Absolutely not.
I'm not doing this. I'm not indulging the fantasy of the man who came over a dead, bloody body.
I'm not getting wet thinking about Caleb MacLeay.
I won't.
I start running again, harder this time, pushing my pace until my lungs burn, and my thighs scream, and there's no room left in my head for anything except the physical demand of keeping my body moving forward.
No Ivy.
No Logan.
No sex club.
No masked man with his cock inside my pussy, whispering into my ear, telling me I'm exactly the kind of broken he needs.
Just the rhythm of my feet hitting pavement.
Just the river beside me, indifferent and cold.
Just the empty, hollow space where my desire used to live.
Back at the apartment,I strip off my running clothes and step into the shower, turning the water hot enough to scald. The steam fills the bathroom until I can barely see my own hand pressed against the tile.
I scrub hard. Wash my hair. Shave my legs even though there's no one to feel them.
When I finally step out, I dress in the first thing I grab from the drawer—denim shorts and a black tank top. Nothing special. Nothing that requires thought.
I zip my new laptop into my backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. Purchased because my old laptop is still sitting in the blanket fort in my old apartment.
The apartment I haven't moved out of.
The apartment I still pay rent on every month—on time now, with money left over.
The irony isn't lost on me. Eight months ago, I was four months behind on a studio I could barely afford. Now I'm paying for two places.
The old one because I can't bring myself to pack up the wreckage, and this new one because living in the squalor of your own depression doesn't heal you, and I desperately want to be healed.
Fixed.
Normal.
I grab my keys and leave.
The coffee shopis three blocks away, tucked into the ground floor of another converted historic building. I order a latte—whole milk, extra shot—and find my usual corner table by the window.
I pull out the laptop, open it, and stare at the blank document on the screen.
Cursor blinking.
Waiting.
I type:Ivy pressed her back against the wall as Logan?—
Delete.
The curtains at Velvet Underground were?—
