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“Holley—”
“I’ll be okay, Jake,” I say softly, pleading desperately with my eyes for him to give me this. To give me this moment of peace as I crawl off to my townhouse with my tail between my legs.
It’s more than obvious by the expression on his face that he doesn’t like it, but in the end, he relents.
“All right.”
I try to make myself sound chipper as I promise, “I’ll see you tomorrow for date number five! Bowling! Woo-hoo!”
He doesn’t smile.
“Hopefully without gastrointestinal issues,” I add, blushing at the amount of TMI, even if it’s fake TMI, almost as soon as the words leave my mouth.
I give a little wave and test the waters by stepping away a little.
He lets me go, even stepping back to give me some room.
I force another smile and turn for the door, striding through it and back to the front door.
When the slap of the hot evening air hits my face, I deflate instantly into the sack of misspent emotion I really feel like being.
I don’t dally, though, walking right to my car, climbing in, starting it up, and driving straight home without pausing to have any kind of a moment.
I parallel park on the street—which, I admit, takes me a while—climb the steps to my front door, unlock it, step inside, close it behind me, and secure the lock before falling against the door in collapse.
I allow all of my anxiety to wash over me in a wave, bringing enough moisture to my eyes that I can barely hold back from actually crying.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
I take several deep breaths and pick myself up off the floor and head down the hall to my living room. I toss my bag onto the couch, and desperate to wash this feeling off of myself, I trudge down the hall, intent on taking a shower so hot it would burn the flesh off a desert ant.
Once in my bathroom, I turn the taps to hot and set about stripping off my clothes. They smell a little like Jake thanks to his close proximity when I was leaving, and it’s almost enough to send me into another tailspin.
I grab my strongest smelling bottle of body wash from under my sink and take it into the steamy shower with me.
Of course, at first contact with the water, I jump back into the glass door so hard it jars my elbow, and I reach carefully around the boiling stream of water to back it down by about a million degrees.
When it finally cools to a tolerable temperature, I climb underneath the spray and hose down my head. Water runs all over, down and into my eyes and coating the strands of my hair until I have to surface long enough to breathe. I scrape at the hair plastered to my face and push it back into a smooth fall down my back.
The water feels good—cathartic—and as a result, I stay under it long enough to turn my fingers pruney.
When I emerge as a new woman, I forgo underwear and settle for just putting on one of my baggiest men’s T-shirts. It’s not any man’s shirt—it’s mine. I bought it from Walmart. But as far as sleepwear is concerned, the oversized nature of it makes it more comfortable than anything else I’ve ever owned.
Now that I’m out of the hot water, the air seems chillier, so I grab my short silk robe from the hook on the back of the door of my closet and toss it on before turning off the lights and heading for the kitchen.
I grab a bottle of wine from the cabinet where I keep my supply, a glass from the cabinet in the corner, and make the two one with each other. And let’s just say, I go extremely heavy with the pour.
I toss back a couple gulps quickly and then move on to the sipping portion of the evening. I want just a tiny buzz. Enough to take the edge off my feelings, but not so much that I’m not coherent. That wouldn’t be very helpful in writing my article at all.
Scooting out of the kitchen and grabbing my laptop from the shelf with my free hand, I pull out a chair at the dining room table, open up my computer, and get ready to get to work.
The blinking cursor taunts me as I chew my lips, so I take another swig of wine and bolster my confidence.
I’ve been here so many times. In the space right before the creative flow. I just have to force myself to type things—anything—and once I’ve moved past the blockage, it’ll pour out of me without inhibition.BA and Elle sure concocted a recipe for love at their one-on-one cooking class, a romantic experience they’ll never forget.
