The Bed and The Best Friend Prt. I

I let Anna move in after she caught her husband cheating on her. She was devastated, of course. She didn’t leave him right away, though. She waited a few months, tried to make it work, and when she couldn’t, she left. She asked if she could stay with me, and I said yes.

I have known Anna pretty much our whole lives. We weren’t always great friends. She used to torment me, to be completely honest. But somewhere around 10th grade we started to click, and she’s been my friend ever since.

Of course, in stereotypical Hollywood fashion, I have been the guy who has lusted after her since back when she used to torment me. And after we became friends, I sat by while she dated loser after loser, patiently waiting for an opening. Anna rarely has openings, because guys flocked to her. She is smart and funny and gorgeous, and I am not the only one who fawns over her. Men do. Women do. Birds and stray cats follow her home.

But I missed my shot and landed in the friend hole. Which is fine. Anna is the type of girl who you’d rather have in your life than not at all.

And when she met Brian, I tried to talk her out of it. Not just because I wanted her, but he had that look. That lean and hungry look. I could tell that “forever” meant something else to him. All the guys before, all the guys I know, those of us who follow Anna around like we’re puppies, we look at her a certain way. We’re appreciative of her uniqueness. Brian never was. She was just another girl.


So, of course, she marries the asshole. She was 22. Too young. Anyway, two years later, she was at my front door, like a Hugh Grant movie, asking me if she could stay with me. Sure, I said. I only have one bed. But I can sleep on the couch.

Those first two weeks were horrible. She was heartbroken. Not so much about the cheating – I think she expected that; she was as naïve as I had thought – but about the finality of “forever.” She had bought into the vows, even if he never had. Her marriage was the first thing she had ever failed at, and it was crushing.

I was a good friend. I am a good friend. I gave her space when she needed it, gave her a shoulder when she asked. We’d watch TV at night, like an old married couple, her head between my arm, falling asleep. I’d look down and stare. Sometimes she’d wake up, and I’d pretend I was asleep, too. But I think she knew. Anna was observant.

I slept on the couch, even though she insisted she could. No, no. You need your space. It’s cool. My couch, though, is not the most comfortable, and Anna would notice I need to stretch more in the morning, that my normal aches and pains were more pronounced.

“Just sleep in the bed with me. We can share. Like when we were kids.”

“We never shared a bed when we were kids.”

“Yes.