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Even just the idea of it gave me stress hives.
So I was pretty sure as I sat there alone in my empty apartment with my new/old last name, that I was never going to feel wanted again.
I mean, not that my marriage had been a heated one. Blake was happier lost in his fantasy worlds with female characters that were all boobs and hips and thighs, than in bed with me. And everything about our sex life made that clear.
Lights off.
Socks on.
Half-hearted.
Often unsatisfying.
And even when I did manage to get there, it was always—as Fee and the girls at work would call it—a "little O" and not the whole she-bang.
All those swirling thoughts mixed with the bottle of red wine I'd nearly finished—when I had never been much of a drinker because of my inability to handle it with any degree of decorum—made a crazy idea cross my mind.
Grab my credit card.
And call in at the office.
Because there was a man there.
And he had really pretty eyes.
And a really nice body.
And a deep, sexy voice.
And, if I tried hard enough, I could imagine that what he was saying to me when I called wasn't a job, wasn't something pathetic I was paying him to do, but something he wanted to say, something he wanted to do.
So I plugged in my information that I knew he would never see because Fiona was really good about having safeguards for callers' anonymity, I waited for him to answer.
Then when he did, I chugged the last of my wine, closed my eyes, and drifted away into the fantasy.
I meant for it to be a one-night thing.
But I hadn't anticipated how good it would feel, how empowered it made me the day after.
I'd held off for a while after, finding the confidence boost lasted several weeks before it started to fade.
I told myself I would find another way to get that same fix.
But then there I was in a low moment one night, my information plugged into a computer, his voice on the other end of my phone.
It seemed to go that way for a while.
One call would last me weeks, months if life wasn't too hectic.
But then, within a year, I was finding myself oddly addicted to the high of feeling desired, to having connection with a man. However fake it was.
The calls started to be every other week. Then every week.
Then, God, damn near nightly.
The nights he worked, anyway.
He called my 'baby' and my full name, and, God, the things he said. The things it did to me.
It started to fill a void inside I thought might always be painfully empty.
I knew how sad that was.
No one knew that better than me.
No one could ever say things to me that I said to myself about how weak and pathetic and needy I was for continuing on.
But I did.
Even though my bank account hated it, even though my savings hadn't seen any new deposits in six months.
I tried to remind myself that it was harmless.
It was fantasy.
Just like porn.
Or like the books I read and slipped away into.
No one was getting hurt.
Everyone was getting what they needed from the interactions.
But, deep down, I knew the truth.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
First, because one day, and there was no telling when, he wouldn't be available to me anymore. Then what? I hollowed out again? I went back to silent nights at home by myself? Clinging to my mom for every spare bit of attention and affection she could give me, pretending it was enough when I knew it wasn't, when I knew she was worrying about how dependent I was on her when I should have long ago developed a support system that didn't involve my mother.
Or, second, and worst of all... he would find out.
My stomach clenched any time I even thought those words, a sharp, unmistakable surge of bone-deep fear. That anyone, absolutely anyone, on this earth would know what I had been doing.
Let alone that person being Rush himself.
Which was why I had been so careful at work.
I scooted out the door right after he came in, avoiding anyone involving me in conversation, increasing the chances of him recognizing me from our late-night phone calls.
All for nothing, it seemed.
Because I was pretty sure, even after talking to him quite a bit the night before, that he had no idea.
There had been a couple of moments when I thought maybe he was onto me, but once I gave myself space from the conversations to analyze them, I saw that it was just my fear that made me think that.
I mean, I didn't talk a lot on the phone, to be honest.
I gave him short responses when he needed them, but for the most part, I just played to both of our strengths.
He was a good talker.
