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Tuesdays are Tillie’s night off. Normally she hangs out with her work friends, but I guess she’s feeling guilty about abandoning me soon, because she decides to stay in.
She agrees to watchThe Bachelorette, even though she despises shows that treat either gender like a piece of meat.
I torture her with two episodes, and then we switch to one of our comfort movies,The Princess Bride. We didn’t have a lot growing up, but we did have an ancient DVD player and this movie. There was a scratched spot on the disc when you got to the scene where they drink the wine with the poison, but we kids knew it so well that we could act it out while the laser tried to free itself.
My copy doesn’t have this problem, but even so, when we get to the iocane powder, we pause the movie and recite the lines in a fit of laughter.
Tillie makes fruity cocktails, and by the time we get to the last scene where Westley kisses Buttercup, I’m seriously sleepy. “What did you put in this?” I ask her. I skipped the giggly phase and went straight to knocked out.
“Ketel One,” she says. “It’s a lemony vodka.”
I peer into my empty cup. “It went down easy.”
She takes the glass from me. “You’re a lightweight.”
Tillie makes Marion fromIndiana Joneslook like a lightweight. She can knock back shots of whiskey like nothing I’ve ever seen. She says it’s necessary for her line of work.
But not me. The warm, gooey feeling takes me back to the wedding on Saturday, that lightheadedness of drinking straight bourbon on an empty stomach.
I glance at the clock. It’s after nine. Did Drew write me back? My phone is on the charger in my room.
Tillie cuts the lights. “You all right?”
“Sure.” I pad to my bedroom to check my phone.
There’s a notification that I have a new email. This jolts me awake. Could it be Drew?
I quickly open the app.
Yes. It’s Drew.
I gasp as I read the lines. I mean, I did say something a little risqué in mine, but this is an entirely different order of magnitude.
I fall back on the bed. He wants to figure out what will make me scream?
My whole body buzzes with heat. This must be the Drew that lures women into one-night stands.
I can see why.
Now I can’t think about anything but him in the shed. The rain on the roof. The unzipped coveralls. His mouth. His hands.
I’m completely taken over, electrically awake. What do I say back?
Do I act shocked? Do I not dignify it with a reply?
I lie there for a while, then decide to try a different tactic entirely.
If he can spill these feelings out to me, why can’t I do the same to him?
I’ll double down.
We’ll see who’s dying for the one-night stand after this.
You unzip my coveralls, your hand sliding inside them to touch me. The panties are a thin barrier, separating your skin from mine.
I gasp, arching my hips to meet you. You slide your fingers inside me, curling one at just the right angle. I suck in a breath. You’ve figured me out, learned me. My hands grip the side of the cot.
But you’re not done. You want more, lying over me, your face hovering near mine. Your hips grind against me, the silky boxers sliding against my body. I reach down to take you in my hands.
