The corner of Baden’s mouth tips in amusement. “Last time I was inside you, that seemed to be the case.”
That was just this morning, as a matter of fact, when he woke me up with his hand between my legs, which led to much nicer things.
Of note, Baden has obviously been sharing my bed since we returned from Phoenix. I flew home alone, emboldened by the relief I felt after the victim impact statement and knowing my dad would pick me up right at the airport doors. But still, I’m so glad I did it, and it went a long way to helping seal the last open wounds.
I continue with my point. “And that means you and I are close. Which also means if you don’t like lasagna, you should be able to tell me you don’t like lasagna, and I will make something different.”
Baden studies me thoughtfully. “So,” he drawls in a lazy, husky voice, “if you don’t like giving me blow jobs, you would feel completely comfortable telling me that?”
Hands to his chest, I push back and chastise, “You know damn well I like giving you blow jobs. That’s a stupid analogy.”
Baden shrugs, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just wanted to make sure. I mean, if you want to prove it—”
“Oh, I’ll damn well prove it,” I exclaim, reaching for the waistband of his track pants. Fortuitous that he dresses in his workout clothes since he often hits the gym first thing.
Of course, I have nothing to prove. Since Baden came home from the Houston trip the day after I arrived from Phoenix, we’ve spent quite a bit of time in bed, and let’s just say we both enjoy oral very much.
Baden bats my hands away before pulling me in for a beautiful, toe-curling kiss. When he leans back, he says, “While I’d love nothing more than to see you on your knees before me, I have to go. And yes, I’ll admit… I hate lasagna.”
“Shepherd’s pie?” I offer.
“Perfect,” he replies, and with another kiss, he’s out the door. I sigh in pure romantic happiness before engaging the alarm system.
After I make myself another cup of coffee, I pull up the grocery app, intent on placing an online order for the additional ingredients I’ll need for shepherd’s pie.
I get no more than potatoes added to my cart when Frankie calls.
“Whatcha doin’?” she asks, her voice way too mellow, which means she’s still probably in bed. She prefers teaching classes from midmorning to early evening as she’s a night owl.
“Getting ready to put in a grocery order for dinner tonight,” I reply. “Want to join us?”
“What are you making?”
“Shepherd’s pie. And maybe a dessert of some sort.”
“I’ll pass,” Frankie says. “I’m thinking of going vegan.”
“You are not,” I exclaim.
“Maybe,” is all she’ll commit but then changes the subject. “So, how are things with your hot hockey coach? Orgasms good?”
Frankie knows how my relationship with Baden has changed as I called her from the Phoenix airport while I waited for my flight home. I didn’t give her exact details, but she’s well aware we’re a couple now. I spent more time telling her about what happened in court with the victim impact statement.
There’s not much I don’t tell Frankie, but in this instance, I refuse to answer the orgasm question.
“You must really like this guy since you’re keeping the private stuff so private.”
“I really do,” I reply softly.
“Oh, man.” Frankie laughs hysterically into the phone. “You love him.”
No part of me feels the need to deny that, but I don’t know how to admit it either. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, and things are happening so fast.
While I might not talk about sex, I will talk emotions with Frankie all day long. “I feel something incredibly deep for him. It’s not something I’ve felt before. I’m just a little scared how fast things are moving.”
“It makes sense,” she muses. “You two have a shared experience that no one else can really understand. I don’t think you should worry about time frames but rather concentrate on how you feel about each other. Then just go with it.”
It’s simple advice, which means it’s probably the best.
“And don’t you dare put in that online order,” Frankie says, a change in subject so abrupt, I’m lost for a minute.
“What?”
“You said you were getting ready to put in a grocery order, but I think you should go to the store. You’re starting to push your comfort boundaries. You went to Phoenix, confronted one of your attackers, and you flew home by yourself. Go to the damn grocery store, woman.”
And she’s absolutely right. There’s no reason why I can’t take this step. It’s just down the street, it’s broad daylight, and I’ve been to this store dozens of times. It’s safe, and I have nothing to worry about.
“Okay,” I say resolutely. “I will.”
I hang up after more chitchat and tell myself that before I leave, I should write out a detailed shopping list. It takes me half an hour to get that done, and then I decide to shower. I take the time to put on makeup because I like feeling pretty these days.
As I reenter the kitchen to grab my list, I decide I probably need to clean the kitchen before heading out, because it’s better to unload groceries in a clean, organized space.
That prompts me to reorganize the pantry.
When that’s done, I consider if there’s anything else I should do before leaving, and that’s when my stomach grumbles. I should eat lunch as it’s never good to shop on an empty stomach. I make a sandwich, sit at the kitchen table with my laptop, and go through my email.
There’s one from a pharmaceutical company that I’d applied to for a customer support position. I was completely overqualified, and it wouldn’t be anywhere near the pay I was making at Reynis, but it’s a remote position.
I’m actually in talks with one of Reynis’s competitors, another medical supply company. It would not be a travel position but rather a phone support job with a little better pay. I did an interview via Zoom yesterday and was told they wanted someone else to do a second interview, so I’m waiting on that.
My heart beats a little faster when I see an email from La Roche University here in Pittsburgh. At Baden’s urging, I reached out for information on their interior design degrees. Attached to the email is a lengthy PDF about their program.
I go down the rabbit hole, reading all about the university and what I’d have to accomplish if I wanted to become an interior designer.
I get sucked into reading up on the interior design program, equally excited about the prospect of going to school for something that holds so much of my interest and passion, and overwhelmed whether this is even a good idea. Baden urged me to do it, but I’d like to talk to him some more. To Frankie, as well, and of course, my parents.
I pull out a notepad and write down questions. When that’s done, I flip to my browser to search for more online universities, because maybe I can do something from the comfort of my home.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m stalling.
I’m doing everything under the sun except go to the grocery store like I so bravely decided to do—I look at the clock—hours ago.