“It’s absolutely fine. This is Sydney. Not the Middle East.” A strange expression crosses his face. I don’t bother to try and puzzle it out. I’m unlikely to see his face again. Although if round two—or technically, I guess you could call it round four, depending on how you estimate it— was guaranteed to be as good as round one, it might actually be worth it to break my once-only rule. Which I do sometimes. Although not often. It’s more of a guideline, if I’m honest.
He follows me down the hall and leans around me to open the door, giving me one last blast of the mouthwatering smell of the body wash we soaped over each other earlier. Just before round three.
“Thanks for a great night.” I button up my jacket. It’s freezing outside at this time of the morning.
“Believe me, it was my pleasure.” His grin is wry and a little sad. It’s not until I notice his mouth—full and soft in his whiskered face—that I realise we never kissed. Not once. Unfamiliar regret floods my system. I don’t generally care for kissing. As Vivian and Edward say inPretty Woman, it’s too personal. However, I do regret that I won’t be able to remember the feel of those lips on mine, because they’re next level beautiful.
We both hesitate. A car pulls up, idling in the narrow street, and his phone chimes quietly.
“Well, take care.” Impulsively, I lean forward and brush his cheek with my lips before trotting down the path. I turn back at the gate for one final look. He’s standing in the doorway, arm stretched up gripping the doorframe. Gulp. What is it about a man’s armpit? Is it the curve? The pale skin? The soft hair? I take a mental snapshot to bring out and study later. When inspiration is needed.
He’s still there, silhouetted by the light in the hall, when the Uber pulls away.
I might not be able to remember the feel of his lips on mine, but I won’t forget the feel of them on my neck and my breast and my thighs any time soon.
Four hours of sleep is not really enough. But it’s going to have to do. I’m a little sore from all the acrobatics last night but also energised. Good sex—great sex—will do that to you, I guess.
“There’s a bruise on your neck,” my friend and flatmate, Bella, mumbles over the rim of her coffee mug. A shiver runs through me at the memory of how I came by the bruise.
She doesn’t ask how I got it. She knows whoever gave it to me is unlikely to make another appearance. Although, I would consider it with Solo Man.
“Lucky it’s cold enough for a scarf, then.” I slip a pod into the fancy coffee machine Bella’s parents bought us when we moved in together and wait for the liquid life to emerge. “Perhaps the more important issue is why you’re here. Didn't you have a date? Or wait, is whatshisname here?” I look towards her open bedroom door. The bed is a mess, as usual, but I see no sign of an inhabitant.
“Jacob, and yes. But no. He bailed.” Bella pouts, simultaneously hurt and annoyed.
“Again? Why are you even bothering with this guy? This is the third time he’s bailed—at the last minute—in what, a total of five dates? Strike three. You’re out, buddy.”
“I know. But he’s so cute. And he said he was sorry.” I don’t know why she’s looking so imploringly at me. I wasn’t the one who stood her up.
“If he was sorry, he wouldn’t keep doing it. Also, he’s not cute enough to be worth it.”
“He looks better in person,” Bella defends. I’ve only seen his profile pic. If he snagged Bella, he’d be punching well above his weight.
I snort. “He’d want to. If you sleep with him after this, I swear I’m going to slap you upside the head.” I doctor my coffee with milk and sugar and slide onto one of the stools at the island bench.
“Hey. You sleep with guys all the time. On the first date.” Bella rinses her mug, puts it in the drainer on the sink and points to my neck. “Case in point.”
“That’s different. I don’t get attached. Two dates and you’re practicing your new surname and working out if your kids’ initials will spell something rude.”
“That’s not … well, okay. I have done that once or twice.” She pulls her long dark hair over her shoulder and begins constructing a rough braid, the start of her morning shower routine. “But we’ve been on five dates.”
“Um, no. You haven’t. He’s bailed on three of five, so you’ve been on two.” I love Bella, but she’s terrible at maths. She’s also a hopeless romantic, meaning I’m the one left to pick up the pieces when the guys get what they came for and move on.
I’m distracted from our conversation by a text that makes me groan.
“Wicked witch?” Bella asks, being familiar with the expression a text from my mother elicits.
“Reminding me it’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow.Don’t forget to call your baby brother for his birthday! Dinner at my place 7 pm.Ugh. There’s a kissy emoji.” I roll my eyes. “I can’t remember the last time my brother called me for my birthday. Oh, yes, I can. Never. That’s when.”
I know I’ll have to message back, but I’ll need more than one cup of coffee for that one. Because dinner at her place tomorrow is not happening. Not least because the likelihood of my brother even turning up is slim. Unless he wants money, of course.
And the only time I ever hear from my mother is when she wants something. In this case, to make a pretence of happy families to plaster all over social media in the hopes my father will see. Like he'd care. No sooner have I had that thought than my phone rings. She didn’t even give me five minutes to respond. No point in prolonging the agony. I rip the Band-Aid off and accept the call.
“Why haven’t you responded to my text?” Not even a hello, which tells me this will be unpleasant at best.
“Hello, Mum. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” I nod as Bella holds up another pod, eyebrows raised. I’m probably going to need it.
“Don’t be facetious. It’s very unattractive. What have you bought your brother for his birthday?”
