Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
A woman with some pride wouldn’t have stayed over after he didn’t say anything back to me, nothing substantial, nothing real. He likes spending time with me and likes going to bed with me. That’s it. Which, if we were both in college that would be fine. But I’m pushing thirty and he’s looking at forty from the wrong side. That means the expiration date for casual flings is long past.
That night I spent at his place, madly in love and half crazed with it—I thought if I really let go, if I showed him exactly how I felt about him, that he’d understand. That he’d finally get it and want to meet me halfway. Maybe he wouldn’t declare his undying love for me but at least say he wants to be exclusive or that he wishes he could claim me and tell the world I’m his. That was my dream. That I was somehow so perfect for him that he couldn’t help rising to the occasion and telling me he wants to go for it, all in, go public and tell the world we’re together. That its more than just sneaking around and fucking on every surface in the crow’s nest and his house. I’m not complaining about the fucking—it’s five-star excellence, but it’s not enough. Big talk from a woman who got rejected and still stayed over for five orgasms.
The next day, I don’t hear from him at all which is unusual. I guess I have to get used to that. It’s not Wednesday for a couple more days and we don’t have a meeting scheduled for today. If I want to find him, I know when he’ll be at the Pearl, but part of me is ashamed to chase him down like that. I had to have some scrap of dignity or self-worth left. I woke up in his arms feeling lit from within just from the remnants of all that pleasure we shared. But it came back to me in episodes, complimented by the things he didn’t say and the time and silence I gave him in case it was just a need to gather his thoughts.
No, he’s a straight shooter, right? If he loves me, he’d have said so by now. We were adults, weren’t we? It makes me want to get on the first bus out of Boston and ride till I see the Pacific Ocean again. It still wouldn’t be far enough. The memory of him will follow me everywhere. The way I feel when he kisses me, the glory of triumph in his eyes when I reach for him again and again always wanting more. I got into this thinking I was strong, practical, that I could handle some casual hooking up with my teenage crush. I was just lying to myself and I didn’t think about the consequences, the fact that I’m going to walk around the rest of my life haunted by the weeks I spent with Mickey O’Halloran.
I delve into my prep course review materials and force myself to block out any distractions. This is what I can control. Living my life, pursuing my goals, and getting the hell out of Southie. I have to stick to the plan because deviating from the plan and having an affair with my brother’s best friend was dumb and self-destructive. My impulsive tip over the edge from desire into reckless abandon looks like some high-level self-sabotage or a pitiful cry for help when I think about it objectively. I wanted attention and connection. I felt bad about failing in LA. So the obvious answer was to move back home, get a job to save money for my CPA, and get distracted by the sexy, off-limits boss.
For a couple of days I keep a strict schedule of work, studying, and blaming myself for how miserable I am. When Wednesday comes around, I argue with myself all night, barely sleeping. He messages me once after three days, saying he’ll see me in the crow’s nest. I debate whether to go and treat it as a business meeting, communicating only the bare minimum of work-focused information and resist any attempts he might make to touch me or even speak on a personal level.
I abandon that idea because I know I’m not going to be able to resist him. I could cancel and say I’m busy. It might get me in trouble at my job by refusing a meeting with the boss, a meeting that was my stupid idea. Or option three, the choice the craven part of me begs for. Go to the Pearl, lock the door, take my pleasure and let him have me for an hour. Then walk out until the next week like I’ve had enough to hold me. Like I don’t feel my body scream for him every second of the day, like I don’t miss him to my core and wish I could call him like six times a day to hear his voice and tell him whatever boring thing I’m doing in the office. Missing him, mostly.