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“Gifts,” Karl corrects.
“Get the fuck off of my property,” I growl and shut the door in their faces.
I’m so fucking angry at Karl for that little stunt, and hard as steel at the thought of Sofia that night we had tapas and champagne. I stomp upstairs and get in the shower, letting the hot water roll down my face. I need to stop thinking about her.
But I can’t. I roll my time with her on a loop in my mind. That night I took her back to the villa after dinner, her red lipstick smeared down my shaft after I fucked her mouth. I squeeze my dick and pretend it’s her hand on me and not mine.
I haven’t been able to get hard at anything except memories of her. Not porn, not other women. Not the hookers Karl just brought for me. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be able to be with another woman who is not her.
* * *
Over the next several weeks,everyone checks in on me periodically on a rotation. I was surprised when Adrian even showed up. According to him, the band thought that since he had the most experience with depression, maybe we could commiserate together. The gloomy fuck just made me sadder, and he ended up excusing himself when he realized he was having the opposite effect.
So when the doorbell rang today, I think it is Fritz’s turn again, and instead, I hang my head in shame when I open the door.
The woman outside my door takes off her sunglasses so she can give me a good look, but she has the decency not to react. Instead, she takes a step forward and takes me in her arms, rubbing my back.
“Hi, Mom.”
“We need to talk,” she says.
Scheisse. “I know.”
* * *
I washa couple of glasses and pour myself a glass of whiskey. “You want one?” I ask Mom.
“You have any tequila?”
I take a deep breath. Why do all the women in my life have to like fucking tequila? “No,” I say and hand her the glass of scotch.
“Roger says her name is Sofia,” Mom says. She’s never been one for mincing words.
I smile sadly into my glass before my sip. I nod.
“Tell me about her.”
“Not much to tell. Thought she was the one, but clearly she wasn’t.”
Mom cocks her head to the side to study me. “Why do you say she wasn’t?”
“She didn’t want to get married.”
“I don’t see the problem,” Mom says, and I gape at her.
Is this woman kidding me? “I wanted to get married.”
“Why?”
I narrow my eyes at her. What does she mean ‘why?’ Because I do.
“Bren, sometimes I think you’d make a better engineer or mathematician than you do an artist.”
“What do you mean?”
Mom folds a napkin neatly onto her lap after dabbing the corner of her mouth. “Your personality. It’s too incongruous. Your mind needs things to be just so, but that’s no way to foster creativity.”
I suck in air through my teeth. “What does any of this have to do with Sofia?”
