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21
I’m losing my damn mind.That’s the only explanation as I sit up in bed, my hand to my sweaty chest and my breathing labored.
I bring my fingers up to my lips, the tips tracing the edges.God, it felt so real.The way his lips grazed mine, the weight of his body on top of me, the feel of his callused fingers sliding over my smooth creamy skin and then plunging inside me and hitting every spot perfectly until my orgasm rocked through me.Everything about the dream felt real.
And good.
Too good.
My body is still tingling with the after-effects when the shame slithers its way to the surface like it always does whenever I have a dream about Tristan.
Or fantasy as they’ve been lately.Every night for the past week, in fact.
I have to be losing my mind.That’s all there is to it.
I glance at the clock, then groan and fall back in bed, flinging my covers over my head when I see it’s barely six in the morning.
I try to sleep for another hour, but despite how exhausted I am, I can’t make my brain stop enough for me to actually fall asleep.Giving up, I roll out of bed and get in the shower.The water slides over my skin, washing away any remnant of my dream, but no matter how hard I scrub, I can still feel Tristan’s hands on my body.
The remorse isn’t as strong today as it was yesterday, but it’s still there, reminding me that the man I’m having completely inappropriate fantasies about is not only my dead husband’s best friend, but the one person who’s been there for me unfailingly this past year.I can’t imagine he’d be thrilled to discover the woman he’s no doubt taken pity on for a year is having dirty sex dreams about him.
God, what a laugh.He’s had sex with supermodels.The closest I come to being a supermodel is wearing Victoria’s Secret bras.
After my shower, I grab a granola bar and then look around my half-packed house.My offer for the house a few blocks away was accepted, and the sale on my house closes in a few weeks, so I’m frantically trying to get everything done.Why is moving so stressful?I know I should continue to pack today, but I don’t want to.I don’t really want to be alone with my thoughts either.So instead of grabbing the box of packing peanuts, I grab my keys and head over to my parents’ house.
“Well, this is a lovely surprise,” my mom says when she opens the door.She steps out, wrapping me in a hug, and her comforting embrace is enough to push away the remaining guilt that has lingered all morning.She pulls away but keeps her hands on my upper arms, her eyes seeing far too much.“What’s wrong?”
I shrug, pulling on the sleeves of my oversized cream sweater until they cover my hands.She frowns and then tugs me inside.
“Come on, let me make you some tea.My mother always said tea fixes everything.”
My mom has told me this at least a dozen times a year growing up, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face.I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve never liked tea.I always just doctor it up with as much sugar as possible and then attempt to heed whatever advice she inevitably hands out.
She busies herself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove and grabbing mugs from the cabinet, while I seat myself on a barstool at her counter.
“Oh, I meant to tell you.Angela’s son moved back here for his residency.He’s a doctor, you know.”
“Okay,” I say, not entirely sure where she’s going with this.
She sets a steaming mug of hot water in front of me with a tea bag inside.“It’s been a couple of months since you found Robbie’s letter.”
“Yeah, so?”
She stirs some cream into her tea and then clinks her spoon on the edge of her mug twice before placing it down and bracing her hands on the counter.“I think you should abide by his wishes.”
“You think I should start dating.”
She looks at me then and nods, her eyes drooping at the edges with a hint of sadness.She loved Robbie like a son, and I know this isn’t easy on her either.
I slide my pointer finger around the rim of my mug, feeling the warm steam against my hand, but it’s cool enough it doesn’t burn.My eyes follow the motion of my finger as I try to put into words how I’m feeling.
“I want to,” I admit, my voice low.“But I don’t know how.”I glance up at her then.“I’ve only ever dated Robbie.I wouldn’t even know where to begin.Dating apps sound awful, but how do you even meet a person in real life anymore?Not to mention…”
I fade off, my brain still struggling with how to explain what I want.
“What?”my mom asks.
Leaning forward, I say, “I want a love like you and Dad have.I want a man who puts me first, who drops everything to come to me if I need him.Who makes me laugh until I pee my pants.Who holds my hand when I’m scared or hugs me tight when I’m sad.I want a man who doesn’t see anyone else.A love stronger than all the challenges that’ll be thrown our way.A deeply devoted kind of love.”
