Quickly, I toss on a T-shirt that stops at my thighs and stare at my roadblock: a well-built, thirty-something male with tattoos sprawling along his torso. His limbs are tangled in my purple sheets, passed out from all the sex. Shouldn’t he be used to it by now? You don’t see me acting like I downed a bottle of sleeping pills.
“Hey,” I say, timid. He barely stirs.Okay, Lily, get it together.If Lo believes I can do this, I surely can. Right?
I take a deep breath, battling the intense blush and nerves that threaten to rise.Please don’t start a conversation with me.
“Hey!” I shake his legs and he lets out a long, bear-like groan. Yes! The gigolo rubs his eyes and props himself on his elbow.
“Whattimeisit?” he slurs.
“Late. I need you to leave.”
He plops back on the mattress with a long whining noise. What was that? Did he just die? “Let me wake up, will you?”
“I have to be somewhere soon. You have to go.”
He squints at me, the light too penetrating for his lethargic eyes. “While you get dressed, I’ll make us some coffee. How’s that?”
“I didn’t pay you to hang around,” I say, finding some confidence. Why is this so difficult? Are my requests that unreasonable?
He shoots me an annoyed look, and I instantly feel like a bitch. I shrink back.
“Noted.” He stands to collect his jeans and button-down.Yes, he’s leaving.But then, he stops and eyes the length of my body. I go rigid. “For someone who was anything but reserved last night, you look incredibly uncomfortable right now.” He waits for me to explain.
I open my mouth and shut it, not sure what to say.
“Was the sex not up to your standards?”
I turn my head. “Can you just leave?”
“You’re embarrassed? I don’t understand…” Of course I’membarrassed.I called a gigolo out of desperation, because it sounded nice, because I knew it would relieve something in me that ached for it. I wish I could be one of those girls who has the guts to do it because they’re exploring their sexuality, but with me, I needed him to fulfill a desire, one that does nothing but torment me. And he’s reminding me of everything I hate about myself. That I let my downstairs brain control my night. That I can’t be a normal girl and just forget about sex for onesecond.Just one.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, sounding concerned now.
“No,” I say quickly. “It was great. I’m just…”lost.“…thank you.”
My words spin his features into sadness. “If I leave, you aren’t going to do anything…” He thinks I’m suicidal?
I inhale deeply. “I need you to go so I can head to a family event.”
He nods, understanding. “Okay.” He buttons the last of his shirt and adds, “You’re fantastic in bed by the way.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, stripping my sheets.
The door closes, and my muscles don’t relax like I thought they would. The conversation replays, and I feel strangely about it. He saw through me. Not many people do.
I don’t have time to wallow in a self-deprecating puddle. The luncheon starts in less than an hour. I trip over a pair of sneakers on my way to the shower. While I wash off last night,I contemplate waking Lo. I’d rather let him sleep off his drunken stupor than force him to interact with my family.
By the time I hop out of the shower and change into a mint green dress, I decide to check on Lo and make sure he’s sleeping on his side. He rarely pukes when he passes out, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Before I retreat from my room, I scour my closet for a rare purse. To avoid my mother’s ridicule, it’s best to be as normal as possible. I find a white Chanel with a gold chain (a birthday gift from Rose) shoved beside a broken pair of heels.
I unclick the latch. My runaway phone has reappeared, which is pretty worthless considering I already transferred my number and contacts onto a new iPhone.
I scroll through the old missed calls and few text messages that were delivered before I purchased my new cell. My heart stops as I open a text from Rose. Sent about the same time she last left my apartment.
Jonathan Hale is coming to the luncheon. Tell Loren.– Rose
No, no, no. Lo maybe, possibly, could have stayed home today. I could have formed a weak “he’s sick” excuse. Ditching on my family is a minor infraction. Ditching on his father is suicide.
Hurriedly, I toss the phone on my bed and head to his bedroom with less than half an hour to get ready. We’re cutting this close.
