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I open the unlocked door . . . except Samantha’s not alone.
“I am not wearing a butt plug with a raccoon tail while he takes me from behind,” a female voice says.
I stop, going deer in the headlights frozen at the group of people staring back at me.
“Uh . . .” A noise of uncertainty is all I can muster.
“Luna?” Samantha says in surprise. She’s leading the group, sitting crisscross-applesauce on the floor with the circle of people. “Sorry, everyone.”
The apology is for the others, but her eyes are locked on me.
“I–I . . . Sorry!” I try to backpedal and close the door.
“Wait!” Samantha says, hurrying over to me. Lowering her voice, she asks, “Are you okay?”
I should say I’m fine and go home. Or at the least, tell Sam to call me later. But what pops out is, “I had sex with Carter.”
“Practice group’s over, people. Everyone out,” Sam says flatly, her eyes wide and jaw hanging open.
There’s a mumble of voices, and I think I hear someone say ‘what?’ and ‘can she do that?’ But with Sam helping people up, the other group members take the hint and rise, walking past me. I apologize over and over, hating the attention until one girl confides that they’re not mad at the interruption. They’re mad they’re not getting to stay for the tea.
“I don’t know your situation, girl, but there ain’t no shame in getting some when you need or want it,” she reassures me. She cuts her eyes to the man at her side, sassily adding, “As long as he doesn’t want you to be a face down-trash bandit while you do the deed.”
“It was a fake scenario, Rebecca,” he says with an eye roll. To me, he says, “We do those to practice what we’d say when a client says something like that.”
I blank for so long that Rebecca pats me on the shoulder and leaves before I can compose a response to her assessment. Way too late, when she’s down the hall, I call out, “Thanks!”
She looks back and smiles, but it’s in that ‘what a weirdo’ way that I’m all too familiar with.
Great, the raccoon-obsessed lady thinks I’m the strange one? Seriously?
Once Samantha gets the apartment cleared—promising a makeup session to one guy who doesn’t seem to want to leave—she slams the door shut. “Tell me everything.”
I start with the dinner—how Carter kissed me in front of everyone and kept his hand on my thigh the whole time. I kick my shoes off as I relive the foot massage with her, sit on the couch as I tell her about letting Carter’s fingers do the walking right up to my center, and then mindlessly bounce my knees as I reveal how we had sex.
I look up to judge her reaction, but she’s wearing the blank, non-judgmental therapist’s face she’s been working to perfect, not her bestie face. “What?”
She blinks patiently, letting the quiet grow. “What else?”
“Huh? That’s everything.”
She tilts her head curiously, still silent. I sigh and confess, “It was so damn good, Sam. Better than I ever dreamed. Carter’s got a filthy mouth, and I loved it. He made me ask to co—”
Sam holds up a finger to stop me and asks tightly, “He denied you pleasure?”
My eyes drop to where I’m fidgeting with the hem of my dress. “No, definitely not. It was . . . to show I was a good girl.”
“Ooh, I like where this is going!” When I risk glancing up, Samantha’s therapist face is completely gone and she’s smiling widely. “And were you a good girl?” she teases.
I giggle and nod. “A very good one.”
“Then I’m confused. So, why are you here?”
And poof, there goes my good mood again.
“He, uhm . . .” I swallow, not wanting to say it aloud because it’ll make it real. Right now, I can pretend it was a nightmare. Why not? It’s no different than pretending I’m Carter’s wife.
Except the way I felt with Carter inside me. That was real.
“Luna?” Sam says gently as she scoots next to me on the couch.
“Afterward, he flipped out.”
She flinches. “Flipped out how, exactly? Are you okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Not like that,” I say quickly. Sam’s ride or die, and if I don’t call her off, she’d be busting down Carter’s door. With a kitchen knife and the Taser she carries on campus.
“Okay.” She sighs in relief.
I’ve told Samantha a lot, nearly everything. We’ve talked about sex for hours . . . in theory. I’ve helped her study for countless tests, read her research papers, and we’ve talked about past partners. Hers, obviously, though I’ve shared my paltry experiences. I’ve just never explicitly told her . . .
“I haven’t done it with an actual person before tonight. Well, other than oral,” I confess quietly.
“Hadn’t. You have now.” The correction is delivered with a waggle of her eyebrows. She doesn’t seem shocked in the slightest. When I look at her questioningly, she laughs. “Did you think I didn’t know that? It’s literally going to be my job to know the things people don’t tell me and lead them to discover themselves. For now, that’s easiest with people I know well—like my friends.”
