Lola crests the stairs, slow clapping.
My cheeks are hot with dwindling anger. “You heard that?”
The skin on her neck flushed raging-red tells me she did, but her smile is approving as she walks to the chalkboard and draws a check mark on it.
“What’s that for?”
She walks to me and wraps me in a bear hug. “You stood up for yourself while that guilty motherfucker was projecting his own insecurities. And it wasn’t in your normal passive-aggressive or sarcastic way. You were direct, unapologetic, said what you felt, and dismissed the sonofabitch.”
My arms are pinned to my sides as she continues to squeeze me tight. “With the emotional grace of a toddler,” I wheeze because the air in my lungs is nonexistent.
“Toddlers don’t say fuck you,” she says sweetly before releasing me.
I massage my chest to encourage airflow. “You did.”
She opens her mouth to deny it but then snaps it closed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I was five, which isn’t technically a toddler. And Declan totally asked for it. That kid was a shithead.”
“Hewasa shithead,” I agree. Our next-door neighbor was the worst.
As she walks toward the bathroom, she says, “I need to go shower and get to work. I can’t be late again. They’ve already given me two warnings, and I kinda like this job. But, Soph?”
“Yeah?”
She turns to face me. “Don’t you dare let him gaslight you. You supported that piece of shit for nine months. He whined nonstop about his problems, andyoufound solutions.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “You gave him a place to stay while he was between apartments, fed him when he got laid off, wrote his resume, hell, you were the one who encouraged him to apply for the job he has now. He’s only on his way up because you offered a hand, and he climbed on your strong fucking shoulders to get the boost. There was never give-and-take with him;he took and took and took. You deserve so much better, Soph. Good riddance motherfucker.”
I know she’s right, but, damn, his words still sting.
four
It’s inching toward midnight,and the house is quiet. Which would be ideal for sleep, but with no air conditioning in this old house it’s still an oven inside, even with windows open to draw in the cooler night air. Sticky and restless, I grab my cell from the nightstand where it’s charging and open Instagram. I didn’t look at it all day, which isn’t unusual. Sometimes I get busy with work and skip it for days. I scroll through and tap like on everything that isn’t a sponsored ad but stop when a Thicker Than Water post appears. It’s Ever and the singer hugging. They’re both sweaty, and Ever’s guitar is still strapped on but shifted to his back. It looks like they’re unaware that the photo was being taken. It’s, for lack of a better word, sweet. The caption reads:
Brotherly Love. #ThickerThanWater
“Brothers?” I whisper to the screen as if it will answer me and provide stats or a plausible explanation.Ding, ding, ding, the bells go off, and the band name makes sense. I immediatelyzoom in on the photo. Nope, I still don’t see the family resemblance, other than they both far exceed average on the sexy scale.
Speaking of sexy, I’m heating up in ways that have nothing to do with the lack of A/C. I switch to the band’s profile and scroll through their feed again, pausing each time Ever appears. They are, of course, the same photos I saw last night. But last night my mind was swimming in self-pity and Chance, and I skimmed them. Tonight, I let my mind and my fingers wander. It’s been a while since I had any kind of release, alone or with Chance. Come (pun intended) to think of it, it’s been almost a month since we slept together. I guess that should’ve been a red flag, but he’s been traveling a lot for work, so I missed it.
Thoughts of involuntary celibacy are quickly replaced by an active, detailed imagination determined to eradicate Chance from that corner of my mind and let pure Ever-driven fantasy fuel need. Sex with Chance was never a two-way street. When I asked him to do things to get me off, he was never willing. Instead, telling me that he liked taking me from behind while I was on my hands and knees because we both came harder that way. It was like being fucked by a frat boy who was convinced he knew what he was doing but clearly had no game. I got used to it and, in the end, stopped caring because I had easy access to my clit in that position. It was anIf you want something done, do ityourselfsituation. Needless to say, I’m well-acquainted with the reliable duo of masturbation and a vivid imagination.
Speaking of imagination…
I’m in a chaise lounge on the balcony of a beachfront hotel. It’s dark, but the moon is bright. My skirt is pushed up to my waist, and my panties are dangling off one ankle. Ever’s face is settled between my thighs: eye contact intense, words filthy, tongue soft, clit swollen, legs widening, fingersfucking, hips grinding, moans swelling. It doesn’t take long before the build increases to a tremble.
In my mind and my body.
Reluctantly, I slip back to reality. Sweaty sheets, relaxed muscles, mood boosted, I return to my phone and bring up my last post. Feeling emboldened, probably due to an increase in serotonin levels, I tap ongoodguysfinishfirst_sometimes. Poised to click theFollowbutton, I hesitate when I see it already readsFollowing. What the hell? When I scroll through his four posts, I notice there’s a red heart below each one indicating I’ve already liked them.
This reeks of meddling. My finger hovers over the little message button, and before I touch the screen, I close my eyes, count to ten, and hope I’m not right.
“Fucking Lola.”
A message was sent tonight at 8:37. When I was in the shower. It reads:
Hey! You take great photos; I take great photos. You like sunsets; I like sunsets. You like dogs; I like dogs. This can’t be coincidence, can it? It appears the universe is at work here. I think we should be friends, because denying the universe could set something bad in motion if we don’t. Like those old chain emails that have catastrophic consequences for all of mankind if you don’t forward them to ten people within ten minutes. I don’t want calamity on my conscience. Or yours. What do you say? Our destined friendship could literally save the world…
It might be funny if it wasn’t me she was making look like a deranged jackass. I screenshot it and text it to Lola, along with,
Sleep with one eye open. I’m coming for you.
