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Instead, I turn up the radio, rock out to some new country, and let the ice-cold wind hit my face as I drive through the twisting pine roads home. I’m going to need a good night’s sleep if I’m ever going to get through tomorrow.
*******
It’s four a.m. and I’ve been pacing for hours. It’s been one nightmare after another all night long. Confrontations with mother. Confrontations with Alec. An elephant that I’m not sure belonged at the ceremony. Maybe the elephant was me. It was my brain using simple metaphors telling me I’m the one out of place, the thing that doesn’t belong.
I lean my head back on the pillow and stare up at the fan whirring above me. I should be thinking about how I’m going to get out of this mess I created. Instead, I’m thinking about Austin and his big, rough hands. He was so sweet to make us dinner, and the conversation was flowing so nicely. I smack my hand over my face. Why did I ruin it? Even thinking about the way he touched me has my clit throbbing again.
I contemplate rubbing one out. Maybe it’s the relaxation I need to get through the night. People say that helps, right? An orgasm releases endorphins, and endorphins help relieve anxiety. It’s a medical thing. If I were smart, though, I’d be lying next to Austin right now, pushing my fingers through the hair on his chest while he sleeps soundly beside me, both satisfied, maybe even connected, and endorphins fully released.
I reach for my phone and pull out the texts he sent me this afternoon. I know how dangerous it is to read them, but I can’t help myself.
Austin: Can we talk?
Austin: You’re making too big a deal out of this.
Austin: It’s pretty rude to eat and run.
Austin: That last text was a joke.
Austin: I liked where tonight was going. I hope you change your mind.
The last text came in two hours ago, and nothing since.
I huff out a heavy sigh and stare at the picture of him I have saved as a screenshot on my phone. I took it at the rodeo last summer. I’d caught him walking on the way into the chute. He’s wearing tight jeans, chaps, his signature Stetson, and a button-down shirt.
Apparently, this is who I am now. The girl that masturbates to photos of the man she could’ve fucked… if she weren’t such a giant chicken.
My vibrator lies on my clit as I try to remember the way he smelled, the way his sandpaper hands felt against my skin, the hoarse groan in his throat as he thrust his thick fingers inside of me, his laughter at dinner, the way he listened to me talk, how he gave a fuck, the way he let me name is dog, his palm as it covered my throat.
Every muscle I have tightens and my body contorts before finally euphoria waves release over me in tiny bursts of pleasure.
I sit for a moment in the wet puddle I’ve created, staring at Austin, wondering what he’s doing right now. I’m sure he’s not jerking off to a picture of me.
This might be a new low. But for now, my anxiety has lessened.
With my phone in my hands, I scroll back to my text messages, and type out a reply.
Me: I had a good time tonight. Sorry I freaked out. Trust me, though, it’s for the best.
It’s not what I want to say, and it’s not what’s right. But one thing is true, Austin distancing from me is for the best. If not for me, for him.
Chapter Four
Austin
The fanciest place I’ve been to is the rodeo banquet held by the association last year for champion riders. That said, fancy to a bunch of bull riders is your nice pair of jeans, a big ‘ole belt buckle, and a shirt that doesn’t smell like you’ve been riding in it. Same goes for most of the weddings I’ve been to. Folks gather by the creek, and we have a barbeque afterward. Ribs, slaw, cornbread, and a cake one of the ladies from church made.
This venue is nothing like that. Light pink and green flowers hang from a long wire over the top of banquet tables with white, starched tablecloths. The river is in the backdrop but there are no tiki torches and nobody has a grill set up. Instead, there’s a line of violinists with a few of those big, long stringed instruments that sit on the ground. I can’t remember what they’re called. Either way, they’re all playing elevator music.
The nights are cold, but the days are warming up. I reckon it’s still too early for an outdoor wedding, but here we are. Rich people do what they want.
Waiters circulate wearing black bowties and white, collared shirts. They’re even wearing cloth gloves. I can’t figure what the hell is on the tray, but when the waiter stops, he explains every morsel as though he’s reading a card.
“These are the bloody marys. The chef has used fresh tomato juice, hand squeezed from the garden, as well as vodka that’s been imported from Mexico. We’ve infused pickle juice, garlic cloves, and tabasco sauce from Spain. We also have the apple pie quiche with a swirl of savory cream on top, and a ham and spinach waffle covered with reserve cheddar and figs. Would you care for any, sir?”
I shake my head. I’m all for some good food, but that doesn’t qualify. Stepping by the waiter as politely as I can, I scan the crowd for Dolly. Maybe being here will be a giant embarrassment. I am wearing my nice jeans, but judging by the crowd, that’s not good enough. I guess at a minimum I could take off the hat.
When I see Dolly from across the room looking back at me, my heart starts jumping, and what I’m wearing is irrelevant. All I’m thinking about is her.
