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We said “love you” and “bye” and I stared at the phone after hanging up.
Alexis would call my parents next. Then they’d call me to rehash everything, with endless questions about why I’d broken up with Dexter, who was so successful. Why I didn’t have every aspect of my life together. Why I was such a disappointment to them. Why I wasn’t more like my sister.
I yanked open the middle drawer of my desk. Behind the bags of candy, Adderall, a tube of lube, and Patrick’s napkin was a heart-shaped box I’d collaged in high school. When I was sad or angry, had a dark fantasy or a thought no one could know about, I scribbled on a scrap of paper and hid it in the box.
Quickly, I removed the papers from the box and stacked them in the back of the drawer. Opening my wallet, I took out a twenty-dollar bill, then another. I put both twenties in the box and closed the lid. The beginning of saving. Freedom.
My hand nudged the napkin from Patrick. One glimpse of his precise handwriting, and a chill shot through my belly. A phantom bill brushed my breast.
A disappointment? My parents couldn’t even begin to guess the truth.
I took thelittle liesnapkin out of the drawer and traced it down the inside of my arm.
The texture was different than money, lighter and airier, but my skin popped into goosebumps. My breath came faster. I tugged at the neckline of my sweater to expose my collarbone, teasing the napkin over the ridge, and shuddered. It slipped down between my breasts, nestling into my cleavage.
“Patrick,” I whispered.
Jesus, him with some other girl. I couldn’t imagine it, didn’t want to.
Last night was nothing I’d ever hoped for and everything I’d ever dreamed about.
Staring at the heart-shaped box in the open drawer, I slipped off my fluffy sweater. The cocktail napkin tickled my breasts.
“Patrick,” I moaned again. “You’re a bad idea. I shouldn’t even talk to you.”
Then don’t talk,I heard him say, before he covered my mouth.
My jeans came off. My legs were shaking. The napkin moved in circles over my thighs. When I couldn’t take it, I staggered to my bed.
Usually, I lay on my back to get myself off. Legs together, holding still, going slow and keeping quiet. That’s what I was used to, how I thought it would always be.
Until last night.
On all fours, I slipped a hand inside my bra to squeeze my breast, calling back the shock of Patrick touching me by the ATM. The pinches on my nipple, the caresses like he owned my flesh, the sick excitement when he slid the rolled-up twenty into my cleavage. The flood of want between my legs.
My whole body shuddered. When I cupped my pussy inside my panties, it was soaked. My hand knew what to do so well, but the light touch couldn’t mimic Patrick. My fingers, sliding into wet heat, felt nothing like the shock of his penetration.
Does it hurt, Christina?
No, it didn’t hurt. My strokes were soft and sweet, the way I’d always liked it.
That wasn’t enough now.
I shoved a pillow between my legs, grinding furiously against it, starved for more. Bracing one foot on the floor, I thrust against the edge of my mattress, my hand trapped in my panties. I was fucking my bed, riding my furniture, hearing his voice. He’d followed me into my bedroom, my body, my mind.
“Oh God,” I sobbed into my sheets. My fingers worked furiously on my clit. The seam of the mattress chafed my lips. “Patrick, please… Don’t stop, don’t ever stop… I say yes…YES…”
My knees went weak. My pussy convulsed again and again. I collapsed onto the bed, a hot mess, moaning and coming.
Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. I let go of the pillow and checked my phone.
12:58 am.
I stared at the fading numbers on my palm. Then I dialed and pressed cancel.
This was some fucked-up shit.
Alexis saying yes to Daniel was totally different than me saying yes to Patrick. Diamond rings were nothing like twenty-dollar bills. I wouldn’t see any candles and barges in Patrick’s room, wouldn’t hear any loving promises.
