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In the middle of her telling me about the time she caught “Jake” sneaking out of the house at night, she grabbed the glass on her night stand and slowly sipped her water. Then she set it down and stared at me, her eyes widening with every second that passed by.
“Why are you...Why are you sitting on my bed?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m sorry.” I stood up. “My apologies, Miss. I must be in the wrong room.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. Are you here for Sarah?”
I sat down again, letting her tell me the same stories over and over—watching her remember and forget me within the same five-minute span. And the more she talked, the more I wondered if she knew she was technically dead. That her name and likeness were already transfixed to a plane, for a flight she’d never taken, a fake story she’d never hear.
Every now and then she’d come to and remember random, recent things, saying, “I’d always tell Jake about my husband, I’d say, He lied to you...He lied to all of us...He used that accident for his advantage...”
And although she could easily slip into another happy refrain and forget all about it, all I could see was my father—fucking lying, always lying. Using any opportunity possible to bolster his image, shunning me and anyone else who dared to stand in his way. Using the timing of my mother’s brain disease diagnosis and short life expectancy in conjunction with a plane crash to garner sympathy and funding.
All for the love of greed and worthless adulation. All for nothing.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fully function for the next few weeks, that I was going to fuck up more shit in my apartment like always. That seeing her like this, seeing her getting worse without having someone else trustworthy enough to talk about it with, was going to have a lasting effect on me.
Maybe it was good that Gillian left after all.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
THIS IS THE LAST TIME I will say this to myself.
The very last time.
My heart can’t take another sequence of angry arguments, another round in this dangerous game of “Will we make it? Should we make it?” or another spin on this never-ending carousel of highs and lows.
Yes, the way this man fucks me is incomparable and leaves me craving more the second he pulls out of me. And yes, the way he pleasures my pussy with his mouth and makes me come for hours on end will forever be unparalleled. But the way we fit (rather, don’t fit) has finally reached its climax.
I will not go back.
I will not go back.
I. Will. Not. Go. Back.
If he calls me, I won’t answer.
If he texts me, I won’t respond.
If he emails me, I won’t open the message.
I’m done.
I. Am. Done.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: I’ve heard this before...Let’s see how long you last...O_o
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
TWO WEEKS DOWN.
No messages from him, no calls.
Although, we did share a short, repositioning flight from Charlotte to Houston, and he did sign off on a form to confirm that a male passenger was being overly rude and offensive to me during the deplaning process. But, that was it.
He barely looked at me after signing the form, and we each went our separate ways to separate flights in the terminal.
He barely even looked at me...
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: I’ll reserve judgment until you make it to 8 weeks...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
FOUR WEEKS.
Nothing.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
NO COMMENTS POSTED.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
SIX WEEKS.
Still nothing...
Just a heavy heart and a sad realization that I really did love him, but I meant nothing to him.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
NO COMMENTS POSTED.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
HE FINALLY TEXTED ME today, nearly eight weeks after I walked away, and it wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even a hello.
It was a: I need to fuck your pussy. Call me when you get this.
I hope I never see him again. I’m moving on.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: You **are** moving on...
GATE B35
JAKE
New York (JFK)
I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of low voices outside my bedroom, heard them talking about me as if I wasn’t here.
“Why does this tenant keep getting this TV replaced?” One voice said. “I feel like he breaks it every week.”
“It’s one of his many hobbies,” Jeff’s distinctive voice floated through the halls. “He enjoys it.”
“Yeah, well. You should probably tell him that there are hobbies out there that cost less than a thousand dollars a week.”
“I’ll be sure he knows,” Jeff said. “Thank you once again for coming by.”
“Anytime. Literally.”
The sound of my front door closing and Jeff’s signature hard-bottom shoes walking across the floor were the next things I heard. His steps were getting closer and closer to my bedroom door, and without knocking, he stepped into my space.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weston,” he said, placing a paper invoice onto my dresser. “You’re also welcome, in advance, for finding a new botanist to take care of your plants.”
