I don’t wait for her response, and I can’t stomach anymore of her bitter tears, so I spin around and stomp my way through the lake until I breach the shoreline.
Then I remember I left my goddamn truck at the support meeting.
Fuck me.
Growling my frustration, I make a mental note to avoid dramatic exits in the future when I have no means of exit, especially while drenched in piss water and seaweed, fishing undiscovered lake species out of my boxers.
It’s a miserable four-mile walk to my truck, and I’d like to say it’s for all of the above-mentioned reasons.
But it’s mostly because I can’t get that damn look in her eyes out of my head.
Two hours later, I’m finally home, showered, pissed off, and pent-up. Walden lies at my feet, his chin resting between two hairy paws as he gazes up at me slumped on the couch.
I’m just kind of staring off into space, replaying the night in my head, wondering how I got myself into this absolute shit-show.
I decide to break it down by facts.
Fact number one: I’m attracted to Melody.
As much as I want to live in my fantasy world of denial and pretend that it’s all just a giant fluke, the truth is pathetically obvious. I’m fucking attracted to her.
My dick likes what it sees, and it wants to see more.
Fact.
Fact number two: I don’t like women.
Except… I like Bree and always have, and I sure seem to like Melody, and hell, even Amelia is growing on me. And fine—Ms. Katherine isn’t so bad either, especially today when she brought in little deli trays of assorted submarine sandwiches and a fruit platter.
So, maybe that’s not a fact. I’m going to skip that one for now.
Fact number three: I like people who feed me.
Fact number four: Emotions are garbage, and I’m incapable of genuine connection. Therefore, pursuing my attraction to Melody is a catastrophic mistake.
The woman has been through enough grief and heartache to last a lifetime, and if tonight were any indication of how a possible tryst would unfold, it would be in her best interest to stay the fuck away from me. I’m only going to drag her down and drown her in my own ocean of misery.
What kind of sexual relationship could we even have, anyway? How would she feel screwing a guy who detests intimacy and refuses to take his shirt off?
It’s pointless; a dead end.
Breakdown: I want to fuck Melody, but I won’t. Some women are okay. I like food.
Final thoughts: This exercise sucked, and I’m no closer to feeling any better.
My mind continues to stew, the black cloud hovering over me growing more aggressive than the rainclouds outside my window. It’s raining—again. It’s been the summer of rain, and I can’t help but wonder if Melody is still out there, maybe perched on the sandy beach, doused in rainwater and remorse.
Fuck… she was so happy in that lake tonight, dancing and weightless, free as a bird.
And then I ruined everything.
My scars and old ghosts prevailed, snuffing out her spark and sending her right back into the darkness.
I made her cry.
I made her doubt.
I made her stop dancing.
And I hate that those thoughts are crawling beneath my skin and eating me alive. I’m not accustomed to regret or guilt. I don’t feel.
But I’m feeling right now, and it feels like shit.
Walden nudges my sock-covered foot, making a little grumpy sound as I grumble right back. We’re two peas in a pod, this old mutt and me.
When I lean forward to scratch the scruff between his ears, my phone pings to life beside me on the sofa. My skin tingles, and my stomach lurches, thinking it might be Melody—wondering if she’s telling me to fuck off, or maybe she’s sending me a sweet, sympathetic message, which would be a billion times worse.
I snatch the phone up, seeing Magnolia’s name instead. I open the message.
Magnolia: I know I promised that things wouldn’t get personal. I’m sorry… I lied. I want to see you. I want to do a video call. I need to know that you’re real, that I’m real, and that you see me. Will you do this for me?
What the fuck?
My cheeks fill with air before I blow out a hard breath, scratching at my still damp mess of hair. She wants to do a video call? Shit… no. That sounds terrible.
I like our arrangement as is. No strings attached. Magnolia is my anonymous outlet, the only one I have, and one that I’ve grown to genuinely crave.
Magnolia lets me hide.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I shoot her a response.
Me: Where is this coming from? I like what we have. I’d prefer to keep it the way it is.
Magnolia: I understand—I do. I like what we have, too, but I’m yearning for more.
Me: Why? Because of your husband’s heart? Is that the basis of this connection?
Maybe I’m being an ass, but I’m already on edge.
I’ve lost Melody—I don’t want to lose Magnolia, too.
And when her response doesn’t come through right away, I’m pretty sure I get my answer.
Me: Thanks. Got it.
Magnolia: Please don’t be that way. I thought you didn’t get offended?
I grit my teeth.
Me: Not offended. Just disappointed.
Magnolia: If you’re disappointed, maybe that means you’re yearning for more, too. You feel the same connection I do.
Me: The connection is rooted in what we have right now. I don’t want to shake that up.
Magnolia: Are you afraid you won’t like what you see?
Me: No. I’m afraid I will.
Her silence spans over a few minutes, and I curse myself for saying that shit. Maybe it’s true, though. Maybe I’m worried she’ll be everything I never knew I wanted.
And then I’ll be letting down two women I’ve come to care for.
Magnolia’s response finally pops up.
Magnolia: How about this: I don’t want to infringe on your privacy. I understand your hesitation, and I respect it. So… what if you only saw me? You can keep your camera off. Your identity will still remain a secret.
Me: I can see you, but you can’t see me?
Magnolia: Yes.
The temptation seizes me.
The curiosity.
Leaning back in my rolling chair, I fold my arms across my chest and pivot side to side, my heart thumping with indecision. This would change everything. This would upset our dynamic, and nothing would ever be the same.
But hell, why not?
Why the fuck not?
Hoping I don’t regret this, I send my reply.
Me: Okay.
Magnolia: Really?
Me: Yeah. Set it up.
A few moments later, a link pops up in the message box, causing my insides to spiral. It’s a Google Meet link. I’m pretty fucking terrible with technology, so there’s a chance I might screw this up, but I take the risk and click the link.
Moving out of frame, I tinker with the settings to make damn sure my camera’s off, then I slide back up to the keyboard and inhale a giant breath of courage.