Early in the pandemic, my longtime friend Jane Yin and I made a pact: if we were both single on her thirty-third birthday, we'd get engaged and plan a simple wedding. We were lonely, envious of people who weren't isolated in apartments by themselves.
More than three years have passed, and I'm ready. Even if I'm outgoing and optimistic on the outside, I've given up on romantic love, and it'll be nice to build a life together with my friend. With both of our savings, we'll actually be able to afford a house. Jane also longs to be a part of a family, and I can give her that. It'll convenient and comfortable, but we won't have a physical relationship.
It turns out that married life is just what I want it to be. We buy a place in the suburbs and eat dinner together every day. Neither of us is attracted to the other, except...
Oh hell. I'm definitely starting to wish I could share a bed with Jane, and my feelings are much more complicated than I expected. Unfortunately, I doubt my serious, perfect wife feels the same way, and I don't want to screw up this marriage of convenience by revealing the truth.
But it's getting harder and harder to hide my desire.
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