Page 58 of Good Directions

Milo perks up, his lackadaisical stance gone in an instant. He’s back over at the bar, attention fully on me. “Always. Like Reverend Terry’s confessional. But with beer.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting him know that his analogy is a little off. Last I knew, the pastor of Hickory Hills Baptist Church hadn’t taken up the habit of listening to confessions, and we didn’t have one of those fancy little closet things they show on TV that the Catholics use. But I get his point.

“It’s Sawyer.”

“No shit.”

“What happened to listening?” I snap.

“Sorry, sorry.” He raises his hands in surrender.

I huff, shaking my head and taking another long draw of my drink. I need it. Not only to buy time to find my words, but to work up the courage to actually say them. To admit that I don’t know what the fuck I am doing.

“She doesn’t like sex.”

Milo is silent. To the point where I’m not sure he heard me. Instead, he just stares back at me, blinking. So I say it again.

“Sawyer doesn’t like sex.”

“Caught that,” he tells me. “You discovered this…how?”

“Rounding second,” I comment. “Or well, trying to steal second, I guess. Little rusty on my baseball analogies here.”

Haven’t had to use them since high school after all. These days it’s a home run or nothing.

“Sooo…” He draws out the word. Now it’s his turn to buy time, unsure how to respond. “The issue is…”

Seriously? I stare at him, incredulous, not sure if he’s being serious or wearing his sassy pants. Because this is Milo we’re talking about. Those sassy pants get a lot of use.

At the same time, maybe he’s prompting me to get it all out. To word vomit all the nonsense that is in my head.

“She doesn’t like sex! Sex!” I exclaim, jumping up off my barstool. It topples over behind me, clattering against the cement floor, the sound echoing in the empty warehouse-like space. “Who doesn’t like sex? I mean, seriously, have you ever known anyone who didn’t like sex?”

“Me!” a sweet, feminine voice answers.

Milo and I both freeze. Turning, almost in unison, our eyes land on Milo’s fiancée, Brenna, and I don’t know who’s more shocked—him or me. Oh, shit.

Where did she come from?

Sliding behind the bar, she smiles brightly at us, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb larger than Fat Man and Little Boy combined.

“Excuse you?” Milo shouts, storming right over to her. He stops short, just shy of her, face scrunched in a mishmash of horror, confusion, offense, and some other wild emotion I can’t name.

Brenna, on the other hand, is all giggles.

“Not now,” she answers, placing a hand gently on Milo’s chest and pushing to her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s like a scene from some cheesy rom-com—all you need is an instrumental soundtrack playing in the background. “But before you. Absolutely.”

I watch all the muscles in Milo’s back relax as he gathers her in his arms. His face is obscured, but I would bet every penny in my bank account that the medley of emotions splashed on his face is gone, replaced with just one—love. There’s no doubt that Brenna brings out the best in him. The other half that makes him whole.

In this moment, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. Although I’m not about to admit that out loud.

Instead, I need answers.

“Explain,” I demand.

Shifting my weight nervously, I rock back and forth, impatiently waiting for Milo and Brenna to break apart. I’m about half a second from threatening to jump over this bar and rip them apart when Brenna finally steps back, winking at my brother, then turning to me.

“I think the statement is pretty self-explanatory,” she quips.