The Bedroom Blog

So My Best Friend Is Hooking Up With My Coworker

Chloe gets sexiled.

By Alessandra Torre

If I hear the word Dante one more time, I will scream.

I woke up Saturday morning on Benta's rug, a spare comforter wrapped around me, a puddle of drool underneath my cheek, to the distinct sounds of a hookup. Not skin-slapping, breath-gasping actual humping, but something solidly second-base. 

My living room spot gave me a front-row view of the action happening on Benta's kitchen counter. Cammie's dark bare legs were wrapped around one hell of an ass, clad in jeans, her pale pink nails digging into the guy's white T-shirt.

"Ahem." My subtle throat clear got me nothing. The tonsil hockey — if anything — heated up.

"Cammie." I reached for my cell, ready to throw it at her, my eyes instead catching on the time display. And that's when my irritation grew ten fold. "It's eight in the morning, Cam. On Saturday."

I rolled over on the couch, throwing the blanket over my head, not at all interested in meeting her date. I had a pretty good idea of who it was, especially when I heard the smooth scrape of his accent. So I hid, hot and irritated, under the covers, eavesdropping on their good-byes. At some point, I fell back asleep and was spared anything more till noon, when Cammie and Benta pushed me awake and into clothes, promising sushi and sake.

Since then, I've heard about Dante and Cammie's late-night Starbucks run. Their midnight walk in Central Park. A good-bye makeout session in his car. How he dropped off doughnuts the next morning for all three of us, a drop-off that led to the countertop love fest. Cammie won't shut up about him. True, I may be a teensy bit jealous. I may have fantasized — aided with the massaging shower head – my own romp with the strong and silent Italian.

Plus, I'm not gonna lie, it'll be awkward if this turns into anything — my coworker and my best friend? But chances are it won't. In the five years I've known Cammie, she's never had a relationship last more than a few months. Her eye … wanders. That's the nicest way to say it. Tell her she can't touch, and she'll trample your ass in her haste to dig her fingers in. Benta, on the other hand … well, Benta is weird. But I'll go into that on another day. I could do an entire blog about her crazy ideas, including one that involves both a V-card and the freakiest sex I've ever heard of. 

At lunch, after a few sake bombs, we were all laughing so hard about — god, I don't even remember — that I forgot any irritation about being woken at eight on a Saturday. And Cammie was positivelybeaming at us as she dissected every last moment with him, so I couldn't help but be happy for her. I still am, even if I'm sick and tired of hearing the man's name. And by Sunday, the plumbing was fixed and we were back in Cammie's apartment, Benta all but shoving us out the door, a few snippets of Spanish flying out of her glossy red mouth before the door clicked shut. I know enough Spanish to understand she wanted her eight hundred square feet back. I get it. I'm probably driving Cammie crazy too.

I mused over that possibility Sunday afternoon. Decided I should help out more, earn my keep. I sat in the living room and glanced over at the stack of boxes, items that the super had packed up to keep dry during the flood. Maybe I should be a good houseguest and unpack a few? Give her a nice surprise when she returns from the gym. I pulled the top box off the stack, the words "Bedroom – Under Bed" neatly written on the top. I carried it into Cammie's room.

Cutting open the box, I opened the flaps, the very first packed item instantly recognizable, the name written on its top one that made my stomach curl tightly.