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G
I flip the paper over as if looking for more. Or him. But find neither. No more words. No Gavin.
After drinking far too much last night, things are a bit foggy. I walk to the kitchen and pour some food into Luna’s bowl before grabbing a glass of water. His note still in my hand, I walk over to the couch and plop down, a waft of his beachy pine scent hits my nose and I close my eyes as I inhale deeply.
I am so very fucked.
I reread the note a few times, trying to find some hidden meaning in his words. But nothing stands out. There is no hidden agenda. No secret meaning. It is just Gavin being Gavin.
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. Stare at the minor imperfections and connect them like constellations. Which makes me think of stars and night skies and sunsets. Ugh.
No way I can sit in this house all day. If I stare at the walls, my mind will keep venturing off into uncharted waters. Waters that always circle back to Gavin. I need to get out and do something. Anything. Maybe have a girl’s day with Shelly. Watch some memorable karaoke and eat fried foods with her and Jonas. Like we always do.
Rising from the couch, I go snag my phone from the charger and shoot a text to Shelly.
Cora: Got plans today?
Not sure what her work schedule is since it fluctuates week to week, but fingers crossed we can hang today. I just need to get out of my head. And in order to do that, I need distractions and meaningless conversation.
Shelly: Off work soon. What’s up?
Cora: Hang out when you’re done?
Shelly: I’m down. 2:00ish good?
Cora: I’ll be ready. See you soon.
Happy to have a planned distraction, I eat a yogurt with granola before heading to the shower. As I wash away everything that happened last night—professed feelings back out in the open and slapped across my friends’ faces—I make a vow to myself.
I will not fall in love with Gavin Hunt. Again. I will not. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself.
“How’s it look?” Shelly asks through the fitting room door.
I stare at myself in the wide, full-length mirror and wonder what the hell I am doing. Being a goddamn idiot is what I’m doing.
My fingers toy with the black lacy boy short underwear, my eyes glued to the bra—also lacy, but resembling that of a leather cage. If I really want to, I can snap a few clips and the two undergarments connect and resemble a vixen-like leotard.
“Uh… I like it. I think.”
Actually, I love it. Shelly doesn’t need to know that, though. But why the hell would I need to buy lingerie like this? Not as if I have someone to wear it for. And I haven’t stepped foot in a club in years—the only other place I might wear something like this.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I fiddle with the lace under my fingertips.
Not as if I need clarity to strike, but let’s be honest. I know why I want to buy this. Want to wear it. The exact reason. The one person who has infiltrated my thoughts since the beginning of the week is said reason. Gavin. I picked up this sexy-as-hell lingerie set because I was thinking about him when we walked past the table. Part of me snatched it because it is black and punk and risqué. Another part of me is optimistic I will have a reason to wear it.
Many women wear sexy lingerie because it provides an air of power. Even if no one else sees it, they come alive with the provocative attire on their skin.
“You think? How can you not know? Let me see,” Shelly insists. And before I realize what is happening, the fitting room door opens and she steps in.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-yell.
“If you didn’t want me coming in, you should’ve locked the door.”
“Lesson learned,” I mumble.
Shelly’s eyes sweep over the racy ensemble before a low whistle leaves her lips.
Her scrutiny isn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Neither is the fact that she stands in a five-by-five dressing room with me while I wear next to nothing and she ogles my semi-naked body. We have been friends long enough to have more of a sister bond than anything else. That is not to say we didn’t share the curiosity phase in our younger years. But t
