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A nerd in high school. A stripper to get through college and earn my degree in accounting. A married accountant. A grieving widower. A man so completely lost that I turned to anything I could find to take the world out of focus. Then someone beaten down and full of regret, and now … whoever this new Orson is.
I want to be someone patient and at peace with the world when, in fact, I’m just a horny man standing in his kitchen, waiting for leftovers to heat up.
It sounds pathetic, but is it still pathetic if I enjoy it?
Fuck, I’m too in my head.
I grab my dinner from the microwave and head out into my small backyard. It’s mostly bare except for one garden bed and a small bench, where I take my dinner to sit and eat.
Then I tilt my head back and look at the sky.
I can make out a light smattering of stars shining back at me, helping me refocus my perspective. Instead of letting all of this get ahead of me, instead of freaking out about what’s next, maybe I need to lean in.
I’m holding on to the wordstraightbecause it’s who I’ve always been, but maybe that word is what’s holding me back from who Icouldbe.
It’s not like I didn’t enjoy the lap dances I’ve given men in the past. They might not have done much for me sexually, but they were fun. I enjoyed the rush of knowing it was my body turning them on, and hell, maybe that’s all tonight was.
Because Fordwasturned on.
The hard evidence trapped between us gave that away.
A day at a time, each moment as it comes. I can do that. It’s fine.
I just have to be careful because leading Ford on when there’s no chance between us isn’t something that I ever want to do.
I can already feel the shift taking place. My willingness to date, to open up, maybe not be secluded all the time. My friends are great, but even though I’m close with Art, Keller, and Griff especially, I still feel like I’m on the outer. Like they have their people, and I’m the one who came in last.
It’s all bullshit negativity trying to feed on me because I’ve never done a thing to try and change the perception I have. My friends never make me feel unwelcome. They’ve had my back—especially Art—since I returned to Kilborough, and when the Divorced Men’s Club started, Art pulled me into the group without me even needing to ask.
I smile at the memory and start shoveling my food down. I’ve been incredibly lucky in life to have been loved the way I have been. My family, my wife, my friends. And I still have so much ahead of me.
This thing with Ford … maybe it’ll burn, or maybe it’ll fizzle away to nothing.
Might as well be game for the ride.
Balancing my dinner on my knees, I pull my phone from my pajama pants pocket and type out a message.
Me:Thanks for inviting me tonight.
I have no idea if he’ll write back or not, but I leave my phone faceup on the bench beside me anyway. Nerves are dancing in my gut, and I actually laugh at myself for being such an idiot. It feels great, this hint of possibility. Of …want. I want to see his name on my screen; I want to talk to him, and hang out with him, and resist the urge to roll my eyes when he says something flirty and gives me that smug look of his.
Am I going through a midlife crisis? Is that what this is?
The skin over my stomach zaps and sparks at the memory of his rough hands spread across it. I shovel more food in my mouth, ravenous from what felt like a long night, and have to admit to myself that it felt good. Really good. And if I freak out or hide away in a hole, I won’t get that again.
And I think I want that again.
I just don’t want to mess with Ford’s head while I figure this out.
My phone dings beside me, and my gut jumps in excitement.
Ford:You’re welcome. Gonna make it every week?
Me:If I’m invited.
Ford:It’s a volunteer thing, so technically you don’t need an invitation.
Hmm … less flirty than I’d expect from him. Ishefreaking out over what happened? He’d been fine during the drive home. So is this standoffishness for my benefit or his?
