I Confessed to My Best Friend That I Wasn’t the Same Anymore

After that night with Andrés, guilt wouldn’t let me get a wink of sleep. I knew he was married, I knew my dad was helping him bring his wife over from Colombia, and even so I’d let myself be convinced again. He’d come looking for me again with that calm, self-assured way of a man who knows what he wants, and I’d given in again. The next day I felt even worse, because Lucho had asked me to be his girlfriend barely a week earlier, on the beach, and I’d told him no for a married guy who only wanted to “have a good time.”

I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me. Someone who really knew me, without filters, from before even I knew who I was. So I grabbed my phone and texted Lucho: “Are you home? I need to see you.”

He answered right away: “Come on over, I’ll have coffee waiting.”

I got there midmorning. He opened the door in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, hair mussed, wearing that calm smile he always has even when he’s just gotten up. He hugged me tightly without asking anything and handed me a black coffee exactly the way I like it, no sugar, in the same chipped mug as always.

—You don’t have to tell me anything until you want to —he said, and that was enough to loosen my shoulders a little.

We spent the whole day together, like old times. We started with the banal stuff: we talked about the series we were half-watching, laughed at stupid memes he’d sent me at three in the morning, ordered pizza, and left a match on in the background that neither of us was really watching. We played video games. He beat me at soccer and I crushed him at racing, and I celebrated like I’d won a world championship just to see his defeated face.

Then we flopped onto the couch to watch pointless videos, commenting on nonsense, laughing until my stomach hurt. It was strange how easy everything was with him. With Andrés every encounter was electricity and secrecy; with Lucho it was like breathing.

At sunset, when the sun was already dropping behind the buildings, we sat out on the balcony with two cold beers. That’s when I finally spoke.

—Lucho… I’m still seeing Andrés —I blurted, looking at the orange horizon instead of at him—. And that’s not all. The other night, when I got back from the party, something else happened. Renata was there, one of his friends. I was kind of drunk and so was she. And we kissed. And we ended up doing things. It was my first time with a woman.

I paused. Lucho didn’t move, he just took a sip of beer, his eyes fixed on me.

—I thought I was totally straight —I went on—. But I liked it. A lot. More than I want to admit. And now I don’t know what I am or what I want.

—And what did you feel afterward? —he asked softly, not a trace of reproach in his voice.

—Confused. Guilty. Because you asked me to be your girlfriend and I said no. Because with Andrés it’s all pure instinct, desire, and nothing else. But with you… with you it’s something else. It’s trust, laughter, knowing you’re there. I want to be with you, but I don’t know if I can promise you fidelity right now. I don’t even know what I am.

He stayed quiet for a long while. Then he set the bottle down on the balcony floor, took my hand, and spoke slowly, choosing his words the way he always does.

—Mara, it’s okay. We sleep together when we both want to, it’s always been that way, long before all this. But before anything else, we’re friends. Best friends. That doesn’t get touched by anything. I’m not going to ask you for exclusivity if you’re not ready. I’m not going to compete with Andrés or anyone. If you need to explore, explore. I’m going to be here anyway. Always.

I felt like a brick had been lifted off my chest. I hugged him hard, buried my face in his neck, and breathed in that smell of him that’s calmed me down for as long as I can remember: cheap soap, a hint of cigarettes, and something I can only describe as home.

***

We stayed up talking late. He told me he’d been seeing Caro, a girl from the group. Something casual, no labels, but it was nice. “It’s not like it is with you, but it helps me not go crazy thinking about what I can’t have,” he said, laughing at himself. I threw a pillow at his face and we both laughed, that laugh of ours that doesn’t need a reason.

When we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore, we went to his bed. Nothing sexual. Just closeness. He was in boxer briefs, I was in panties and one of his old T-shirts that was way too big on me. We settled in spooning, his chest against my back, his arm around my waist, his hand spread over my belly. I felt his slow breathing on the nape of my neck, his heat seeping through the fabric, the soft brush of his body against mine. Neither of us did anything more. Just being there. Our heartbeats settling into the same rhythm, skin against skin, that intimacy that doesn’t need words.

I fell asleep feeling safe for the first time in weeks. At peace.

***

The next morning I woke up with sunlight coming in through the curtainless window and Lucho already awake, kissing my neck slowly, languidly, as if he had all the time in the world.

—Good morning, crazy girl —he whispered, his voice rough from just waking up, but with a hunger underneath it that made my whole body prickle.

I turned toward him. Our eyes met and no words were needed. Only desire. His hands slid up my waist, firm, and he pulled me against his body. I felt his hard erection brushing my stomach over his boxer briefs, hot, throbbing. He kissed me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth with restrained passion, as if he’d held this back all night and was only now allowing himself to let it out.

His hands moved to my breasts. He took them with a kind of devotion, kneading them slowly, his thumbs brushing my nipples, which hardened instantly. I moaned against his mouth. He looked at them like they were the most valuable thing in the world, lowered his head and tasted them gently first, his flat tongue circling them, then sucking harder, nibbling lightly. I had never felt so desired by anyone.

—These have driven me crazy for years —he growled against my skin—. I always wanted to do this and never dared.

He laid me back on the bed, knelt between my legs, and kept going. One hand slid down between my thighs, fingers brushing me softly, opening me slowly, while the other stayed on my chest. I arched my back, moaning his name, feeling how his attention made me feel adored and not just used. He quickened, sucking harder, pinching just enough for the line between pleasure and pain to turn delicious.

Suddenly he straightened up. He took off his boxer briefs and started stroking himself over me, never taking his eyes off mine.

—I want to come over you —he said, his voice shaking with need—. I’ve never done it. But with you, I want to.

I nodded, biting my lip. He sped up his hand, giving a low groan, and came hard, heat spilling over my skin, sliding slowly. That warmth tore a moan from me. There was something tender and filthy at once about letting him mark me like that, about being the first one he’d dared to do it with. He was panting, looking at me with eyes full of something that was desire and affection in equal parts.

Then he dropped down beside me, held me tight, and kissed my forehead.

—Come here —he whispered.

I turned toward him and we kissed slowly, deeply. His hands slid down my back, held me with tenderness, and I finished taking off my panties. I climbed on top of him, guided him with my hand, and felt him enter me gently, filling me completely. We moved slowly at first, looking into each other’s eyes, kissing without hurry. It was passionate and tender at the same time: his hands on my waist guiding me, my chest against his, his lips on my neck murmuring my name like a prayer.

Little by little we sped up. He grabbed my hips, lifted me and lowered me with force, but always carefully, always lovingly, as if he were afraid of breaking something. I arched, moaning against his mouth, feeling every movement go deep. I came first, trembling on top of him, clutching him, and he followed not long after, growling my name, holding me like he never wanted to let me go again.

We were left panting, sweaty, laughing softly at nothing and everything. He held me from behind, his hand spread over my belly again, kissing the nape of my neck.

—Mara, don’t stress —he murmured—. We’re friends. Best friends. I don’t make a big deal out of it. Whatever has to happen will happen. But this, what we have, will always be here.

I turned a little, kissed him slowly, and curled up against his chest. I felt his heart beating hard, his warmth wrapping around me, and I knew he was right. With him there was no pressure, no secrets to hide, no guilt. Only trust and affection. And that, right at this moment in my life when I didn’t understand a thing about myself, was exactly what I needed most.

I still don’t know what I am or what I’m going to do about Andrés, or Renata, or all the things that opened up inside me that week. But I know one thing: if everything falls apart, there’s a door that opens with a black coffee waiting for me on the other side. And for now, that’s enough for me.