It was the way Imogen spoke about him that did it. It might be bad with Leo but I get the feeling it would be far worse with him.
I’m safe here.
Could I live here? As in really live here on a permanent basis?
I don’t know the answer to that question. What I do know is that Leo broke his promise and I don’t know how to feel about it.
He told me he wouldn’t fuck me. Told me he had absolutely no intention of doing it.
Then did it anyway.
No matter how confused my own feelings, it’s clear that he feels nothing for me. Once he was done with me, he was picking up the phone like we were in the middle of a meeting. Out the door like he had nothing to make him stay.
I hear the helicopter taking off before I reach the front door. I glance out. He’s gone. I’m alone.
I head upstairs and go into my bedroom. I walk into the bathroom and sit on the toilet, feeling him leaking out of me.
This is the part they never tell you about sex without condoms, the undignified shuffle to the bathroom to avoid UTIs. And in my case, the fact that he soaked into my panties so much I have to change them.
There’s no laundry basket in my room and I’m not sure what to do with them. One more thing to find out.
I bundle them with my pants, getting my bottom half changed into new things. The sting of the crop makes me want a skirt rather than pants. I find one that reaches below my knee, nice and conservative.
Too late for that.
The voice in my head is far smugger than I feel. I feel violated and I’m not even sure why. It wasn’t like he did anything I didn’t want to do.
Maybe that’s the problem. Why did I want to do it? Why did I agree to it?
I don’t know when Sergio and the kitchen girls will be back. There’s no harm in going down to look at Leo’s boat. Doesn’t mean I’m going to try and leave.
I want a phone so I can call Fleur, find out if he was telling the truth about speaking to her.
There doesn’t appear to be one anywhere in the house. I’m guessing they’re all behind the multitude of locked doors.
I give up searching in the end. I grab a snack from the empty kitchen, then down a cold bottle of beer before heading outside. The sun’s on the way down. The wind’s getting up but it’s still fairly warm.
I remember days like this, exploring the island with Bea, the two of us coming back stained with blackberry juice and cut from the bramble thorns. Sitting on the porch and drinking homemade lemonade that Leo’s mom made for us.
We rarely saw his dad. Always busy with work.
It’s strange to think back to that time. The island is the same. The house is the same. Yet so much is different. He’s grown up. Me too.
The teenage me would have been stoked to see me right now. Not just because I just drank a beer.
We had sex. It was my dream for so long. Why am I not more excited about it?
I guess it’s because these weren’t the circumstances I thought of when I imagined doing it with him.
I always pictured gentle love making in my bed, him sneaking in late at night to induct me into the secret world of sex.
How dumb, right?
The reality is very different. It was good, I can’t deny that. But it was also painful. Not physically, unless you count the crop. But mentally, it hurt. What hurt the most was knowing how little it meant to him.
I know how mafia marriages go. I know I’m just one more notch on his bedpost. For all I know, he’s off seeing one of several mistresses right now.
The thought makes me feel sick. Why is that? Why do I care who he sleeps with? It’s not like I want this to work out, do I?