“I’d expect nothing less,” I told Garrett, glad he wasn’t mentioned by name. I may have lost the nerve I had gained to finally face him again after so many months of avoidance.
“Good. I’ll see you on Saturday then.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” I said.
“Bells really aren’t necessary. Just your badass self,” Garrett chuckled.
“I only know how to bring the badass. No worries there,” I replied.
“Later, G,” Garrett said.
“Later, G,” I repeated, hanging up.
“I’m so wet. My panties are drenched, baby. It’s dripping down my thighs. I’m imagining your tongue between my legs and I’m gripping your hair, holding you there. My legs are over your shoulders, my head is thrown back and I’m touching myself—”
“Shit, Viv! Can you take that conversation into your room!” I shouted, throwing a piece of junk mail at my roommate. I had just come into the apartment to find my roommate sprawled out on the couch, her hand down her pants, her back arched up off the cushions.
Vivian pulled her hand from her underwear and scowled at me, as if I were the one in the wrong. Because it was totally acceptable to finger yourself in full view of whoever happened to walk in the front door.
“Hold on a sec, Cole.” She glared at me. “You’re not supposed to be home for another hour,” she accused.
“Well pardon me for coming back before I was supposed to,” I muttered, dropping my purse onto the coffee table. Vivian sat up and re-covered her boobs, which had been on prominent display. I picked up a note from Maysie. Apparently she had gone to Barton’s for dinner and asked me to meet her there. I had a feeling she felt it best to make herself scarce once Viv got on the phone with Cole.
“Don’t get that judgy tone with me. I’ve had to listen to plenty of your antics through our very thin bedroom walls,” Vivian remarked testily.
I wanted to tell Vivian that her point was completely moot given that there had been zero antics in my bed for quite a while. But I could tell she was getting itchy to resume her…uh…activities.
“We’ve talked about having phone sex in the communal space, Vivian. Don’t act like this is something new. I don’t like walking in from a long day to find you masturbating on the throw pillows,” I snapped.
I was in a bad mood. A really bad mood. I had planned to go out to a big country estate out of town that my editor wanted me to cover for my monthly column on unusual gardens. I was supposed to interview the homeowner, take a few snaps and be done with it. It wasn’t supposed to be an all day event.
But I ended up with a flat tire. Then I realized that I no longer had AAA. Then my phone died. So I had to hike five miles to the closest gas station so I could call my dad to change my tire.
When he got there, he lectured me for being irresponsible. For being unable to take care of myself. For apparently being an over all shitty human being. He then went on to tell me that if I was going to need his assistance for “every tiny thing,” that I might as well move back home, as they wanted me to.
Changing the tire took ten minutes. The scolding lasted over an hour.
I ended up having to call the estate owner and rescheduling, which was last minute, and she wasn’t pleased.
I was going to miss my deadline and I had had to endure my father’s belittling criticisms. So I was absolutely not in the mood to fight with Viv over where and when she was allowed to diddle the skittle.
I felt frazzled. My head was pounding and if I was honest with myself, all I wanted was a stiff drink.
There were times that I craved alcohol so badly that I could almost taste it on my tongue. I missed the buzz I’d get after two or three drinks. The loss of inhibitions. Those brief moments when I could drop the Gracie act and be the “real me.” Or the version of me that was less encumbered with bullshit.
Drunk Gracie had been a lot of fun. Sure, by the end of the night I was a mess but there were usually a few hours where I was the life of the party.
And I liked the escape. I enjoyed letting loose.