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Chapter1
Lily
Idon’t always lose time, but when I do, my dildo is never where I left it.
The purple dong, still bouncing because I’d hit my head—yes,head—on it, pulls off the glass with a satisfyingpop, leaving a suction cup-shaped smudge on the daylily print that hangs over my bed.
I stare at it and the smudge, shaking my head, because whythere, of all places?
“It’s better than a dick-shaped smudge,” I mutter and chuck the wandering peen toward my open side table drawer. It thuds into the interior, rattling and clinking the cups and bowls that litter the surface.
A blue tumbler, half full of water, teeters dangerously close to the edge.
I ignore it, along with the rest of my depression dish hoard, and shuffle through my ground-floor condo to answer the knock at my door.
The knock which seemingly brought me back. Earlier than usual, I note as I glance at the oven clock.
10:39 PM.
Knock, knock, knock.
Only one person would be so insistent, so late.
Partially registering that my condo is tidier than it had been a few hours ago, I flip on the lights as I go from room to room, because despite the hour, every light in the place is off. Which made sense since, until a moment ago, I wasn’t here.
Well, I was but wasn’t.
The moment I reach the front door, my eyes flutter closed and I lean against the jamb.
“Go away, Tad.” A long breath escapes on the tail of his name, as if it too wants to be free of him as badly as I do.
“Come on, Lily. I just want to talk.”
“No, thank you,” I say, sliding the security chain into place with a soft, comforting clank and backing away a few steps. My thumbnail finds its way between my teeth, like always. That poor thing hasn’t seen the edge of my finger in its whole existence.
“Lily, you know I’m not leaving until I see you face to face. I’ll stay right here knocking and talking through the door until that nosey neighbor across the hall calls the cops again.”
He goes silent and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this time he’ll just give up and leave.
He won’t. But there’s still the smallest ember of hope.
“Your mom just wants to know you’re OK. You haven’t spoken to her in weeks.”
Because I haven’t worked up the courage to tell her I broke up with her golden boy.
“I know, Tad.” My thumbnail wasn’t cutting it anymore, so I switch to pressing the inside of my forearm, hoping to find a spark of pain.
On paper, Tad and I are the perfect couple. Both from good, hardworking families. We both have decent-paying, albeit soul-suckingly boring jobs. We both went to a mid-priced state school. It’s where we met. Where we fell in love.
Tad’s smooth, tenor voice cuts through my thoughts. “Lil, I brought your favorite flowers.”
I stretch to my toes and peek through the smudgey peephole.
A small bouquet of orange lilies wilts in Tad’s grip as he stands in the brash fluorescent lighting of the condo vestibule.
Like everyone with a flower for a name, people always assume I like lilies. Anytime they see a lily on anything—pictures, coffee mugs, bedspreads—they think of me and if they’re feeling spendy, buy it for me.
And of course I always accept with a beaming smile no matter what, because who am I to tell people to stop thinking of me?
