The call screen hovers. I freeze, then swipe it away like it’s hot. End. End. End. I back out, opening a new text instead, because typed words feel safer than his voice. That voice I know too well.
I met with an attorney today.
My thumb hovers over send. I delete it.
How are you?
Delete.
I love you.
Nope.
I hate you.
No, but, also yes. But, also no.
I miss you.
My chest clenches. I delete that so hard my thumb hurts.
The sickest part? I do miss him. And I hate that I miss him. I hate that grief and relief coexist in my ribcage like roommates who refuse to move out.
Hi, hello, my name is Victoria Foster and I am a walking contradiction. Yes, mhmm, it is incredibly frustrating. What’s that you asked? How close am I to Britney 2007? About as close as I am to throat punching you for asking that question in the first place.
My thumb finds the microphone icon by habit. I almost press it. I want to ask if he’s eating actual meals. If he found the gray sweater I left in the dryer. If he’s sleeping. If he thinks about me when he pours his coffee or if I’ve already been edited out of the morning routine.
I put the phone face down on the far side of the coffee table like distance will save me. I know it won’t. I could walk across the room and throw the damn thing into the kitchen sink and it would still hum in my bones like a mosquito in the dark.
There’s only one thing I can control right now, and it’s not my heart. It’s my body chemistry. And if I can’t calm my mind, I can at least calm my body. Decision made, I stand from the couch and head to my room.
Skye’s welcome box lives under my bed, tucked behind a tote of old sweaters I swear I’ll sort next weekend. She packed it like a fairy godmother with a sense of humor: bath bombs, chocolate, eye masks, a bottle of Trader Joe’s prosecco, and, like, five different vibrators wrapped in tissue paper like they might be fragile.She’d set it on my bed the day I moved in and said, “We do practical here. And orgasms are practical. Time to get your rocks off with your socks off, bitch! Or, on. Whatever you’re into. No judgment.”
I’d laughed until I almost cried.
Now, I pull the box out and sit on the floor beside my bed, cross-legged, the U-shaped vibrator in my palm like a ridiculous, necessary secret. I’m pretty sure Skye said this one was meant to be used with a partner, but in my late-night exploratory sessions I’ve determined this one is my favorite. I’m probably using it wrong, but it gets me off faster and more effectively than the others and doesn’t leave me sore between my legs the next day, so that’s a win in my book. (The weird thruster one with the suction piece for your clitoris is super aggressive and scary and makes me walk funny the next day. Zero stars. Do not recommend. But again, I’m probably doing something wrong.)
I tell myself what I’m about to do isn’t about anyone in particular. This is not about Chase. It’s not about Leo—Wait. Why would I even think about Leo right now?It’s not about proving I’m alive and my body still works and someone could want me. Of course someone could want me.
This is purely mechanical. It’s Advil for a headache. It’s stretching before a run. It’s—for fuck’s sake Tori,just stop thinking and get in bed and give yourself an orgasm already!
I crawl under the covers and roll onto my stomach, left knee drawn up. The sheets are cool; my skin is suddenly too hot. I close my eyes and will my mind to empty.
Do not think. Do not picture. Do not invite a single face into the room.
The vibrator hums to life in my hand, a sound like a purr. The tiny remote is in my left hand, ready to adjust the vibration at will, and I use the other to slide the toy lower, down my stomach, between my legs, until I reach my clit. I’m not yet fully turned on and ready to slide anything inside, so I rub the larger end of the toy against my bundle of nerves, slowly, hoping for something,anything to awaken my core and coat this vibrator with enough natural lubrication to nestle inside where it belongs.
I’m working too hard to keep my mind blank. Literally working against myself, against my body, by overworking my thoughts.
So I let go. Let my mind wander into uncharted territory. My breath catches. My mouth opens. My spine arches just a little and?—
Harper’s.
The whiskey. The music. And Leo. Swaggering through the door like the human embodiment of a good time. I hadn’t wanted to want to look at him. And yet—there he was. Big, loud, and magnetic in the way that always ends in mistakes.
Let’s dance,he’d said. Not a command; not quite a request. He took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor, his arms around my body like they belonged there, mine up around his neck, hands toying with the hair at the base of his neck.
I’m soaked. I push the toy down to my entrance and it slides in, effortlessly, settling into place exactly where it belongs. The large end of the U nestles against my G-spot, the smaller end against my clit.
