THERE AREN’T MANY TIMES IN my life when a woman I’ve only known a short time, and only fucked twice, could possess my thoughts so incessantly. Yet, again, Carleigh has disappeared on me without explanation. A text I sent her last night, telling her how incredible she felt and how much I loved being inside her, went unanswered, as did the one I sent at around eleven today, when I asked her about our plans for the evening. It’s Saturday, after all, and she sounded as excited as I was for it. It’s now ten p.m., and I am fuming. Fuming not only because I’ve been ghosted for no apparent reason for the second time, but also because I’m so damn bothered by it in the first place.
I’ve tried shaking it. I’ve been watching sitcoms all day, had a six-pack of SweetWater 420, and ate nearly an entire pizza (not to mention the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I fucked up afterward), and still, the persistent thoughts of what I could have been doing with my time instead run through my head like an endless, confusing slideshow.
Did I not fuck her right?
She certainly seemed to enjoy our time together, both in and outside of the “bedroom.”
Was it something I said?
I’ve run every word I’ve uttered through my head. I’ve been nothing but polite, respectful, and honest with her from the get-go, when the circumstances dictated it. And I fucked her like a porn star when the clothes came off.
Is she afraid of her feelings? Could that be it?
I pull up our text exchange and type, Hey, not sure what’s going on, but I think you might be afraid. Afraid of what you’re feeling. Afraid of my intentions. I want you to know, I feel it too. I’ve felt it since the day I laid eyes on you. Something was different. Something was powerful. I feel pulled to you. Connected to you. I hope that’s not saying too much. I was just really excited to see you tonight. I’m excited to see more of you, period. Hope you’re well. I’d love to hear from you at least.
After pressing send, my heart races. I read over the message a thousand times, scrutinizing every single fucking word.
I am so fucking stupid.
I head to the kitchen for another beer, anything to quell the anxiety that binds my insides. I open the refrigerator and grab blindly for a bottle, my eyes on the phone when it abruptly lights up and the text alert chimes. Slamming the fridge door shut, I scurry to the counter and snatch the phone.
Bishop, my heart is breaking right now. Literally, BREAKING. I’ve written and deleted about a thousand messages to you today. I just didn’t know how to tell you this. I hate, hate, HATE having to write it, because I do have feelings for you, but what has occurred between us shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate of me. It should have never happened. It was a mistake. This isn’t your fault. None of it is and I really need you to know that. This is all on me.
I frown, worried and confused. I respond, WHAT is on you? And what is happening here? I thought we had a good time. I thought we were on the same page.
The wait is excruciating, regardless of how short it is, as the slew of text messages from Carleigh stream in, one after another, indicating she’s written me a short novella—of excuses, no doubt.
We did have a good time. A great time. But it’s a time that shouldn’t have ever happened. I’m beaten up over this, I really am, Bishop, but my husband and I are going to try to work things out. I know you’ll never understand this, but it’s not something someone who hasn’t been through it could ever really understand, just like with me and your service. And you know, I can never thank you enough for that. For everything. I can’t see you again, Bishop. I just can’t. I told Ronnie about us anyway. I had to. And he doesn’t think it’s a good idea we finish out the sessions. You’ve passed the program, obviously, and all you’ll have to do is come in at your usual time next week to take your last breathalyzer and urinalysis. Bishop, again, I’m so incredibly sorry this all happened. I can be so dang stupid sometimes. You’ve done so very well these past couple months. Be proud of yourself, and please keep it up. Good luck to you. And thank you for all the life you brought back into me since we met. You’re a special soul. Please, PLEASE, don’t message back. Ronnie is upset about this whole thing and I really want things to work between us this time. I need them to. I’m sorry, Bishop.
I can only laugh, a painful laugh appropriate when shit really hits the fan. The slightly crazed laugh of a man left completely fucking blindsided.
As I open the beer bottle that’s sat idly in my hand, I run responses through my head, certain that at some point tonight, I will have a goddamn novel worth of shit to send her.