Vanilla. Megan HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
meet someone I could really...you know.” Alicia sounded shy. “Love. Again. I didn’t want to. And I know you don’t want to, either, Elise, but...”
“Hey, look. It’s good. I’m glad for you. I’m okay, really. I’m not a celibate old maid or anything, Alicia. I date. I’ve been dating someone, on and off.” The words tripped off my tongue before I could call them back. More of a lie than I’d meant to tell her, but hell. If I exaggerated the type of relationship we’d had, it was out of pride, not deceit. “It’s not serious, or it wasn’t, but his name is Esteban.”
“Ooh, Esteban?”
“He’s Spanish. I mean he comes from Spain.” Before she could get too excited, though, I added casually, “But we broke up recently. And it wasn’t bad or anything, just didn’t work out. So really, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m back on the horse.”
“It’ll happen for you, too. I know it,” Alicia said with the optimism only the newly in love can manage to muster.
I didn’t try to dissuade her. We said our goodbyes and hung up, promising to keep in better touch. She had a new boyfriend, so I figured it was a promise meant to be broken. And that would be okay.
Showered, tucked into bed, I tried not to look at the clock. The later it got, the harder it would be for me to fall asleep. Not for the first time, I thought about taking pills, but if there was something I hated worse than insomnia it was the idea of being dependent on something to guide me into dreamland. A couple shots of Fireball whiskey would’ve done the trick, but I wasn’t going to rely on booze, either.
I counted backward to no avail. I slipped a hand between my thighs, hoping an orgasm would ease me into sleep, but though I came within a few minutes, the climax left me melancholy and gasping against annoying tears rather than passion. I rolled onto my stomach and punched my pillow then buried my face in it to breathe in the scent of the lavender oil I’d sprinkled on it before I went to bed.
Who was I to fault Alicia for not telling me about Jay sooner? I should’ve told her months ago about Esteban. We could’ve giggled over him, swooned a little, even. She’d have been happy for me, even if my relationship with him had been solely based on sex and not emotion. Even if he hadn’t been a boyfriend, I could’ve shared him with her, so that maybe now that it was over, we could’ve at least talked about him. Now, all I had was my own discontent to keep me awake.
Anyone who’s had chronic trouble sleeping collects tricks to help them get to dreamland. I’d already tried my standbys, counting backward and orgasm. My mother would’ve advocated warm milk. Gross.
Led by my heart, my hands found my phone before my head could stop them. I opened the message app. My fingers typed. Erased. Typed again.
I told George about Esteban. Everything—how we’d met online. How we fucked, the things we’d done, the places he’d let me take him and where he’d taken me. How I’d found myself thinking of him in the odd moments of quiet when my mind turned to whatever it would, without my conscious effort. I told him how we broke up...and that I’d never loved Esteban. That I would never love anyone the way I loved him.
I hit Send.
He didn’t answer.
Three days had passed since my conversation with Esteban in the front seat of my car. I hadn’t blocked or deleted him from my contacts, but I was still surprised when my phone chirped at me as I was changing out of work clothes and into something more suitable for a pint of ice cream and some streaming episodes of Queer as Folk on Interflix. Five minutes later and I wouldn’t even have noticed, because I’d already put my phone on the charger and hadn’t planned on taking it downstairs with me.
I held it, looking at the notification but not reading the message just yet. I let my thumb hover over the screen. One swipe and I could delete the message, unread. But then I’d have no idea what he said, and while curiosity might’ve killed the cat, not giving in to it was more likely to haunt me forever.
I miss you.
Well. That was nice. No lie, it lifted my heart a little. Made it go thump-thump. It also set my jaw and narrowed my eyes.
I didn’t answer him. Not at first. I let half an hour go by, though I knew he would see that I got his message and read it. I got myself some ice cream and settled on the couch, my phone with its unanswered message weighting my pocket. I turned on the TV. Chose my show. And finally, because I hated when my messages went unanswered, I took out my phone and typed in an answer.
Don’t.
The fact the little D became an R immediately told me he’d been waiting for my answer, phone in hand. JohnSmith is Typing appeared at once, and that set my heart to thumping harder again. My throat closed a little, but I forced away any kind of emotion. No relief. Especially nothing so disgusting as gratitude.
I’m sorry. I want to see you. Tonight? At our place.
Our place. As if we’d ever had one, or anything, really, that could truly be called “ours.” I was cranky about it, all at once, when I knew I should not be. My relationship with Esteban had come with rules right from the start, most of which I had written and none I hadn’t negotiated or agreed upon. I was hurt and stung by his sudden ending of it, but that had been one of the rules—that either one of us, at any time, could decide to break it off. I’d simply assumed I would be the one to do it. I deserved the slap to my ego. A reminder that no matter how special you think someone thinks you are, it’s never really true.
I’m busy, I typed.
A minute passed. Then another. He’d read my message, I could see that, but he wasn’t typing a reply. I put my phone to the side, wishing I could feel justified in being a dick about all of this, but finding very little satisfaction. I tried to get lost in the TV show, one of my favorites and usually a guaranteed pleasure, but watching Brian refuse to admit he loved Justin, even though it was obvious throughout five seasons of hot sex and angst, only made me think about Esteban.
I was lifting the phone to answer him when his message came through. One phrase, written in Spanish. Again, one of the few I knew without having to use a translator.
Por favor.
I did not dress for him.
I brushed my hair and my teeth and changed out of my pajama pants and into a pair of formfitting skinny jeans, paired with a slim-fit T-shirt. No bra, because I didn’t really need one. No garters, no stockings, no lace or satin. Plain cotton panties, bikini and not granny-sized but certainly not sexy. I slipped on a pair of rubber flip-flops that had seen better days, forgoing even sexy shoes.
When Esteban opened the hotel room door, the sight of his face made me want to cry. His eyes were a little red, as if maybe he’d been fighting his own tears, and at the sight of me his entire expression showed his relief. I wanted to hug him close to me and stroke his hair and shh, shh him. To make him understand it was all going to be all right.
Instead, I waited until he’d moved aside so I could go through the doorway without touching him. My heart again did that stupid thump-thump when I caught a whiff of him—soap and water, like he’d just finished a shower. I had to swallow hard. My fingers curled, fingernails pressing my palms. Facing away from him as I headed for the armchair, I closed my eyes for a moment to compose myself. Smooth my expression. This was all a game, but a serious game nonetheless, and I had to keep it that way or I would end up losing.
I’d brought the book I’d been reading, a spooky gothic tale called Those Across the River. I was only a chapter or two into it, and truthfully I didn’t expect to get much farther into it tonight. I hadn’t brought any cuffs or rope or even a ribbon, no whip or flogger. But I had brought a prop.
I settled into the chair and kicked off my flip-flops