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“I’m so proud,” Jolene interrupts when I get to the bedroom part. “Is this how you feel when Reagan brings home an A?”
“Yeah. Those are exactly the same situations,” I say with an eyeroll. But I do wonder: would Evan give me an A for last night?
“Please continue,” Dorothy says, her voice not quite her own.
“Hey, not cool,” Jolene says. “You can’t masturbate when your girlfriend is dishing, no matter how sexy the story.”
Dorothy gets so close to her phone that we can only see one pantomiming eyebrow. “Unlike some, I don’t masturbate twenty times a day.”
“Who does?” Jolene makes a show of looking around, like secret masturbators might be hiding in her kitchen. “From my experience, after about ten sessions, soreness becomes a real issue, so whoever the twenty-times woman is, I’d like to ask her to give me some tips.”
“You know what, I’m done.” I move my finger to end the call.
“No!” they both shout in unison.
“I’m sorry,” Jolene says.
“Same,” Dorothy adds.
Fine. I finish my story, going into graphic detail in the process. Unfortunately, reliving it all makes me hot and bothered, and wishing for a lot more. Soon.
“But when I woke up, he wasn’t here,” I say in conclusion. “And I have no idea what it means.”
“Did he leave you a note?” Dorothy asks.
“Or text?” Jolene adds.
I examine my phone.
No texts.
I haven’t looked for a note, though. “Hold on,” I say and retrace my steps through the house. No notes in the kitchen, but when I return to the bedroom and glance at the nightstand, I feel like an idiot because there it is, next to the papier-mâché Evan.
A note written in masculine handwriting.
“What does it say?” Jolene demands.
Great question.
Hands trembling, I reach for the note.
Chapter Sixteen
Evan
Earlier
Despite the throbbing in my temples, I somehow manage to finish my surfing lesson, all the while hoping the kids can’t smell the vodka fumes on my breath.
Like with my Airbnb business, I do this volunteering gig as a way to socialize and stay down to earth, but today, thanks to a killer hangover, I wonder if I should’ve hired someone to cover for me.
But no. What if the guy I hired was some sicko? Not that the camp’s administration would let me do that anyway. Regardless of how much money I’ve donated to this place, their first concern is the safety of the campers.
As all the kids run off to their next activity, Reagan stays behind.
Harry sniffs Reagan like an old friend. The kid takes out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his pocket and shares it, winning major brownie points with both me and the dog.
I wonder what he wants this time. Has he sprouted hair in another location?
