised her brows. “Sweet score.”

I shrugged as if it was nothing. “I got lucky.”

“No joke. I interned at Clarke, De Luca & Broward in college. Brad De Luca is fucking cake to look at. And alpha male as hell. It was super scandalous when he started banging Julia.”

I snapped my gaze up from her pale pink Tieks. “You knew Mrs. De Luca?”

“Well, she wasn’t Mrs. De Luca then.” She leaned against the doorframe and giggled. “She was like the rest of us. A broke college student.”

I could see a little of it still in her. Even in the big house, leaning on the arm of the powerful attorney, she still had an innocence about her. An easy relatability that had put me at ease, despite all the reasons I should have been intimidated.

“But yeah,” she continued. “I knew Julia. Wish I’d kept up with her after school. That’d be my name on the board next to their address.” She grinned at me, but I could feel the competitive barb behind her words.

She could keep dreaming of the listing. It was mine, a fact that still surprised and thrilled me. “I’m actually setting up showing appointments now for it. I better get back to them.”

“Sure.” She straightened and turned back to the hall. “Tell Julia I said hi.”

“Absolutely. And if you have any buyers that might be interested, let me know.”

She flashed me a thumbs up. “I’ll let you get back to work. There are donuts in the break room.”

I waited until she pulled the door tight, then reopened up the laptop. I finished the Buzzfeed article, then switched tabs, returning to an in-process profile application. The site I’d chosen held a database of kinky participants I could filter by race, gender, age, and kink. It seemed like the cleanest and most respectful of the sites I had found. It also had a lengthy profile questionnaire, which had been entertaining at the beginning but now, eighteen questions down, was starting to get tedious. Maybe tedious was a good thing—something to weed out the crowd.

I took a sip of water and tabbed down to question 19.

Please use the following scale to indicate the level that best matches your sexuality levels.

There was a twin set of scales, one for me and one for Easton. The scales went from straight to bi-curious to bisexual to gay, with halfway points between each classification. For my scale, I initially clicked on straight and then hesitated, moving the pointer a little to the right, in a pale yellow area that would qualify as mildly bi-curious.

I scrolled down to Easton’s scale and stared at the screen. On first impulse, I’d say Easton was straight with a capital S. But what if he wasn’t? I’d had a thousand conversations with my husband but had never thought to ask him his sexual orientation, not when he spent his first three years at Florida State wading through a sexual pool of women.

I called him. He didn’t answer, and I tapped out a quick text instead of leaving a voicemail.

I’m filling this out for a website. How should I answer for you?

I took a picture of the screen, careful not to include my own selection, and sent it.

I skipped on to the next question.

What are you looking for?

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