Eloise

By the time I reach my apartment, I’m cursing myself in shame. I can only hope Gabe and Ryan never breathe a word of what happened to anyone. I’d like to think I can forget the whole thing ever happened, but I know that’s impossible.

Not after the way Gabe made me feel. Somehow I’m sure he’ll be filling my fantasies for the foreseeable future.

Slipping my key in the lock, I open my front door. Hurrying to my fridge, I crack open a cold Diet Coke. After several gulps, I hold the can to my cheek and let the coolness radiate throughout my body.

Only then do I realize I left my panties at the tattoo parlor.

Great.

Clearly I’m not going back for them. I can only hope Gabe throws them out instead of hanging them on his wall like some kind of trophy.

God, I hope he doesn’t use them as some sort of masturbation aid. The idea makes me feel sick to my stomach.

With my drink in hand, I head to the living room and plunk myself on the couch.

I take another gulp of my drink. The bubbles fizzle down my throat and chest, reminding me of the way Gabe’s touch caused tingling in my chest. My legs. My entire body.

As much as I try to ignore the urge, I can’t help myself any longer. Pulling my skirt up around my waist, the same way it was at the tattoo parlor, I reach my hand between my legs.

My fingers skim over my mound, which is still sensitive. In an attempt to recreate Gabe’s touch, I pinch the area behind my clit with my finger and thumb.

Somehow it doesn’t feel as good. I close my eyes, and remember the heat of his eyes as he touched me.

My walls contract at the memory. His fingertip was so close to my entrance and I was desperate for him to go further. Now I’m relieved he didn’t. It’s a leap too far from my regular life.

At the same time, I wonder how he could have made me feel. Would he have been able to make me orgasm?

I churn the question over and over in my mind, and realize I’m doing exactly what he said my issue is. Overthinking.

In a rash movement, I stand and rush into my bedroom. Without slowing, I grab my favorite vibrator and flop onto the bed.

My walls are slick, and I insert it into me on full speed. With my other hand, I grab my clit again. But it still doesn’t feel as good as the way Gabe made me feel.

I picture the way he looked when he first emerged from the back room, when he was putting on his shirt. His physique was unreal. His tattoo-coated muscles and pierced nipples were somehow so forbidden and naughty.

I remember the way he made me feel when he touched me, which was even more forbidden and naughty.

I imagine him with my panties, running his fingers along the blue lace while he thinks about me.

My body buzzes and builds, the way it had when I was sitting in his chair. Thoughts pop into my mind, wondering if this is actually about to happen, but I’m able to push them away with the memory of Gabe’s gravelly voice telling me to stop overthinking things.

Then one word pops into my head. Dinner.

It’s one word I can’t push away, no matter how hard I try. Everything fizzles out. I can’t get involved with Gabe. We’re too different. Even if we did know each other as kids.

The buzzing noise of the vibrator becomes deafening. I switch it off and toss it onto the floor in frustration.

I’m more upset than I should be. At least that’s what I tried to reason. The last twenty-four hours have been a crazy blip in my incredibly normal life. And it’s all the fault of that magazine article.

Overwhelmed, and exhausted from not sleeping well last night, I let myself fall asleep and nap.

I wake up feeling groggy and disoriented two whole hours later. My parents are expecting me for our weekly dinner in less than thirty minutes.

After a quick shower, I blow dry my hair and tie it back in a ponytail. I throw on some chinos and a navy blouse and head out the door.

I park my Focus behind my mother’s Range Rover and beside my father’s BMW 6 Series. Sophie’s little Mazda is parked closest to their front door.

It’s the house I grew up in and I’m always overcome with the feeling of nostalgia when I come back. I love knowing there’s somewhere I’m always welcomed and wanted. Not to mention loved.

“Hey Mom, hey Dad,” I call as I enter the house.

“Hi sweetie, you’re late. Done anything exciting today?” my mother asks.

My cheeks flush, and I curse myself for going red so easily.

“No, just a relaxing day at home.”

She scrunches her mouth up as she looks at me, no doubt wondering why I turned red.

My dad enters the room just in time. He walks straight up to me, leans over and kisses my cheek. The soft sleeve of his cashmere sweater brushes over my arm in the motion.

He and Sophie are both blue-eyed blonds. I was always jealous of Sophie’s hair when I was younger. I hated having such dark hair, especially since I’m as pale as her. Naturally, as my sister, she took advantage of this and always teased me.

“Dinner will be about forty-five minutes,” my mother says.

“What are we having today?” I ask.

“Your favorite, lasagna.”

“With a Caesar salad?” I ask, my stomach rumbling at the idea.

“Of course,” my dad says, and winks.

The three of us sit on the living room couches. My parents had the room done up by an interior decorator three months ago, and everything still new and pristine. The room is perfect, and I’m afraid of damaging anything.

The conversation between us flows easily, as always. I lose track of the time as we chat.

“Hey you,” Sophie says, bounding into the room. She’s twenty-four and has too much energy for her own good.

She flops onto the couch beside me, not sharing my concerns about how to treat the new furniture.

“You’re just in time to get the lasagna out of the oven,” my mother says to her.

“I’ll help,” my father says.

“The table’s already set,” my mother says.

The four of us sit down to eat at their big, oak dining table. The food is delicious and I concentrate on eating it rather than keeping up with the conversation.

When we’re finished, I say, “I’ll do the dishes.”

“I’ll help,” Sophie says, standing.

Together, we stack the dishes, piling the cutlery on top. Sophie carries them to the kitchen while I get the lasagna pan.

In the kitchen, I set the remaining lasagna on the island, intending to cover it and put it in the fridge for leftovers. Sophie sets the dirty dishes beside the sink and gets herself a beer from the fridge.

“Okay, spill,” Sophie says, cracking open her drink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Give me a break, I’m your sister and best friend. I think I can tell when something’s on your mind. And by the way you were zoned out the whole way through dinner, I’m guessing it’s a big something.”

“It’s nothing big,” I say, shrugging.

“If that’s the case then what is it?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“You need to tell me what it is, and you need to tell me now.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll tell Mom I’m worried about you because you’re hiding a secret from us all. She’ll be on your case ‘til the end of time.” Sophie smirks, and takes a big swig of her beer.

“Fine. I accidentally left my panties in a tattoo parlor.”

Sophie spits out her beer and quickly reaches for some paper towels. In her rush, she knocks the four stacked plates onto the floor, shattering them.

“Girls?” my mother calls.

“It’s fine, Mom. We just knocked the plates off the counter,” Sophie says.

“We?” I quirk an eyebrow at her.

“You’d better start spilling and fast.”

“Can’t, I have to get the broom. Butterfingers.”

“Fine, just don’t expect me to tell you what I do with my panties every night.”

Her comment halts me in my tracks.

“What do you do with your panties every night?”

“You first.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it. It’s too soon.”

“Well, you know where to find me when you’re ready. But you’d better be ready by dinner next week.”

I stick my tongue out at her and walked to the broom closet. We clean up the mess together as well as all the dishes. Sophie doesn’t bring up the panties comment again. And I love her for it. Too bad I can’t find the courage to confide in her. Yet.

On the drive home, I wonder if I really can discuss my problem with Sophie. We’re incredibly close, but it’s an incredibly personal issue. Not to mention embarrassing that I let some random guy in a tattoo parlor do that to me.