Because he has a penis.
That I’m going to have sex with.
For the first time in nearly two years.
At once, desire turns to panic.
Because I’m freaking out and don’t remember how to breathe.
Pulling away from the kiss, I fumble to pick my phone up from the counter.
His mouth turns to a confused frown. “What are you doing?”
“Finding that photo to send you,” I explain, the words knocking into each other. “From the oddity shop. Or the pancake house. Puddy’s.” I’m typing and retyping my password to unlock the screen to no avail. “With the waitress. How do you think that works?” His eyes narrow. “The naming of the shop when you have two specialties? Whichever one makes the most money goes first?” I laugh like a deranged robot.
His eyes can’t possibly get any wider, and I can’t blame him. Even I don’t know what I’m saying or doing.
Finally, the damn phone unlocks in my trembling hands. I can’t think, so I pull the photo library up and shove the phone at Jay. He looks from it to me, baffled.
“You find the photo and send it to yourself. So we both have it. Is there a bathroom in here?”
He nods slowly, looking again from the phone to me. “First door.”
I fumble with the door, closing it too hard once I get inside. It’s small—a human-sized dollhouse. A toilet, single vanity, and shower stall with a glass door. I turn on the sink, grip the vanity, look in the mirror.
“What the hell are you doing, Hollis?” I whisper to my reflection.
I’m freaking out because this is real. I am in Jay’s little house, and we both know we are about to get naked and naughty. I am not a prude, but two years of no practice is a bit intimidating. Especially following a marriage where my sexing was shitty enough my husband needed to get it elsewhere.Can you forget how to have sex? Is it like riding a bike? Will I bleed like a virgin? OHMYGOD—was I supposed to bring a condom?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Sure, I’ve had occasional bouts of self-experimenting—though none quite like what happened on Thanksgiving—but that’s nothing compared to a real live man and a real live penis in my real live vagina.
I can do this.
I splash water on my face then turn off the sink.
And then I hear it: my voice saying Jay’s name. Over and over.
I still. Its familiarity striking me like a bolt of lightning.
No.
I fling the door open and find Jay. Looking at my phone. Hearing my voice say his name. Because he’s playing the video I recorded of myself and never sent on Thanksgiving.
“No.” My voice is so pinched and weak, it barely pulls Jay’s gaze away from the phone.
I can’t move. My legs have grown mortified roots, preventing me from lunging toward him. I want to shatter my phone into pieces and take off into the woods never to be seen by another human being again, but all I can do is stand. I throw myface into my hands at the same time I hear the doorbell ring on my self-made phone porn and groan. Because Jay is seeing me, on Thanksgiving, in lingerie, mid-masturbation, while he is downstairs ringing my doorbell with partridges, a pear tree, and puffins on a plate on the porch.
“Hollis the Writer,” he coos, setting the phone down.
Once again, I pray for Bruce Willis to come shoot me. When I hear Jay take two steps toward me, I know it’s another prayer unanswered.
He pries my hands away from my face and I brave a look at him. Much to my chagrin, I have never seen a bigger smile in my life.
I don’t need Christmas traditions, all I want is to die.
“I knew you were thinking of that kiss the same way I was,” Jay says in a thick, low voice.
