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Meg: I used to all the time before I became a part-time mom. I know a gal who does a good job, I’ll hook you up.
Jenna: Will you guys come with me?
Meg: It isn’t exactly a team event, Jen.
Me: What’s the sudden urge to brighten your butt? You’re married, and I doubt Emmett cares what that area looks like.
Jenna: He doesn’t know I’m thinking about this. I was thinking of doing it for a little anniversary surprise, but I’m scared.
Jenna: Always looking for ways to spice things up, ya know. Pretty soon we will be 30 and wrinkles will come, and I’d like to be able to offer him something fresh.
I toss my phone on the counter with a laugh, not even sure what to say to Jenna at this point. Part of me wants to text Emmett so he can set her straight and save her the time and pain that might come with a butt bleaching.
Although I wonder if it does look better.
The ping of my phone on the vanity counter steals my attention once again, although this time, it’s not the girls.
Ryan: Are you on call tonight?
Me: Nope, off for the weekend for once. Why?
I set the phone back on the vanity top, curiosity eating away at me as to why he was texting. Thursday at work I thought he was finally going to ask me on a real date, that maybe we would take that hesitant step towards becomingsomethingother than coworkers who relentlessly flirt and have had two sort-of hookups.Fast forward a few hours to my mini meltdown over a simple conversation, and I assumed any ideas he had about seeing me outside of work disappeared.
I don’t want to be this girl, the one that always assumes there is evil lurking around the corner, that there isn’t a single man I can trust to not hurt me besides my father. I know Ryan cares about me – whether that means he’s just attracted to me or wants to be my friend or a combination of the two, I don’t know. It feels like he wants more, but knowing he’s spent the betterpart of the last twenty years avoiding commitment makes me believe otherwise.
Ryan: I was going to offer my services to come over and make you feel better if you had another shitty shift.
I almost wish I did have a bad day so I could ask him to come over.
My fingers hover over the keys, and I catch myself wondering, why wait until I’m sad to see him outside of work?
Me: Come over anyway.
I release my shaky breath and toss the phone back down, looking into the mirror as I smile at myself, my clay mask crinkling in the process. I hope he understands how big of a step this is. He knows that this is new for me, that I’ve never invited someone over for a potential casual hookup. It’s always been a slow process of getting to know someone. An awkward first date with a friend of a friend, followed by a mediocre second and third date. A kiss goodnight, only have sex after the commitment is there.
It has been ingrained in me to take the path of the “standard” relationship. But I’ve painfully learned that even taking the “right” steps, waiting until you’re in a committed relationship before having sex with someone means bullshit if it’s with an awful person.
And if I want to analyze the situation, Ryan has shown me more compassion and concern than any man I’ve ever dated in the past.
Nothing about him is conventional, and maybe that’s what I need. Part of the reason I moved to Chicago was for a clean start, to rebuild myself into the person I want to be. And right now, Iwant to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman who has dirty, sweaty sex with the hot, broody doctor.
Ryan: Are you sure you’re ready?
There isn’t one second of hesitation in me as I type out my response. I appreciate his asking, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he is 100% what I want. What I need.
Me: Absolutely.
As soon as the message is sent, my body comes alive. Goosebumps pepper my skin underneath the fabric of my thin, gray robe as my brain filters through memories. Memories of his lips on mine, those hands that know exactly where and how to touch me to make me squirm. And another part of him I’ll get to see soon.
Soon.
“Shit,” I mutter, tossing my tweezers into my makeup bag as I hop off the counter. A quick rinse to wash off my clay mask. With my makeup bag in hand, I quickly debate applying some mascara, or a light gloss. The first time he came over he saw me completely stripped down, sad, a face without a speck of makeup and didn’t have any issues with that, so I toss my makeup bag back into the cabinet. I leave my hair in the tangled bun, wishing I had a few minutes to at least run a brush through it.
I race to my bedroom and grab the lavender spray from my side table to spritz a few mists around the room and on my pillows. Standing there in the dim light of my lamp, no other lights on in the apartment, my space looks so … innocent.
Insecurity comes rushing back in waves, crashing into me, one right after the other as I question what I’m about to do. I don’t question if I want him, because hell yeah, I do. I question if I’mableto do this, if I’m able to be intimate again. I’vetalked about it with my therapist, read about it in the numerous survivor books my mom insisted on buying for me, and even preach it in my SANE job. When you’ve suffered at the hand of an abuser, whether it’s physical or sexual, when someone has stripped you of your dignity, your body goes into survival mode.
That survival mode is a means to escape. Your body and mind somehow disconnect as a method for survival. I know I’ve been guarded, and the lack of connection I’ve felt with any man I’ve even talked to since has been painfully obvious. The thought of letting Ryan into my apartment, my bed,my private space, leaves me questioning if I can do this. I glance over my shoulder at my phone still resting on the sink in my ensuite.
