He didn’t.
And if fucking is really just a job for him, then it stands to reason he might sometimes work with people he doesn’t particularly care for. People he once cared for quite a lot.
The thing is—I don’t like it.
He’d told me we needed to figure out boundaries; this is one of mine. I don’t want him fucking his ex.
At the next opportunity, I flip my car around, intending to go lay this request out for Logan, but before I get very far I remember he’s still doing his scene with Bambi Roo. Which is sort of a blessing at the moment, because after I think about it further, I realize that showing up all sorts of pissed about his job only a day after we declare our love would make me look like a petty girlfriend. Especially after skipping out early on the shoot he was doing this morning. I need to make boundaries, but I don’t want it to seem like I can’t handle his line of work.
And then it hits me—I can’t handle his line of work.
Oh, God.
This isn’t good.
This isn’t good at all.
I’m probably just emotional after what happened with Bruce Madden, and with all the intense interactions that have occurred over the last twelve hours between Logan and I. Of course I’m a bit unbalanced.
Except I’m more than a bit unbalanced. I’m upside down and inside out with jealousy. I don’t want Logan fucking Raven. I don’t want Logan fucking Bambi Roo. I don’t want him fucking anyone but me. Period. On camera and off. And, honestly, I’d rather the majority of it be off-camera because I want what he and I have to be just between the two of us. Just ours.
I want him all to myself.
This emotion is so new to me. The unfamiliarity of it is spinning me everywhere, spiraling me this way and that. I’m free-floating with nothing to grab onto, like an astronaut in space whose tether didn’t hold. I don’t recognize this situation. I don’t recognize myself in this relationship.
“What the fuck.” It’s the second time I’ve said this phrase aloud in the last several minutes, but this time it’s not a question—it’s realization and exclamation. What the actual fuck? I’m Devi Dare. I’m a three-year veteran in this world. I’m a person who relies on logic and reason, and there is no logical reason that I should feel threatened by Logan doing the job he’s done everyday since I’ve known him. So what the actual fuck is this goddamned emotion doing inside of me?
At the next intersection, I turn my car around again, this time heading nowhere, just not toward Logan’s. As I drive, thoughts of him and the conflict we’re facing press deeper on my soul. The cyclone of emotional turmoil inside me whirrs tighter and faster, picking up stray ideas and folding them into the narrative in my head the way loose debris gets caught up in a tornado. What if I can’t handle this? What if I’m not capable of being in love with a porn star?
Every few minutes my phone pings with more notifications that people are responding to Raven’s tweet. Excited, happy responses. That rubbish finds its way into the cyclone. Then my agent’s ringtone plays, and though I reject her call, the reasons she’s calling get pulled into the storm as well. What if I can’t work in this field anymore? What if I’m blackballed? What if I don’t want to shoot porn anymore anyway?
How cowardly would it be to just run away and hide until the storm passes?
Pretty cowardly, I know. And I’m usually a brave girl, like Logan says. But not today.
I turn off my phone and head to my parents’. It’s not running away, and knowing them, I’m sure the visit will end in frustration, but they’ll let me bitch and vent. And maybe talking about it will bring me some sort of clarity.
Somewhat dramatically, I fling open the kitchen door and, upon confirmation that they are both present, announce, “Everything is terrible.”
My father glances up from his hunched position over a backgammon board at the kitchen table. He’s obviously playing by himself since my mother is across the kitchen cleaning out her paintbrushes at the sink. “‘When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky’.”
Goddamn Buddha.
My mother turns from the sink and dries her hands on her muumuu. “Oh, Devi! Taste the baghali polo on the stove, will you? And tell your father that it needs more saffron.”
I ignore her because, well, she ignored me, and direct my next remark directly to my father. “I’m tilting my head, Dad.” I look at the ceiling for dramatic affect. “Tilting my head and there is no laughter because there is no perfection. There is nothing even a little bit like perfection.” That’s not exactly true—the way I feel for Logan is steeped in a lot of almost-perfect. It’s how close to perfect it is that makes the flaws in our relationship so apparent and unbearable.