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Don’t apologize. You were right. Are you feeling better now?
I bite my lip as I think about just how much better I’m feeling.
Yes. Much better.
Any specific reason you’re feeling so good?he asks.
We had sex last night. My stepbrother and me.
God, please don’t be mad, I pray.
I’m happy for you. How was it?
I laugh.
It was amazing. Three times and once this morning.
Is it weird that I tell you this stuff?
No. I like when you tell me this stuff. I can’t explain why.
Good, I reply.I like telling you.
Then, I put together my next text carefully, biting my bottom lip between my teeth as I do. At some point in the last few days, the scales have tipped in Garrett’s favor. Even as he dismissed me as just being something physical and tried to cut me off completely after the lake house, I still knew that it would be him over Drake.
I hope you know this means that you and I can’t really do what we used to do.
A few long minutes go by while I wait for his response. When the typing bubbles pop up, I struggle to breathe.
I’m proud of you for that decision. And I understand.
I was thinking I’d still like to send you a gift. Can I do that?
I smile at the screen, but then my smile falters. Is this wrong? To accept gifts from another man after sleeping with Garrett? I mean, in his own words, we’re just playing. It’s just physical. As long as he’s not going to commit to me, I guess that means I can still do whatever I want.
Plus, this still sort of counts as work.
Yeah. I have a PO box.
Will you send it to me, please?
So, I do. And I bite back the guilt that follows. I should really tell Garrett about this, but then I remember he never told me he owned a sex club, so fuck him. He can get over me having one pen pal. Who sends me gifts. And sometimes sees me naked.
Okay, he would be pissed, but still…he owes me. And it’s not like we’re dating for real.
Don’t worry, he says.What I’m sending you, you can use with him.
Now that has my curiosity piqued.
RULE #25: IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS.
Mia
Garrett didn’t text me last night. And when I messaged him, he gave me a generic excuse about being busy, and it was starting to worry me. So here I stand, on his doorstep with donuts and coffee.
“Morning!” I chirp as his door opens.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking confused. He’s in his running shorts and a tight T-shirt, looking too fucking good.
