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She sucked in a slow breath. “You really want to hear it?”
“Of course, I do, Court.” I headed toward my condo. “I want to hear everything you write.”
“Because you love my work?”
“Because I love your voice,” I said. “It’s as close to hearing you moan as I’m going to get for a while.”
“Please tell me that you’re joking.”
“You know that I’m not,” I said. “I’m listening …”
Courtney: Then
London, England
Second Season
I held back tears as I boarded The Tube in the afternoon.
I’d tried my hardest to deny it, tried to look on the bright side and be grateful, but I could no longer lie: Moving all the way to London was a mistake.
I sensed it the moment I stepped onto that plane six months ago. I felt it the moment the first sheet of rain kissed my skin on my new apartment’s balcony, and when my advisor insisted on taking a tourist’s walk of Buckingham Palace to “cheer the fuck up a bit.”
Still, one glance at my Instagram account, and someone would think that I was living the ultimate travel journalist’s dream.
Perfectly curated shots of me standing in front of the best theaters, sipping the best teas, and admiring the best artwork, was all a heavily filtered lie.
The program seemed like a bit of a scam—a way for the writers to gain “exposure,” while being nothing more than glorified interns who begged for scraps.
The only amazing things in my life were all the same: Wednesdays with Kyle.
As promised, he called me every week like clockwork, my nine in the morning, to his four, and we caught up with each other and ignored the giant elephant that stomped around the room.
Why can’t we be together?
The question had always been there, hanging in the room without making itself known.
The wonder lurked under the surface of every conversation, hid itself between the words we did and didn’t say.
We tiptoed around the subject here and there, but we never opened the door on a relationship.
We set silent boundaries when we spoke, never mentioning if we were dating someone, never addressing the possibility of someone else.
Of course, sometimes I caught pictures of him in gossip magazines and via the sports version of TMZ, and my heart would drop to the floor. I’d spend an entire day in sleuth-mode, searching for every shred of information on whoever his latest was, but it never got me anywhere.
They never lasted past one story, and he never mentioned any of them to me.
He insisted that his main goal—until I returned to the States—was football.
Two more seasons, Court. Two more seasons…
Kyle: Then
Boston, Massachusetts
Third Season
* * *
Kyle Stanton Fumbles Ball in Final Seconds, Falcons Lose Super Bowl Game
* * *
Kyle Stanton Seen Partying After Loss, Angers Fans
* * *
Do We Need Kyle Stanton?
* * *
Me: Court, I know it’s not “Wednesday,” but can you call me? I haven’t heard from you since before the game …
Me: Court?
Me: Court, I don’t feel like emailing and I keep getting your voicemail when I call … I need to talk to you.
Courtney: Then
London, England
Third Season
Ring! Ring! Ring!
My alarm clock sounded at the crack of dawn, bringing me into another day that I was sure to hate.
I was three years into the program without a single job offer or extended-stay scholarship, and I was anxiously anticipating the fourth and final season.
Getting out of bed, I took a shower and checked my mail slot. There was no sign of scholarship news, no sign of anything.
Only a student loan bill.
I grabbed my bag and headed to the door, finding myself face to face with a red-faced Kyle.
What the …
Blinking a few times, I took a step back. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stared at me.
“Kyle, we had an agreement …”
“Fuck the agreement.” He pressed his lips against mine, kissing me long and hard. He gripped my waist, pushing me back into the room and shutting the door behind us.
Without a word, he stared into my eyes and pushed me onto the bed.
I moaned against his mouth as his hand went under my dress and pushed my panties to the side, as he slid two thick fingers inside of me.
“Court?” he said, kissing me harder.
“Yes?”
“Stop fucking with me.”
“What—” I gasped as he bit down hard on my bottom lip. “What are you talking about?”
He unbuckled his pants and unwrapped a condom, handing it to me so I could slide it over his length.
“Why aren’t you texting me?” He slid into me all at once, forcing me to claw at his back. “Why?”
I moaned, digging my nails into his skin a bit deeper.
He fucked me without asking any more questions. I didn’t offer to give any more answers.
I screamed his name as I came, and he held me taut against him, as he found his own release.
