And probably more awkward than simply telling Tripp that my original stipulation was null and void.
But the longer I thought about it, the better the idea seemed.
Sending him a screenshot of my last physical alleviated the need for a very necessary, yet very awkward conversation that we probably should’ve already had.
It also sent a not-so-subtle hint that I was ready for sex.
And, best part, he thought I was gone for a few days. If he was going to reject me, he could do it over text and give me time to build my defenses back into place before I had to see him again.
Or I would run away to Europe.
Either way, it was the most genius idea a coward like me could have.
Logging into my health portal, I took a screen grab of my clear test results. They were from right after I’d broken up with Josh for the final time, but I was guessing Tripp could make the connection that I hadn’t been with anyone else since. I was about to exit out before going back on a whim.
After adding a second image that noted my IUD, I attached both into a text to Tripp and typed up a message.
May as well really drive the point home.
Me: Nothing needs to change, but sex is no longer a hard limit.
I hit send before I could chicken out.
I wasn’t sure what I expected.
Tripp’s responses usually came immediately, but there was nothing. Radio silence. I tried to zone back into my show, but my mind began wandering.
And I didn’t like where it wandered to.
I fought the urge to check the tracking app since I was fairly certain I didn’t want to know where he was.
I’m pretty sure I just made a fool of myself.
After a short while, however, I did give in and check our text thread. Like I feared, there was a little notification under my messages.
He’d seen them as soon as I hit send.
He just hadn’t responded.
Yup. Definitely made a fool of myself.
I let out a mortified groan as I did my best to smother myself with a pillow.
Thank God he thinks I’m gone.
And thank God I have tequila.
Tossing the throw pillow aside I got up to change into my pajamas before fixing a drink. I looked at how inadequate my cute little glass was before grabbing one of the oversized water bottles I brought hiking. I transferred the alcohol over before adding more from the bottle. Since I wanted to be numb—not barfy and impulsive enough to send desperate texts—I didn’t go too heavy, and I cut it with a lot of lime and club soda.
I carried it back to the living room and waited for my embarrassed stomach to unclench so I could actually swallow something.
It wasn’t going well.
I was about to risk a drink anyway when someone pounded on my door, scaring the bejesus out of me.
Assuming they were at the wrong door—or someone fucking around as they walked by—I didn’t get up to answer it. Not until the knocking became incessant and was followed by a rumbled, “I know you’re in there, siren.”
Tripp.
