I fold my arms across my chest, leaning my back against the built-in desk cornering my large space. “No one said you were desperate, and going on a date with Aaronconstruction guydoesn’t make you desperate,” I say, hating how snotty my friend can sometimes come off.
Pushing her Prada glasses to the top of her head, her silky dark hair spills past her shoulders as she does. She blinks before tugging at a clump of mascara at the end of one of her lashes. “It’s only partially because he works construction,” she admits with a wrinkle of her nose. She’s been judgmental so long that she doesn't even wince when she judges someone’s entire life and potential suitor-status based on knowingonething about them. She’s been judging that long.
“I’m just not… ready.”
I want to say I wish it was just the latter of the two reasons, but pointing out her personality flaws when she’s hurting is something her mom does just fine–she doesn’t need me to do it.
Goldie still hasn’t opened up to me about what happened at her PR job, only that she’d been unfairly let go and that she had no plans of fighting it.
I sip my coffee. “You know, whenever you wanna talk about it…” I let my sentence fall, and she flashes a quick acknowledging smile.
“I know. Thanks.” Spinning, she takes in the studio with the new floors and paint. Looking down at the shining wheatland reclaimed paneled flooring beneath her black sandals she lets out an impressed breath. “He really does have nice wood.” She taps her foot, and I beam down at the gorgeous floors.
“Yeah,” I sigh, “I’m low key in love with these floors.” I lower my purse to the floor before setting my coffee next to it after taking the last drink. “I may have him redo the floors at my house.”
“The floors in your place are already wood,” Goldie challenges, running her hand up the freshly painted wall. “What color is this?”
“Mega-grey-ige,” I respond to her second question first. Then, “but the floors in my place are damaged in some spots and it’s not exactly the color I’m digging. They’re practically cherry.” I tap my foot on the floor. “This is so gorgeous. So much better.”
Goldie nods, sighing kind of dreamily as she sinks into a folding chair in the middle of the studio.
Last week, I painted this place with my dad while my mom and Goldie watched Jett. Today, because the space is pretty small in comparison to a residential job, my floors were replaced. And I love them.
I’m so excited to have the studio shaping up. The kilns were delivered earlier today, too.
I should be bouncing off the walls with all the positive things finally in motion for me. And I am. Only, the thing that has me smiling, joking, laughing… Its got nothing to do with wood and kilns.
Well, maybe wood. But not flooring.
Beau.
What we did last night… Obviously I’ve never explored playing with breast milk because Beau is my first boyfriend since giving birth, and Dustin would probably rather sign away his fortune before watching me feed his son.
But Beau’s interest in me and my body… I can’t help but be supremely flattered. And turned on. Because not only does Beau want to worship and ravage me, but he wants to explore things I never knew could bring us closer. I never thought of my ability to feed Jett as anything other than an evolutionary trait meant to keep my child bonded to me and alive.
But watching Beau lick me from his arm… seeing how hard he got watching me expel… The funny thing is, I thought being with a twenty-six-year-old would make me insecure, and yet, I’ve literally never felt sexier or more confident, and it’s all because of him.
“I love it.” She stacks her ankles out in front of her. “I’ll wait here while you do what you gotta do, okay?”
I pat her head as I pass her, making my way to the kiln room sitting in the back of the studio. I had some fans running back here earlier, drying some pieces I painted. It felt good to sink my hands into the cold, wet clay. I didn’t have the overwhelming urge to create, but the fact that I’m nearly ready to open my new studio in a new town–I can’t deny I feel stronger. Prouder.
I’d love to write someEat, Pray, Lovebook where I give success advice to the rest of the thirty-something single mom divorcees who have been left for a girl with a season for a name and silicone for tits. I want to say “here’s what I did to feel better” then go on to say “and here are the steps you have to take to get there.” I want to be an empowering success story.
The truth is far from a woman’s guide to betterment. If I had to write a book on how I moved past the heartache of Dustin leaving me and our baby for SummerfuckingBanks, well, it would be one page.
With one name
Beau.
His determination to win me over, be real and honest with me, and lay his vulnerabilities and feelings out on the line gave me confidence. When my offer was accepted at the studio, I didn’t know what was going to happen and I still don’t know if I’ll be as successful as I was in the city. But the fact that I felt like I could attempt something in the first place–hisadoration and admiration gave me that.
“I gave Beau a blow job last night,” I call to Goldie from around the corner as I turn the dial on the box fan near the door. With the lights off and the back door still locked, I turn the corner back to the bare main studio and find Goldie standing with her jaw practically on the floor.
“Excuse me, why did you wait all day to tell me that?” she asks, poking me in the ribs. I cover the spot with my hand.
“Oww,” I say, drawing out the moment to prolong giving her my most truthful answer. I don’t care about admitting the truth, but I know once I say it outloud, I will by default start taking things with Beau much more seriously. That’s the way it works with voicing your feelings–somehow volume seems to give them a surge of validity. “I was just processing.”
She rolls her eyes, disbelieving of my blatant bullshit. Because it’s a blow job, not fortune telling. What’s to process? “Process what? He’s hot, he likes you, he has a dick, and you sucked it.”