“I want her to have a good time,” I murmur as Graham side-eyes me. “She deserves to have fun after everything she’s done for me.”
His stare penetrates my lies.
“Fine. I want her to have fun, but I don’t want her kissing a guy who doesn’t deserve her. I fucked everything up.”
A film calledTwo Weeks Noticeplays on the television.
Graham’s more human than animal when he harrumphs as Hugh Grant cheeks his assistant.
“I didn’t choose it on purpose,” I say, defending myself. “It happened to be on. It’s nice to watch an older film.”
He snorts.
“Do you want the truth, Graham? I’ve fallen for Rosie, and instead of dealing with it like a professional with power, I told her to get on her…Well, you don’t need the details about what daddy and mummy did, but I fucked up again and let her leave without checking how she felt. I’m a shitbag, okay?”
Graham grumbles and drops his head back to my leg and sleeps.
I didn’t know I’d be capable of sexual moments again after the health anxiety kicked in, but she made it possible. She brought some of the old me back.
Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock kiss like a boss and an assistant who have a future. I want a future with Rosie. I finally broke through my fear of sexual intimacy and then ruined it. And worse, we didn’t talk about it before we did it. She said she’d never orgasmed with a man before. Why didn’t I listen more instead of talking?
I check my phone and scroll through photos of Graham. An image of Rosie cuddling him gives me a stomach-ache, like when I was a child and I got into the Christmas stockings and ate all the chocolate.
I trace Rosie’s smiling face with the tip of my finger. She knew exactly what I needed to be intimate with someone.
But we crossed lines, and I don’t know how we can go back.
As the credits roll, I scroll through movies, but my gaze returns to the photo of Rosie. I need to give her time to meet new people and have new experiences.
I’m too old for her, and I’d hold her back with my health anxiety and issues. She deserves to laugh and be happy with her friends, not be saddled with this.
As I sigh, my phone rings.
Rosie.
For a second, I hold it, staring at the screen. It might be apocket dial, and I’ll have to listen to some guy cracking on with her.
“Hello, Rosie?”
“Is this Niki?” a man replies, and bile builds in my chest. Graham stares at me like he cares about me. Or maybe it’s because I’ve disturbed his sleep.
“Yes.” I down my coffee. Visions of a guy who’s hooked up with Rosie calling me to tell me he’s a lawyer who’s suing me for sexual harassment fight with an image of a paramedic calling me to tell me she was hurt in an accident.
“I’ve got a Rosie Denham propping up my bar.”
Rosie slurs in the background, “Tell him I can’t stop thinking about what we did.”
“The thing is,” the barman continues.
“Tell him, Mr. Barkeep!” she shouts.
“She says she can’t stop thinking about what you did,” the barman mumbles.
“It’s not how it looks.”
“That’s not my problem,” he replies. Rosie rants about men and their perfect dicks and stomach muscles you could spend all day licking. “Please come and get her.”
“Where are her friends?” I rub my freshly cut hair as she rants in the background.
