Page 51 of Ghost

Abby

We’d reached the two-week milestone. It wasn’t much by most people’s standards, but by mine, it was a huge accomplishment. Excluding Kelvin, I hadn’t been with a man long enough to realize what his eye color was.

After staying up and watching two episodes of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. It seemed Porter was looking for exactly what I thought I wanted, which thrilled me to no end. But, because I was a girl, I twisted the fact that he liked to lie by my side in bed into a potential problem with our quickly developing relationship.

“Do you like sex, love sex, or see it as something that, I didn’t know, kind of has to accompany a relationship or whatever?” I asked.

He looked up from lacing his boots. “What do you mean?”

“Sex. Do you like having sex?”

Boot laces in hand, he gave a slight shrug. “Love it, why?”

An involuntary sigh escaped me. “Just wondering.”

He finished tying his boots and stood. “What’s on your mind, Abby?”

“Nothing.”

It was Saturday morning. On the previous night, we’d been on a dinner date. When we got home, we watched television and then went to bed together, all without having sex. I was thrilled that he often stayed all-night and loved sleeping with him. I probably didn’t want to worry about his sincerity, sexual appetite, or his loyalty, but I did, nonetheless.

I worried that I wasn’t sexy enough to cause him to want me. I wondered if there was someone else. It was also possible that we weren’t sexually compatible, me desiring sex on a more frequent basis than he was willing to give.

In fact, the possibilities of potential problems were endless.

“You’re standing there with a blank look on your face,” he said. “And, you’ve done that thing with your hair twice in the last thirty seconds.”

I started to object to his statement, and then realized I was scratching my nose with my index finger.

“I just. What,” I stammered. “What happened last night?”

His brow wrinkled. “What are you talking about? What happened with what? We watched that show, and you fell asleep with your head on my chest.”

We were getting ready to leave in an all-day motorcycle ride, and I didn’t want to ruin it. I desperately needed to know why he didn’t like me enough to have sex and had to ask.

I prepared for the inevitable. I was too short, had no boobs, and talked too much. In anticipation of the reasons he was sure to give, my gaze dropped to the floor between us.

“We didn’t have sex last night,” I whined.

His eyes narrowed. “And?”

“Well, I’m wondering if you’re attracted to me like that? You know, sexually.”

He spit out a laugh. “You’re being serious?”

I bit against my lower lip and nodded. I was on the verge of tears and hoped I could manage to keep from crying. I desperately wanted things between Porter and I to work, but not if he didn’t want me as much as I wanted him.

He sauntered from the living room to where I was standing in the kitchen, and then stood right in front of me. Through thin eyes he glared at me until I felt small, and unimportant.

“You’re wondering if I’m sexually attracted to you?” he asked.

A verbal response would have started the waterworks, leaving a nod as my only means of acknowledgement. I nodded.

“Do you remember telling me you didn’t want this to be about sex?” His brows raised. “On the night this ‘relationship’ started?”

I didn’t remember saying that, specifically, but I vaguely recalled making a few references that may have been construed as such. I gave another series of nods in agreement.

“You said your former boyfriend saw you as ‘someone to screw and nothing more’.” He raised his index finger. “Then, you said, ‘when the anger faded, I realized no one put me in that relationship but me. I decided the next time I decided to commit to someone, it was going to be because I wanted to be in a relationship with them. Not because I wanted sex’.”