But maybe—maybe—it could happen another day.
8
Addie
I am never drinking again.
Ever.
Ever.
“It cannot bethatbad,” Francie, my oldest and longest-running sister-in-law, says to me over my car’s speaker system as I drive myself to work after letting Duncan help me get dressed.
Which happenedbeforeI looked at all of the text messages I sent to various people last night.
Including Francie.
Which is why we’re on the phone now. It’s not often she gets a randomI love you, don’t let my stupid brother take you for granted, you deserve better than what my mom hadtext from me.
But she did last night.
And she’s not the only person I texted.
Which makes letting Duncan help me shower even worse.
“It’s that bad,” I tell her.
“Did you also text your first boss and tell him to lick your shoes?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you text your current boss and tell him you’re the only option he has for manager when Santiago retires?”
“No.”
“Did you text Steve Simpson and ask him if he’s still good enough with his tongue to temporarily make up for his personality?”
“No.”
“So…what did you do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She laughs. “You called me to talk about it and now you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I want to talk about how much I don’t want to talk about it.” I brake as I approach a line of cars behind a red light a couple blocks from Duggan Field. My hair is still damp.
So is my left armpit.
I wouldn’t let Duncan help me dry off as thoroughly as I needed to get dried off because I needed him to leave.
I needed space.
Now I need to not think about how he hugged me in the shower.
About how much I liked the feel of his erection against my ass.
How much more I liked the soft kiss he pressed to my good shoulder, then the way he pretended none of it happened at all after I’d soaped and rinsed the rest of my body and stepped out of the shower to let him help me dry me off.
