The mirror image of me stares back in shock, watching as I reach up to wipe the tip of my nose. I tear my eyes away from my reflection and look down at my finger. I rub my finger and thumb together, smearing the orange powder that looks disturbingly like the pollen of a lily.
I grab a washcloth and scrub furiously at my nose until it glows red. Then I scrub at my fingers as if removing all traces of the physical remnants of my strange dream will make this seem somehow less real.
I can’t wait to leave for my trip so I can physically and mentally escape the cluster of my current life. I head to my closet and dig out soft leggings and an oversized shredded band t-shirt.
My stomach launches into another loud protest, so I head to the kitchen to ransack the fridge. Nothing looks good, so I settle for a frozen entrée from the back of the freezer.
I throw it in the microwave and chug a glass of water. While I wait, I dig out my planning binder for my trip and start updating my lists and notes. Organizing my thoughts helps me to rebuild some semblance of control and normalcy after such an eventful summer.
My phone dings with an incoming text and I mutter, “What fresh new hell is this?”
When I open my messages, I’m relieved to see one from a known contact. I can’t handle any more unknown callers.
My Lord
You didn’t check in.
I try to plan a response to Luke. I’m hungry and tired and a little overwhelmed at the moment. Not really a good setup for any type of meaningful conversation, so I settle on something easy.
Lieshe
I was exhausted and had to sleep. Thank you for the amazing bag.
I almost type that the purse is too much, and I can’t accept it, but there is no way in hell I am giving it up. I’m not sure if accepting such an extravagant gift is the right thing to do or not, but it’s kick-ass and I’m keeping it.
I rationalize to myself that I deserve a luxury gift after our every meeting seems to get weirdly interrupted, and the brutality of their fight keeps running on a loop in my head.
I want to know what the hell happened, but I’m scared to ask. Do they have a backstory? Were they seriously fighting over me, or is there some deeper beef between them?
Luke
Reminded me of you, mon petit chou. Beautiful and edgy.
I feel my face warm as I smile at the compliment. As I wrack my brain for what to say in reply, I see the three little dots pop up, so instead I decide I will wait for his reply.
Luke
I want to see you again. Alone.
Do I want to see Luke again? Much less alone? My mind drifts back over our times together. The first charming encounter at the expo followed by the thrill of performing with him and the steamy after-party. The sweet way he came to drop my coat off after I forgot it at the hotel.
My smile is stretched so wide that my cheeks are beginning to ache at the thought of what could have happened if we weren't interrupted when he came to my place. But then I remember him and Stalky Hottie beating the shit out of each other and my face falls.
Who is Luke? And do I want to see him again? I honestly don’t know. Stalky Hottie had warned me away from Luke. Gabe had warned me about everyone not being what they seemed. What does any of this mean?
Hopefully, time and distance will help me decide, but I need a response for now. I start and stop typing several times, attempting to strike a balance between figuring out these relationships and putting myself first with some big, damn healthy boundaries.
Lieshe
I’m getting ready for an overseas business trip. We will have to sort things out when I’m home.
That sounds good. I’m not saying yes, I want to see him again, or no. Just that we need to figure this out. It’s all I have energy for right now. I’m trying to prioritize my needs, and what I need is to house this frozen dinner, hydrate, decompress, and get some quality sleep.
I take the frozen dinner out of the microwave and make myself an iced seltzer. I grab the remote while the food cools and scroll through shows until I settle on the cooking channel.
It’s my go to for when I just want to relax and not think. I’m hoping it will act as a palate cleanser before I go back to bed. Despite not loving cooking or doing that much of it, I love to watch cooking shows. Especially the competitions.
I balance the little plastic tray of my dinner on top of a paper plate and snuggle into the sofa. The first bite is scorching. I blow out, trying to keep from burning my mouth, once again cursing microwaves for their uneven heating.
