“Our hookups. I enjoyed our time, and I appreciate you coming out here, but I can’t do that anymore.”Who the fuck am I? Abigail isn’t even mine, but I’m swearing off other women for her? “I’m getting too old for casual, but I’m not interested in pursuing serious with you. I’m sorry.”
Her brows pull closer while she strangles the straps on her handbag. “So it’s just…” I’ve embarrassed her. And it surprises me that I care. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Be safe, okay? Be happy. Don’t visit strange men in the middle of the night without a backup plan. Don’t let strange men pick you up from bars unless your friends know where you’re going.”
“Like how you meet all of your female friends?”
I smile. “Right. I could have been a serial killer. You’ve all survived me, but not all men will have the same intentions.”
“You mean the intention to fuck and send us away with a patronizing slap on the ass?”
I give a slow nod, and firm my lips. “Right. Say hey if you see me around, but this thing,” I point between us again, “I can’t do that anymore.”
She squirms in her heels for a moment and processes what she never thought would happen.
We’re both lost souls with a healthy hunger for sex. She was my girlfriend for one single summer back in high school, but once class was back in and there were other guys watching her do that basket toss in tiny panties, she jumped dicks and annoyed me so much, I swore I’d get revenge.
I guess my revenge was stealing her back. But now it’s done, and I don’t feel like I’d enjoy revenge fucking anymore.
In fact, I don’t think I’d enjoy any sex anymore, because I know I’ll be thinking of Abigail.
I finally break away from the doorjamb and take her elbow in my hand. I’m very gentle, because she’s much smaller than me, and her arm is delicate. But I turn her around and take her back to the car. There’s no need to drag this shit out.
I swing the door open and help her in. When she reaches for me and pulls my collar down, I let her press a kiss to my cheek. She stares into my eyes for a long minute where I worry she might kiss me for real, but then she nods, releases me, and closes the door.
I hurt her feelings. But I did it as gently as I know how. No one has to know I sent her away but us.
I watch her back out of the space she parked in, perform a U-turn that disturbs the dust beneath the gravel, then she drives away and gives me nothing more than the sight of her taillights as she rounds the bend and heads toward the road.
“Could’ve been worse,” I grumble.
I turn on my heel and head back toward the door, but a second alert buzzes my watch.
I could ignore it and assume it’s just Ashley. I could run inside and lock myself away, in case she’s changed her mind and decided she isn’t done just because I am. But something makes me look up. Something brings my nose into the air. And when I turn, I grin when a whole new car slowly pulls in, and the waning sunlight flashes through her back window and beautiful red hair.
Shiiiiit. I shouldn’t be this happy about a chick visiting me.
I walk forward as she parks her small car in the exact spot Ashley just left. It feels a little odd, a little dirty that she parks there and doesn’t know who was there a moment ago. Like maybe I should tell her. But the anxiety in her eyes as she pushes the car into park and switches the engine off slows me down.
I don’t want to add to her anxiety.
Her hair is down today, left loose so a few natural waves give it texture and make it almost look alight. I continue walking when she sits in her car a minute too long and stares. It takes everything in her to come to me, I know it does. It takes bravery, and a hefty dose of belief that she can trust me not to hurt her. But I can’t come to her home again. I can’t knock on her door and have her regret letting me in the next day.
For her to come here means she made the decision on her own. It means she drove all this way knowing where she was going and what would probably happen if she crossed those tracks that separate my place from the rest of town.
I need her to make these decisions for us both, and I need her not to regret it tomorrow.
I stop by her door and silently pull it open so the only thing I hear are the birds singing in the trees, the squeak of the door on the hinges, and her labored breathing, because she’s going to have a panic attack soon.
“Miss Priss.”
She turns to me with a sheet-white face. “Spencer.”
“Hey. You okay?”
She gently shakes her head and clutches the steering wheel so tight, her knuckles turn white. “Who was that woman?”
I look up, though I know ‘that woman’ is already gone. “Hmm?”