“Sorry, kid. Nine. No later. You can catch up on whatever you miss tomorrow on Hulu. Spoiler alert — she says ‘yes’ to the dress.” In true nine-going-on-nineteen fashion, she rolls her eyes and huffs, “Fine.”
I grab my mug of ginger tea off the side table, tuck my laptop under my arm, and turn toward the hallway to head to my room.
“Night!” They don’t respond; the show has sucked them in. I’d understand the draw if they were hooked on true crime documentaries or even period dramas, but their love for reality TV makes no sense to me. I used to arguing with them about how reality TV is basically garbage and a waste of time, until one day Skye snatched the remote from my hand, gave me a death glare, and said, “Just because you watch TV tothinkdoesn’t mean everyone else has to. We watch TV to veg out, not for a mental workout. Some people just like to be entertained.”
I’d never thought of it that way until she said it, but she was right. After that, I never again fought Skye or Sunny on their shows of choice. My idea of vegging out is reading a book or working on a puzzle; they prefer to burrito themselves in throw blankets on the couch and watch crazy people try on wedding dresses or attempt tobuy million-dollar houses on shoe-string budgets.Whatever floats your boat.
I enter my room and close the door, leaning my back against it. Now that I’m alone without any distractions, the dam breaks on my anxiety about being back on campus tomorrow. I’ve done so well at compartmentalizing anxious thoughts this week, but now that I’m one sleep away from potentially seeing Dexter again, my mind is racing and my heart is pounding.
I remember the words he spoke to me in his office, and I close my eyes at the memory of how he looked at me, eyes full of confidence and desire, unapologetically telling me how he wanted to recreate our incredible kiss.
“Je veux encore t'embrasser.”Gah, that man and his French. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t fantasized about him a time or six this past week. Remembering that night at the club, his fingers tracing my jawline — only in my fantasies he whispers enticing promises into my ear while his fingers trace down my arms and then up the sides of my body.
“J'ai tellement hâte de te goûter,” he whispers, nibbling my ear lobe before kissing down my neck. “Je veux lécher chaque centimètre de ton corps. Je veux te mettre sur mon lit, les jambes écartées, et te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu perdes ta voix en criant mon nom. T'es une déesse, t'es parfaite, t'es à moi.”
Is it getting hot in here? Somebody turn the fan on before I combust. Ok, Alis, get a grip, calm down. Touching yourself to thoughts of Dexter Belanger is not helping the situation.
“T'es à moi.” If only.
I’ve spent the last nine years of my life working my butt off, raising my daughter, living with my parents, and I haven’t once —notonce— had any desire to start any sort of romantic relationship with a man. No boyfriends, no app hookups (because, ew), no casual flings with guys from around town — nada. And now that I’m “getting out there,” chasing my dreams with a basically revirginated vagina, the one guy in a decade who has caught my interest is off limits.
Who the hell is writing this story? What kind of sick joke is it todangle Mr. Sexy Man Bun in front of me, light my panties on fire, and then snatch him back, saying, “psych!”
Author of my life, I think I hate you. Can’t a woman catch a break?!
You’re the one who turned him down. Screw you, self.
Twice. Ugh!
I flop over onto my stomach and bury my face into my pillow. I have to be making a bigger deal out of this than is necessary. Sure, Dexter is the first guy in a decade I’ve wanted, but that’s probably just because I’m in a new place with new people and thinking about my wants and needs for the first time in forever. It’s not because he’s special or one of a kind; not because his fingers on my skin made my heart race and his kiss felt like coming home. Nope. Nope. Nope.
Tomorrow I’ll go to class, meet new people, spend time in the library prepping for my first Comp lecture, and not think about Dexter Belanger. If I run into him, no biggie. He’s one of many hot guys I’ve seen in my life. He’s a professor. He’s my boss (kind of).
I didn’t uproot my life and move four hours away from home only to detour from my goals once again. I have a degree to finish, a career to pursue, a daughter to raise. My life has enough responsibilities as it is.
Just as I’m diving headfirst into “woe is me” territory, Stewie’s incessant nagging from my bedside table snaps me out of this pity party.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How are things? Have you girls had a good first week?”
“Yeah. It’s been good.”
“How did your meeting go with Dr. Matthews? Are you two a good fit? I know you were nervous about that.”
“She’s great. Very nice.”
Mom is silent for a beat, obviously waiting for me to expound. “And? Tell me about your meeting! I want to hear all about it.
I exhale. “The meeting was fine. We just went over the upcomingsemester, her class list, my teaching responsibilities — the same stuff I used to do.”
“Well, that sounds nice. Are you teaching at all this semester?”
“Yeah, I’m teaching one of her classes. I was originally supposed to teach more, I think, but something happened with the budget and they weren’t able to bring on new people they’d planned on having, so I’m taking on more grading and less teaching.”
“More grading?”
“Yeah. Two other profs needed help so I’m grading for them as well. Nothing too difficult, just Comp and French.”
