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“Hang on.” He crosses the room and spins me into him, pressing his lips against mine. “One for the road,” he whispers with a smile.
I blink at him and turn away without another word. Somehow, I make it down the stairs without running or falling, and I don’t breathe again until I’m in my car.
I turn the radio up to drown out the mass of thoughts in my head as I drive away from the cottage, but it doesn’t work.
All I can think of is the way my lips are still tingling after his last kiss.
Easy breathing, easy stretching, calming thoughts. I haven’t done any yoga in a while, but the urge overcame me this morning to get out my mat and do it.
It’s a preventative action. A coping method I pull out when things get a little murky. When that addiction nudges at the back of my mind.
We all have something we’re addicted to. For some people, it’s alcohol or drugs. For some people, it’s real things that are tangible. Things you can physically touch and taste and see.
For other people, they’re addicted to less visible things. They’re addicted to feelings and sensations and things that can slip away as easily as water can run through their fingers.
That’s me. That’s my downfall. The things many people take for granted, the things they don’t always recognize are there—they’re the things I’m addicted to.
Intimacy. Connection. Love.
I’m in love with love, and that only strengthens my desire for the other things. I crave the intimacy of knowing someone so deeply that there’s no part of their soul you haven’t seen. I need the connection of someone knowing me that deeply.
They’re dangerous things to hold together. They are strings, they are connecting factors, and they are a bittersweet addiction. If you add the three together, they’ll eventually form the addiction to the person.
This is why I have rules. Does it really matter if I sleep with a different guy every couple of weeks? Does that make me a horrid person? I decided long ago that it doesn’t. I’m as human as everyone else. I have the same base desires, but I have to protect myself as I fulfill them.
Ross was great. Despite what Dayton and everyone else thought, there was no intimacy. He was my fuck buddy and I was his. It all worked perfectly fine until I found him buddy-fucking another person.
He was my safety net. Because we rarely spent any time together outside of each other’s pants, there was no cause for a conversation or anything that would bring us together intimately. Ross was safe and he was stable—for a few months, at least.
Since we “broke up,” I knew in my heart that ‘one person, one time’ was the rule I had to go by. Then there was really no chance for anything to get intimate.
Until fate stepped in and threw Tyler in my path for a second time. Fate’s Big Fuck-Up is the only appropriate way to describe this whole situation.
Fate’s a bitch. Truly, she is. I bet she’s sitting with a glass of wine, watching me keep to the confines of the relationships I’ve set myself. She’s seen how well I’ve been doing and has decided to shake it up a little… Or a lot.
I can only be thankful for the short introductions Tyler and I had. If I knew his last name, it would be far too tempting. I could ask Sheila, sure, but I can’t. That has to be my challenge, how I stay in the box. Don’t ask Sheila. Don’t find out his name.
Do not be tempted.
I snatch up my ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Liv!” Dayton cries down the phone. “This is a disaster! Everything is going wrong!”
Good morning, Bridezilla.
“What’s happened? Wait, no. Hang on. I’ll come over.”
“Oh, God,” she moans. I imagine her tugging at her hair in frustration.
“Give me five minutes.” I hang up and sigh.
I don’t know who’s more stressed over this wedding—her or me. If there’s not something going wrong, like the bridal store ordering in the wrong size shoes, then she’s asking me a bunch of questions about the bridal shower and bachelorette party.
Are they done yet? Have I organized anything? Do I have any idea what I’m doing?
Someone needs to remind her that shit is a surprise.
I brush my hair from my face and dump some biscuits in Angus’s bowl in response to his incessant mewing. “Oh, don’t look at me that way,” I say at his affected look. “You can’t always have the canned food. There’s nothing wrong with cat biscuits, you little snob.”
