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I can never get enough.
There’s a heart-eyes emoji next to the line, throwing subtlety out the window.
I scroll down.
There’s another picture. This one from the beach. She’s huddled next to me and her eyes are closed in contentment. I’m giving the camera a cocky grin and my hands are a little too low on her body for the picture to look innocent.
She captioned it: When he touches me…
There’s a ‘dead’ emoji there.
“The hell?” I whisper, floating down the line of pictures of us.
Kaelyn didn’t tell me about this.
Is that why she’s not answering?
I call her.
The line rings. Rings.
Voicemail.
I check the time.
It’s late. She’s sleeping.
I imagine her sprawled out in her bed, her bonnet halfway off her head already, slipping down her back the way it usually does. Her mouth open and drool sliding out. Her legs and arms sprawling all over.
I know her.
The way she sleeps. Eats. Prays.
This is new.
With a huff, I get up and pace the room. I’d drive to her place if I didn’t have this meeting. I’d bang on her door and demand an answer.
We said subtle.
We agreed on subtle.
I inhale deeply. Try to calm down.
Why am I freaking out about this? They’re pictures on her profile. We’re doing that. We’re pretending to date. But we’re kissing now. Touching now. I explored her on my desk, and she cried my name in a way she never has before.
Is it still pretend?
She posted more pictures. More intimate pictures.
Why didn’t she ask me first?
I freeze. Just stop in the middle of the room.
There it is.
Why I feel so discontent. Restless. Broken.
This is something mom would do. Take my pictures, my videos, my being and paste it online for her own gain. Without my permission and without my approval. She has no care for my feelings.
