Dear Joely: I Kissed My Best Friend’s Boyfriend. What Now?

Dear Joely,

I hope you can answer me quickly. I’ve stuffed up. Badly.

I’m in my late teens. I’m lucky enough to have a best friend that I can share everything with. And she shares everything with me too. We both live with our parents still.

She has a new boyfriend — let’s call him Ross. She’s fancied him for a long time, and they finally got together.

She had a party at her parents’ place for her 18th. I was there, of course, and so was Ross. It was a fun party. Lots of booze, chips and party food — like a kid’s party but more fun because we’re all older and can legally do all the stuff we’ve always wondered about.

I was walking up the side of the house when I saw Ross. He saw me too. We looked at each other and before I knew what was happening we were having a passionate pash under a nearby tree.

Then of course my friend wandered out and saw us.

Personally, I don’t know why I did it. There were certainly no plans to do anything with Ross — I always just thought of him as her guy. This was a real spur-of-the-moment fuck-up.

My friend was so cool about it. I apologised, but her eyes are saying, “I love you but why would you do this to me?”

I have no answers and feel nothing but deep shame. I don’t want to carry on seeing Ross or anything.

What should I do?

A Really Crappy Friend

Dear Really Crappy Friend,

First things first: yes, you stuffed up.

There’s no elegant way to put lipstick on that particular pig. You kissed your friend’s boyfriend at her own eighteenth birthday party, which is very much not the behaviour of the bridesmaid in a feel-good film.

But — and this is important — one dreadful, stupid, impulsive thing does not have to become the permanent title of your character.

You already know the kiss was wrong. That’s good. Shame, unpleasant though it is, can occasionally do useful work. It tells us where the line was, and that we crossed it. The trick is not to pitch a tent in the shame and start calling it home.

What you do now is simple, but not easy.

You apologise properly. Not dramatically. Not with self-pity. Not with a long speech about how terrible you feel, because then she ends up having to comfort you, which is just adding unpaid emotional admin to her birthday betrayal.

Say something like:

“I am so sorry. What I did was wrong and it hurt you. I don’t have an excuse, and I’m not going to insult you by pretending I do. I care about you, and I understand if you need space from me.”

Then stop talking.

Let her be angry. Let her be quiet. Let her ask questions. Let her not ask questions. Do not chase forgiveness like it’s a bus you’re late for.

As for Ross, avoid him. Completely. No private messages. No “clearing the air.” No sad little conversations under trees about how confused everyone is. The tree has already done enough.

If he contacts you, keep it short:

“What happened was wrong. I’m not continuing this. You need to speak honestly with her.”

And then back away.

Your friend’s eyes are asking, “Why would you do this to me?” The truthful answer may simply be: because you were drunk, flattered, impulsive, curious, reckless, and briefly more interested in being wanted than being loyal.

That is not pretty, but it is human.

The repair, if there is one, will come from consistency. Not one perfect apology. Not tears. Not grand gestures. Consistency.

Be honest. Give her space. Don’t touch Ross. Don’t recruit mutual friends to plead your case. Don’t make yourself the victim of your own guilt.

You may lose some closeness for a while. You may lose the friendship. That is the price of the moment, and you have to respect it.

But you can also learn from it.

Next time desire, alcohol and opportunity gather under a tree, remember: trees are for shade, not betrayal.

With sympathy, but not a party invitation,

Joely