We have the whole week planned out. His city isn’t exactly a hot tourist spot, but there are plenty of things to see: museums, parks, shopping centers. We’ve also planned rest days in between—though ‘resting’ might be the wrong word.
I can’t wait for you to touch every part of me, words whispered through a screen as Nick showed me exactly how he wanted me to touch him, trailing his hands over his chest. Down his stomach. Wrapping around the prize just out of view.
The TSA officer barely kept a straight face as he pulled three different vibrators from my luggage. I’m sure Nick has his own, but I prefer to use familiar tools on my partners. One of our planned stops is for a novelty sex shop over an hour away, where we can choose out some new things together.
But all those plans mean nothing if Nick doesn’t respond to my messages.
Sighing, I type out one more message to him.
Hope everything’s alright. I’m going to rent a car and head to a hotel. Please let me know if you need anything.
The ending is too formal, more like we’re colleagues than dating, but I don’t know what else to say.
I sling the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder, happy to have the familiar weight against my hip again. Then I grab my suitcase and walk toward one of the rental stands.
The last-minute expense doesn’t bother me as much as his silence. Although rental cars aren’t cheap, I’d initially planned to arrange one until Nick insisted it wasn’t necessary. “We’re spending the whole week together anyway! We can use my car.”
Just as I finish signing the paperwork and paying for the car, my phone buzzes in my pocket. My lips twitch in a smile. Ofcoursehe has the worst timing. A few minutes sooner would have saved me half a grand. Oh well, it’s probably better to have a car anyway, in case whatever has delayed him happens again.
One employee hands me a key while another walks me to the car. My phone continues buzzing at irregular intervals, new texts coming through rather than a call. I ignore them, even as my worry increases. I can’t tell if these are ‘oh shit, I’m so sorry, I’m on my way’ texts or if they’re something else.
As soon as my luggage is in the back and I’m settled in the driver’s seat, I open the new chain of messages.
The very first sentence makes my heart drop to my stomach.
Nick
This isn’t going to work.
I’m sorry that I waited until you came out here to say this. When you suggested this trip, I really did want to see you.
But as time went by, I started to second-guess everything, and well, you already had the plane ticket and everything booked.
I know it was shitty of me to put this off. I’d planned to still hang out with you, tell you we should just be friends in person rather than over the phone like a dick.
Or maybe I was hoping once I met you, I’d change my mind again.
Shit, sorry, I’m rambling.
I’m sorry again. This is a me thing, it’s not really about you.
Sorry.
Four times. He apologizedfour timesin the span of ten minutes when he couldn’t be bothered to text me at all for thelast hour.
I slump forward, leaning my head against the steering wheel. A squeakybeepstartles me, and I straighten up again. It takes me a second to realize that undignified sound is my car horn for the next week. No blaring honk to express my rage and frustration. Just a pathetic little bleat that might not even be heard over the other sounds of traffic.
I look back at my phone again. I could rip into him, tell him how he’s not only wasted my time, but my money. Ask him for a better explanation than ‘second-guessing’ himself. What the fuck is there to second-guess? Yes, we discussed sex at length, and I packed with that in mind, but this was still just a first meeting. If he didn’t like something about me, he could have expressed that any time before I flew over a thousand miles to be with him.
If I start typing now, my anger will infect every word. At least he didn’t fucking ghost me. Yes, I’m stuck alone in an unfamiliar city, but it’s better than waiting all night to hear from him. Thinking the worst had happened—like a terrible car accident on his way to the airport. At least he spared me that.
Taking a deep breath, I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, needing some distance from it so I don’t do something I regret. Even if our relationship isn’t salvageable—and I’m not taking someone back after they practically abandoned me like an unwanted puppy—I don’t want to be the asshole who flips out at someone after a rejection.
I put the car in reverse and back out, focusing on navigating the narrow aisles of the parking garage. The too-tight turns and packed cars are just the right amount of annoying to need my full attention. Once I’m out of the garage and onto the airport’s street, my thoughts are free to spiral again, and I can’t have that.
I pull off to the side. It’s already dark outside, the sun set a while ago. My stomach grumbles a complaint. The food on theairplane was fine but unsatisfying. I need to find somewhere to eat and a hotel to stay at.
And something to drink, while I’m at it.
