3. not a complete waste of my time for some fuckboy reason or another?
Not that it matters. I’m not dating now, if ever again. Forever celibacy doesn’t sound so bad. All men do is try to control you and make you into whatever they want you to be. The whole reason I’m sitting on this plasticky stool with my thighs sticking to it in this very town is because of such a man.
What I feel for my admirer is basic attraction, nothing more. Attraction leads to disappointment. Once someone shows their true self, it’s never as good as all the bells and whistles like charming smiles, husky laughs, and good sex make it seem.
Okay, maybe not celibacy, though. That’s extreme. Judging by the way my nipples are hardening, my breath is shallow, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up from that hot guy taking a lingering glance at me, perhaps I need a good railing to return to some sense of normalcy.
Celibacy isn’t what I’m after. Normalcy is. Independence is.
The bartender slides my tenders and fries across the bar, the hot lamp-heated plate singeing my arm. “Want some ketchup, hun?”
I snap out of my googly-eyed horny daze. “Uh, ah, yes, please,” I stammer.
I salt my fries and glance at the mysterious Jack/Noah/Nick again. He’s still there, but now with a ten-year-old boy in a sports jersey across the booth from him.
Right, of course. He’s a dad. He looks pretty young for a dad, but I don’t judge. I guess he could be a soccer coach or something. Baseball?
No, he’s probably a dad. A shamefully good-looking dad.
Maybe a single dad? I’m not about to push away a good time because of something like having a kid at a young age.
But alas, he’s on his way out without speaking to me. He wiggles his way out of the booth and heads for the door, pulling a baseball cap out of his back pocket. He ushers the kid in front of him, but before walking through himself, he takes one last look in my direction.
This time, it’s a smirk and a wink.
He’d better be a single dad giving out looks like that.
Otherwise, this guy is nothing but trouble.
* * *
I admireyesterday’s mowing handiwork from the guest room balcony. The sun’s not long up, but it’s already sweltering hot. I have a few minutes before I need to bring the horses in from the day’s heat. These are my last moments completely alone on the farm. The new workers will be here in an hour, two of whom Bill said would live at the cabin.
The pond beckons to me, glittering in the morning sun. The thought of plunging under the water sounds both liberating and terrifying. I saw Bill’s pond water report by the back door, and I can’t let the minimal chance of a rogue brain-eating amoeba stop me from experiencing a little joy. Anxiety’s held me back from enough things in my life. I’m turning over a new leaf.
If I’m ever going to cut loose, the time is now.
Stormy yowls at me inside, begging for attention.
“Not now, Storm-o. I’m doing something you’ll hate.”
I speed through the house, grabbing a towel and startling the dogs snoozing on the porch when I tear into the yard. My preferred dog, Barkley, takes my running as an invitation to play, jumping up to run alongside me. Barkley’s some flavor of yellow-white puffy mutt, and when he runs, clumps of loose hair fly off him. He’s shedding hair as I shed my clothes.
I throw off my shirt first, no bra to strip away since I’m still in my pajamas. I’m topless and running on the family farm with no one around to stop me or tell me no.
I make it to the dock I’ve jumped off countless times growing up. Shucking my underwear and sleep shorts away, the familiar belly full of nerves pang. I’ve had this feeling since I was a kid too: anxiety.
I know how deep the pond is and that I can swim. I know what creatures live there and that they won’t get me. Still, a swarm of what-ifs buzz around me, warning me of imminent peril.
I do what I always want to do when faced with anxiety, but never can because of societal expectations.
I scream. I scream for my life’s sudden crashing out, for leaving Rob, for facing my fears, for the gripping fear of starting over. I draw my scream from the tips of my toenails, zinging up through my legs, into my belly, through my chest, and out my mouth. It’s blood curdling and, were anyone around, terrifying.
But I’m the only one around to scare, and it’s liberating.
Barkley startles, then runs with me as I sprint off the end of the dock.
SIX
