This isn’t water. This wetness… it’s coming fromme.My entrance is damp, and slick when I test it with my fingers. I’m wet. Like, really wet. A blush roars to my face.
I rub my fingers across my slit and twitch. Last night’s dream was strangely lucid, thrillingly sensual, and recalling it makes me sad, realizing it was just a dream.
“Summer, are you up?”
It’s Mom. I wrap my blanket tighter around my naked body. “Yeah?”
“The power went out last night. Your alarm probably didn’t go off. If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be late for work!”
My alarm clock is blinking12:00,and there’s far too much daylight streaking in from above.
When I’m slow to respond, Mom shouts, “Did you hear me? You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. I’m horny.
I choke out a reply. “Be down in a minute!”
Scurrying around the room, I grab the first clean clothes I find. Only as I’m about to rush downstairs to the bathroom, I freeze, looking around my room. I turn back and check the lock on my balcony doors. It’s still in place. Everything in my room is the same as it was last night, minus the rumpled, throttled bedding.
It was just a dream. A hot dream.
And now it’s over.
After a quick shower, I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and clean the smudges from my glasses. Rushing, I apply enough makeup to trick customers into thinking I’m put together. Jeans and a sweater are enough for this job, and I can wear Chelsea boots instead of heels. I would have to buy a whole new wardrobe if I landed a position at one of the fancy museums I keep applying to. It’s a nice daydream, to be fancy. I’ve never been that way, and it sounds like fun.
A quick scroll through my email confirms that nobody is interested in interviewing me anyway. Not yet at least.
With no time to dwell on depressing job prospects, I dart downstairs for breakfast.
Mom reads at the table, drinking her coffee. Dad’s already gone to work. There’s a stack of pancakes left for me, which is far more generous than I deserve.
“Thanks,” I say. Thanks for waking me, for pancakes, and for the roof over my head.
Ugh.I want them to be proud of me. Ineedthem to be proud of me. I want it more than being fancy.
She puts down her magazine. “Your dad was running late too. I’m sure half the town is running behind after a night like that. Strange storm, wasn’t it?”
I shovel pancakes into my mouth, grunting in agreement.
“You’re too beautiful to still be single,” she says. “Let me set you up on another date.”
Oh, god. “No. And we’ve gone over this.” She still speaks like being a single woman is unacceptable, that I should be married with children by now, and I suspect she would have suggested I accept the offer for drinks from the creepy father last night. “I’m only here until I can find another job. I’m not staying. I can’t afford to get attached, and I’m not ready for a relationship.” All my previous attempts at romance have fizzled into nothing, and I’m tired of trying.
“You’ve been here a year, Summer.”
“Don’t remind me,” I mumble around a bite of food, trying not to hang my head.
“There are plenty of wonderful men in Elmstitch. You just need to try harder. I know the perfect man…” she continues, selling the attributes of today’s eligible bachelor.
I’m pretty sure her definition of eligible isn’t the same as mine, not with the way she keeps guilt-tripping me. It’s only a matter of time before I give in and go on another blind date to appease her. I pretend to listen as I finish my food, clean up breakfast, and load the dishwasher. When Mom goes upstairs to retrieve the number of some guy she met, I check my purse, give the cat a hurried scratch, and bolt out the door before she returns.
My old station wagon is parked on the dirt driveway leading up to our farmhouse. The route to work wiggles through the country, leading me from the forested outskirts into town. It’s a nice drive, a quiet one. Sometimes I’ll see deer or hawks. Some claim to have seen Bigfoot, though that’s clearly another hoax.
When my phone rings and Ella’s name pops up on my screen, I put her on speaker.
“Guess what?” she shrills.
“What?”
