My sisters both look at me with a mix of amusement, sympathy, and our mother’s challenging glint. “Whenwasthe last time you had sex?” Aoife spears her borrowed pen at me.
My face heats.
I roll my lips between my teeth because I’m not telling my sisters it’s been months. Not just the couple of months that I’ve known about George’s crimes, but far longer. So long, I don’t want to do the math to find the exact date, because I probably could.
I cringe.
Is it possible for a vagina to self-seal? For a hymen to regrow if you leave it for long enough? Christ alive.
“That’s what I thought.” Clíodhna smirks. “Youdefinitelyneed to get dicked.Gooddicked.”
“And fast.” Aoife bites down on her straw. “Rip the plaster off. Get back on the horse. Yadda, yadda.”
They’re not wrong. It’s not my favorite thing in the world. I mean, I don’t have anything really to compare it to, but George seems unable to get off if I’m not on top, and while I’m an athlete and have the stamina and core strength tomake it work… I’d like to not have to doallthe workallthe time.
I’m also not sure he truly knows where my clit is. It must be different for Isla because she’s a horndog, and there’s no way she settles for a sub-par lover.
I told George I didn’t want to have sex again until after the wedding, you know, building the anticipation and excitement for the big day. We weren’t saving ourselves for our wedding day or anything like that. I bet my mother has been saying decades of the rosary every Sunday at mass since she walked into my bedroom and found me on top of him when we were seventeen years old.
Wincing at the memory makes my jaw ache. Mum wasn’t supposed to be home that morning, and she got a quare view of my bare arse for her trouble. We never spoke about it. I tried, but she waved me off, the embarrassment and discomfort of talking to me about sex was just too much for dear old Mum.
But it’s been there in her eyes over the years, every time she saw us together.
Sexually, I always thought I was the problem; my body was dysfunctional, missing whatever buttons it needs to reach those pleasurable highs I read about in my favorite romance novels from book club.
So, the idea of finding someone else to sleep with in the next four weeks, in the month leading up to my thirtieth birthday, makes my stomach hurt. How do you even find someone to sleep with at almost thirty years old? Do they have an app for that? Does Larne even have eligible bachelors?
Going into town always sounds like a good idea at the time, but when you have to get dressed up and drive into Belfast… ugh… all you really want to do is curl up on the sofa with a cuppa and an episode ofBlue Lights.
I groan, dropping my head onto the table next to myquickly emptying glass with a hard thud. “I can’t do that. I can’t.”
“Ofcourseyou can. Why can’t you?” Aoife taps her pen in my direction.
“Catharsis via the clit.” Clíodhna nods. “It’s a known recovery technique from asshole exes, Rhi. Bonus points if it’s his best friend, brother, and double points if it’s his archnemesis.”
“Or his dad.” Aoife shudders at the idea. George Senior isn’t a catch either, and I’d never do that to his mum. Not to mention, George is such a wet fucking blanket that he doesn’t have the spine to have a nemesis. Or rather didn’t, until now. He will rue the day he ever fucked me over, if it’s the last thing I do.
That has to be the drink talking. I’m not normally so emboldened, but it sounds like a good idea, right? Other than ruin his life in front of his family… I mean… I feel like I could do more.
I pause. Is he even worth the effort of rue-ing the day? Should I just… nothing him? I’m not sure.
“Oh. My. God. Is your fanny overgrown?” Aoife’s face falls. “Has it been that long? Has your virginity grown back?” She stares at me expectantly with those piercing, Morrigan family eyes.
“It’s June, Rhiannon, surely be to God you’ve at least shaved your legs for your own wedding. If not for your wedding, then at least for the two weeks of sunshine we get over the summer. When it arrives, you can’t be wasting precious sunshine time having to get the razor out.” Her eyes widen at my silence then she holds up her hand inferring my answer without me having to say a word.
“It’s fine. It’s fine.” She puts her hand over mine and gives me a tender squeeze. “We’ll get you an appointment withCheryl at Smooth Criminals. You’ll come out as smooth as a baby’s arse.”
All I can do is shake my head in disbelief. My sisters don’t even let me answer, or object, they also don’t ask for my input on their now super-duper importantEat, Pray, Lovelist for me to accomplish in the next thirty days.
It takes about fifteen minutes and another round of cocktails, but by the end of it, they’ve got a list of things they say I need to do to get over George and Isla’s betrayal, before I turn thirty, on a stack of napkins.
If only that’s how it worked. Thirty days of doing shit written on a napkin list and you’re magically cured of whatever your ailment is.
Betrayal.
You embarrassed me, Rhiannon.
I swallow down the lump threatening to block my throat.
