We’re just friends.
Alex is the guy women swoon over. Gorgeous. Privileged. Reformed bad boy. Hella alpha.
But he’s not my type. I’m a left-wing, feminist with a ridiculously high IQ. I’d rather be singing a jazz tune or shopping for a pair of designer shoes to go with a couture coat. I proudly check the box: weirdo.
Yes, over the last eight years, I’ve developed an affection for him. Given the circumstances, it’s to be expected.
We grew up in the same town. We love jazz shows and Warriors basketball. We help each other out. We co-parent an adorable little dog. He’s the person I turn to when my world feels upside down.
But we’re just friends.
Oh, and there’s that piece of paper. Shh… don’t tell my friends.
Umm, maybe I secretly long to be his pretty, well-behaved housewife. Shh… don’t tell Alex.
We are not just friends!
Yeah, there’s that secret binding us. But it’s more than that. We have something.
To Brit, I’m a capitalist suit. Never mind this suit keeps a roof over her head, well-fed, and adorned in designer fashion.
My model-pretty smart girl, made me who I am. I owe so much of my success to her.
Business aside, I’m still her man. Brit just doesn’t know it yet.
I’ll hold out. Eight years isn’t really that long. (Nah, it’s really long.)
At the end of the record spinning between us, she and I both know, our happily-ever-after will be worth the wait.
We were never just friends.