Maybe it’s the release making me so weepy? Or it could be the usual gamut of emotions raging inside me that’s making me feel like a punching bag that has seen far too many rounds.
I haven’t had an orgasm in two years. The last time I had any type of sexual release was the night Jake and I were shot. He had come home, showered, and prowled into our bedroom in search of me. I opened my body to him and we made love in perfect silence. That was the last time.
Since Jake, I haven’t—I never did anything like what I just did. I guess in my mind, I felt like he deserved to be the last one that I shared that with. Yet here I am, sprawled in a motel bathtub, crying guiltily because not only have I gone and ruined the fact that Jake was the last time, but I just got myself off clinging to another man’s t-shirt. It wasn’t Jake that I was picturing hovering above me, it was Zander. I feel guilty for doing it but I feel even guiltier for enjoying it. I feel most guilty for the tiny sprig of hope that just bloomed somewhere in my soul. I know that that little sprig of hope will flourish if I allow it to. The knowledge that I could free myself from a prison of grief has my heart swelling. It makes me so painfully emotional.
***
While the television in this motel room isn’t some high definition flat screen, it tunes in movies just fine. I’ve been sprawled on the queen bed in my pajamas watching a crime-thriller movie marathon for hours.
It has kept my mind off my run in at the beach…for the most part. I can’t believe I wandered right to Alexander McBride. I tried to forget the way he looked at me, especially because I know I liked the way he looked at me. The bath felt good. So good. The water was hot and I lingered for a long time, letting it wash away my embarrassing, awkward, frustrating afternoon, except it didn’t work. Not at all. In fact, it probably made it worse.
“Alexander McBride. Zander,” I mumble to myself, working his name over in my head. Something about that name seems familiar. I scrunch up my eyebrows and think hard for a moment.
Someone with the same name in high school? College?
It could very well be that his name is just one of those ones you swear you’ve heard before but you actually haven’t. Either way, I’m certain that if I knew this man, I’d remember him.
You don’t forget someone that attractive. Admitting that he’s gorgeous has me feeling guilty all over again. I shouldn’t be checking out some stranger the way I did today. I definitely shouldn’t be getting myself off to him. I shouldn’t be so drawn to him, but I am. I’m married. Not to mention the fact that said stranger is also the man who lucked out and got a life saving transplant from my husband. It’s the biggest conflict of interest I’ve ever run smack in to.
Honestly, the fact that he looks so enticing probably has everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched by a man since Jake. I don’t plan on it either. I feel bad enough for what I did in the bathtub. Jake was my first and last. I gave my body to him when we said our vows. His death doesn’t mean that I get to renege on that promise. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with another man. The private thoughts about Zander are as far as it’s going to go.
Looking never hurt anyone, though, and denying that Zander is something to be admired is just dumb. Anyone with decent eyesight can see that man was blessed with perfect DNA where aesthetics are concerned.