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ONE
Meghan
I let my finger slowly scroll up and down the last text Herc sent.
Herc: We can’t be friends. This is not college anymore, and it’s not friendship that I want from you.
That was about a year ago, and I’ve never responded.
So why don’t I delete the conversation from my messages?
“Your eggs are getting cold, dear.”
Food snaps me out of my momentary pain.
I smile at Mama, watching me expectantly across the marble breakfast island. She’s so proud of herself when she cooks. She only cooks here, at the lake house. Back home in Raleigh, we have a chef on staff.
Tasting the poached eggs, I make an appreciative noise. “Yum.”
“I taught myself how to do it on YouTube!” Mama exclaims.
The eggs are good. As is the pomegranate juice she poured and the toast she smothered in butter she picked up at the grocery store on our way to the cabin. This is how we do the “great outdoors” in our family.
“I love roughing it with you, Mama.”
She grins and congratulates herself on a job well done. I chuckle, amused at how animated she is when she learns something new.
Typically we go to breakfast at our favorite brunch place in nearby Chimney Rock when we’re together for mom-and-daughter time at the cabin.
“I wanted to make an effort. My little girl is so mopey. I was hoping for a good old-fashioned bitch session like we used to.”
Oh yes, Lilith’s and my favorite pastime.
But I haven’t felt like that version of myself for a while now. The fire and sass are gone.
Eyeing me, Mama sets her teacup inside the china saucer. “How long has it been? Since your sorority sisters have all been together?”
I have to think about it because the last year has been a blur. Not a fast blur. A slow, grinding, pointless blur with no end in sight. It hits me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “Since our trip after graduation.”
Mom brightens. “Yellowstone! I remember that. The first and last time my baby ever slept in a tent,” she says with a wink.
The trip had been Mila’s idea since she’d never been out west. The tent camping portion was Titus’s idea, for god knows what reason.
The things Herc and I did inside that flimsy canvas cocoon scared the bears away, I’m sure of it.
That trip marked the first time I asked Herc to chase me. He said it went against his desire to care for and protect me.
But once he understood, once he tried it—sneaking up on me in the woods, snatching me away, and holding me down while I pretended to resist—he took to it like magic.
And a kink was born.
Sweet Herc was a wonderful boyfriend. He was always there for me. In bed, he was tender, slow-moving, and attentive. And I loved that.
But it didn’t make me feel connected as taking it rough and hard. Taking risks with the man I love sets my soul on fire.
I’m not known as a patient person, but Herc compelled me to find my patience and grace. For him. Only for him. How he fumbled, apologized, and persevered was adorable. The first time we had sex, back in college, the way he finally gave in and let me help him with the condom was sweet and vulnerable. And finally, he was so endearingly honest about his understanding of women’s bodies that he asked me to help him find my clit. How many men would do that instead of assuming they were naturally the Michael Phelps of pussy, just diving in and barreling forward?
All of those details would be such sweet memories if Herc and I were able to be together. But it is what it is.
