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A glutton for punishment.
I wanted her touch.
I. Wanted. Her. Touch.
Cum stained my Kiton slacks, crusting against my skin. Untamed strands of hair stuck to my temples. I hadn’t done any grooming in days.
I glanced up, staring at my reflection in the shiny sink, not recognizing myself.
Sweat crept down my cheeks. A red flush stretched forehead-to-chin, ear-to-ear.
I flicked on the faucet and lowered my face beneath the current, releasing an anguished roar.
When I lifted my head up, Mom stared at me from across the island, reaching for her forgotten purse.
She clutched it to her chest, her voice small. “Are you sick, Zachary?”
I’m not sick, I thought wretchedly.Just in love.
T-MINUS 17 DAYS.
“Hello, you’ve reached Eileen Yang. I’m either on call or away from my desk. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“This is your ex-fiancé calling for the thousandth time. You would know we’ve progressed intoexterritory if you’d—I don’t know—pick up the damn phone, answer your emails and texts, or perhaps even—and I know this is a wild suggestion—notstand me up for five fucking hours at The Grand Regent lobby. As you can see, it is of utmost importance that we speak face-to-face in order to confirm that you understand our entanglement has officially ended. If you’d like to un-fuck me anytime soon, I’ll be waiting, doing my damnedest not to destroy every piece of your overprivileged life in the process. Talk soon.”
T-MINUS 13 DAYS.
When it came to my future demise, I always wondered when it would happen.
Not if.
Not how.
Butwhen.
It seemed inevitable.
In April, I would turn thirty-four, the age Dad had been when he passed away. How could he—larger than life, a pillar of the community, my idol—be outlived by me?
The answer—impossible.
And so, I no longer bothered trying to pretend to be an upstanding citizen of society. Or even aparticipantin civilization.
I succumbed to my demise, hopping restaurant to restaurant, hotel to hotel, hunting down the bane of my existence—Eileen Yang.
Problem was, I knew nothing about her. Didn’t know her likes and dislikes. Where she drank her coffee and went to pass time.
All I knew was she’d actually taken that sabbatical and fucked off into the unknown.
I’d hacked into all I could.
Her credit cards—unused.
Social media accounts—crickets.
Emails—all answered, except mine.
Tom reclined on my sofa, kicking his feet up on the armrest. “She’s off the grid.”
