Page 47 of Forbid It

I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I skip to the next playlist and the opening chords of my song play through the speakers.

His head snaps to look at me instantly, and I know he’s busted.

“What about this one?” I ask him, tilting my head and widening my eyes innocently. It’s a slow song, a jazzy number from my last album that I worked really hard on. I had always wanted to play with my vocals, letting myself run on words with a sax and cello beat underneath. I was proud of it— it’s one of my favorites from the album—and here it is on his phone.

“We can skip this one.” Robbie stretches his hand over again, but I press his phone to my chest.

“No chance.” I don’t cackle but it’s close. “Come on, what workout is this one?”

He shifts in his seat. He changed into shorts before getting in the car and his hand rests on his bare thigh, slightly hitching the material further up his leg.

“It’s uh… it’s for a cool down,” he admits finally, cheeks pink. The way he says it tells me he’s lying, I glance back at the playlist and it doesn’t have any emoji’s nor a beats per minute number. Instead it’s a simple fire emoji.

Wait…is this his sex playlist? The song is sexy even for me. It always makes me want to pull my hair in my hands and sway my hips to the rhythm. If I’m on his sex playlist, what do I do with that information?

For the first time, I let the whole song play through. My mind whirls as the air in the car pulses. I bring my feet back to the floor. I don’t know how to recover from this.

“You hungry?” Robbie asks, looking over his shoulder as he indicates. “Services up ahead.”

“Uh…” The song continues playing in the car, my own voice echoing through the speakers crooning thinly veiled metaphors about orgasms. God, how I long for the cricket. “Yeah, sure.”

For the first time in my life, I’m not hungry.

At least, not for food.

We’ve pulled into the services before the song has even finished, and he’s out of the car before I can say anything, the sudden rush of evening air filling the car and snapping me out of whatever that was.

He opens the back door, making me jump a mile out of my skin, and grabs his hat from the back seat. “What do you want?”

I blink. I don’t even know where we are. “Anything, I’m easy.”

“Stay in the car,” he tells me, pulling his hat low on his head.

I say okay, but I don’t know if he hears it as the door closes behind him. He walks off in the direction of the entrance, and I can’t help but watch him out the side mirror as he goes. He’s pulled into the far corner of the lot, facing a hilly bank, the lights of the freeway visible through the copse of trees. It’s pretty empty, with only a few cars parked near the entrance, so I take the risk to climb out of the car, desperate for fresh air to hit my heated skin. I did not expect my silly game to take such a… turn.

So he listens to my song while he…

Does he listen to it with women? Does he listen to it when he’s by himself? What man in the world listens to music when he masturbates?

I try not to think about the faceless women he spends his time with. He’s not a monk. He’s a successful athlete, surely he’s had many women in his bed.

But the thought of him with those other women, listening to my voice...

I can’t tell if the heat in my stomach is jealousy or something else.

I pull my hair off my neck and hold it in a loose bun against the top of my head, too lazy to reach in my bag for a scrunchie.

The parking lot is quiet, the rush of the road and the occasional chirp of a bird in the bushes the only noise. It’s peaceful, calm. Unlike the blood rushing through my veins as the enormity of what I’ve done hits me.

I know Pip said she’ll speak to my parents, but is that really going to make a difference? I either turn around now or go home in a few days, but the outcome will be the same.

Meetings and interviews and flights and appointments, but this time with some lovely added admonishment sprinkled on top. I can just imagine my mother pacing around her apartment in New York, shouting at my father on the phone before he hangs up on her to have another round of golf.

I’ve been trapped between them for nearly twenty years, pulled and pushed like an inflatable punching bag they use to get their hits in. I just need to let a little air out. I just need some space to breathe.

I take a deep inhale into my lungs and let my hair fall back around my shoulders.

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