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“Okay, I guess. I mean, Thanksgiving was okay. Now everybody’s gone, and it kind of sucks. ”
“Where’d they go?”
“Janelle and her fiancé already went home. My dad went over to some friends of our family’s in Marshalltown. ”
“He left you home by yourself?”
“He wanted me to go with him, but I didn’t feel like it. ”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Late, I guess. It’s for dinner, but this friend is a judge, too, and they usually drink after dinner and sit around telling judge stories for hours. ”
“Huh. So what are you up to?”
“Nothing. ” She makes this soft sound, kind of laughing at herself. “I’m bored. Three days off school, and I officially have no idea what to do with myself. Plus, I’m lying on my bed in my room, which hasn’t changed since high school, so I kind of feel like I’m in this weird time warp, like I never went to college at all, and nothing that happened at Putnam was real. ”
I reach down to adjust myself. I’m picturing her on her bed, and it’s not helping the hard-on situation. In real life she’s probably got her sweats on and her hair in one of those floppy-mess ponytails, but in my head she’s wearing that pajama top from the first night at the bakery, white panties, and nothing else. Lacy panties—the kind that go down over her hips like shorts, her pussy a pink shadow underneath.
“But then you wouldn’t be talking to me,” I say. “Since you know me from Putnam. ”
“Yeah. It still kind of feels like that, though. ”
“Like what?”
There’s a hitch in my breathing. I’ve got my hand on my cock, stroking.
Fuck. I shouldn’t. She’s interested in another guy, and I’m an asshole. I shouldn’t.
But I don’t stop. I haven’t heard her voice in a few days. I’ve been alone so much, I’m not sure I can stop. My hand is dry and hot, pulling so hard it’s almost cruel.
“Not real,” she says. “Like my worlds are colliding, only not, like, colliding. More like mingling or something?”
“Are you sober?”
She laughs. “I am. That just makes it weirder. Are you?”
“Yeah, why?”
The reason I’m picturing those white panties so vividly is she wore them in one of the pictures online.
I know her pussy is pink beneath those panties, shaved, because I’ve seen it.
I don’t deserve to be
her friend.
I have to stop.
“Your voice is all scratchy,” she says. “You don’t sound like you. ”
I’m not who you think I am.
I’m an asshole with my hand on my cock, picturing you, because I want you.
I want you all the goddamn time, and it’s making everything impossible.
“Who do I sound like?”
