I shudder out a breath. “Nope, not even close.” But God, what I would like is a distraction. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of wondering how Sean is doing and fighting the urge to call him. I might not want to get back together, but I hate knowing that I hurt someone I care about. I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness. My dad insists it’s an admirable quality, but sometimes I wish I were more selfish.
I guess I was selfish on Friday night, though. My rebound sex with Dean was all about satisfying my own base urges, and as guilty and embarrassed as I felt afterward, I can’t deny it was hella satisfying.
Shit. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe we should hook up again.
“Maybe I need a fling,” I say aloud, just to test out the idea.
Hannah’s response is swift and scolding. “You tried that, remember? After you and Sean broke up the first couple times. You hated it.”
It’s true. I did hate it. “But I didn’t actually sleep with anyone,” I point out. “All I did was go on a bunch of crappy dates and make out with a few jerks. Maybe that was my mistake—actually dating those guys. Maybe this time I should pick a hot dude and bang his brains out for a few weeks. Just sex, no expectations.”
She snorts. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without hearing relationship bells in your head.”
Also true.
And why am I even contemplating this? If this is how Hannah responds to me broaching the subject of a fling, I can just imagine what she’d say if I admitted I’m considering a fling with Dean. The guy is a player to the extreme. Not only is he not relationship material, but I doubt he could even commit to a fling. I can’t see him being exclusive to me, which is absolutely non-negotiable, because there’s no way I’m sleeping with someone who’s also sleeping with other people.
Yeah…I need to nip this Dean idea in the bud. I don’t know why he’s so eager to jump into bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll get over it eventually. The guy has the attention span of a fruit fly, and the affection-giving habits of a puppy, offering his sexual devotion to whoever happens to be holding the treat. By which I mean the vagina.
As I return to my senses, I change the subject. “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Garrett and I are going to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in and meeting us there.”
“Nice. Sounds like fun.”
“You’ll be in Brooklyn, right?”
I nod. I spend every holiday in Brooklyn with my dad. I always look forward to seeing him, but this year I’m a tad worried because the last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself.
Usually I’d be cheering over that announcement, because Dad happens to be the best cook on the planet. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been doing my best to make sure he doesn’t push himself. The only reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was so I could remain within driving distance of him. The man is so damn stubborn, insisting he doesn’t need help and that he can manage on his own, but I hadn’t felt comfortable moving to the opposite end of the country once his remission periods became few and far between.
Now I’m even more relieved I stayed on the east coast, because Dad’s condition has gotten progressively worse this past year.
Like most people who suffer from the disease, he was initially diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS, but now it’s transitioned into the secondary-progressive type, which means his relapses are more frequent and more severe than they used to be. When I visited him over the summer, I was shocked by the change in him. Suddenly he was having trouble walking, when before it was the occasional loss of balance and mild numbness in his limbs. He had two attacks of vertigo when I was there, and when I pressed him, he admitted that the pain was getting worse and he was experiencing the occasional vision problems.
All this? Fucking terrifies me. I already lost my mom to cancer when I was thirteen. Dad is all I have left. I refuse to lose him too, even if it means chaining him to his recliner in our Brooklyn brownstone and forcing him to watch football while I cook dinner in his stead.
“Okay, break time is over.” Once again I need a distraction from my bleak thoughts. Groaning, I sit up and open the script to where we left off. “Caroline is about to yell at Jeannette again.”
Hannah tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “For the record? If you ever lost your husband, I would never call you a crybaby and tell you to ‘get over it’.” Her expression grows serious. “In other words, you can keep moping about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge you for it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out two words. “Thank you.”
7
Dean