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“Fuck!” I shouted. “Fuck, fuckity, fuck-fuck-fuck!”
My entire body cringed. I debated opening my window and hurling myself to my death, only to remember we lived in a two-story home. I walked toward the window and peered down. The drop wouldn’t be enough to kill me, but maybe if I landed just right, I might slip into an endless coma.
I turned back to my bed and sighed. Battling a throbbing migraine, I walked forward and picked up the fully visible Fleshlight and economy-sized tube of lube. Once those were in my hand, I collected the discarded dildo that sat directly in front of my door. I hid all of them inside of my bedside table. Next, I gathered the vomit-covered sheets and pillowcases, throwing the larger chunks of undigested burger in the trash can beside my bed. With the linens crumpled in my hand, I threw on my bathrobe and made my way downstairs, bracing myself for the walk of shame I was about to perform. The front door closed as I made my way down, and when I reached the bottom of the staircase, there was a note taped to the banister that said,We will never speak of this morning again. I don’t care if some therapist says it will help. We take this to the grave.
When I was done in the laundry room, I returned to my bedroom and fell onto my bare mattress. I hadn’t even gotten my legs on the bed before my phone started blaring a torturous tune. I reached and grabbed it off the bedside table, taking a look at the screen. A picture of Rhonda and I, complete with her miraculous beehive and terrible blue eyeshadow, flashed across my phone. I hit accept and put it on speaker.
“I need you to be as quiet as possible because my head feels like it’s stuck in a vise.”
Her voice came through heavy and harsh. “The truck got here two hours ago. You were supposed to be here at six. Bossman is pissed, and I’m not too thrilled either, doll.”
Unloading a truck filled with boxes of stomach-churning food sounded like physical and psychological torture, and I hoped my groan got that point across. “No. Dear God, no. I can’t. Rhonda, I just can’t. I’ll vomit on everything and everyone.”
“What’s that?” She asked someone in the background. “Fired? Fired and you wish he’d never come back to town? You never want to see him again, and you hope that when he dies, the last sound he hears is your laughter? Christ, Gray, that’s harsh, even for—”
I hung up on her and frantically pounded out a text message, hitting send seconds before Rhonda called back. I tapped accept and screamed like a madman into my phone, “Tell him to check his messages!”
“What the hell are you talking—”
“Tell him to check them,” I screamed again. She let out a thunderous laugh. “No,” I said, knowing that she’d somehow just ruined my life. “What did you do?”
“It’s Sunday. I was just screwing with you. You’re off today. Dear Lord, we were off the phone for less than thirty seconds. What did you do?”
I groaned, and then I screamed a string of expletives no man should ever scream at a lady. She continued cackling as I unleashed holy Hell on her. At some point during the annihilation of Rhonda Macknemera, my phone beeped. I looked down to see the loveliest of sights. It was a picture of Gray I’d stealthily taken when he was stocking canned goods at work. A beautiful image of the back of his head, bald spot fully on display. My mouth watered as butterflies fluttered in my stomach.
I rejected the call. “He’s calling me now. Why are you like this?” I whined. “I hate everything about this day.” The phone beeped, and I declined him yet again.
“He’s just going to keep calling,” she said.
“I hate you. More than I’ve ever hated anyone in this life, that’s how much I hate you.”
“I need to know what this text said. Come on, throw Momma Rhonda a bone.”
“We are never makingMomma Rhondaa thing,” I said as I pulled up my messages. “Oh, fuck a duck and screw a canoe.” After rejecting another of Gray’s calls, I read the message to Rhonda.“Don’t be mad. I’m hung. Over.”
“That is the best thing I’ve ever—”
“Die.” I hung up on her and threw my phone across the room, into my hamper. It beeped three times in a row, and I lunged across the room for it, despite my stomach’s insistence that I halt all communication and vomit uncontrollably.
We need to talk
Answer the phone, Kent. I know you’re up
Please?
My forehead was pouring sweat as I made my way back to the bed. I pulled my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth as I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hey,” he said with a steady voice.
“Hey, so … about that text. I didn’t mean I’m hung. I’m not hung.” I cringed. “That’s not how I meant for that to come out. Obviously, I’m hung.”
He snorted. “I’ve seen it, Kent. You’re not fooling me.”
“Jesus on the cross, Grayson. If you don’t stop insinuating that I have a small penis—”
“Are you alone?” he interrupted.
