It’s been a week since Lucas kissed me. Seven days of no contact. Not one text. Zero social media likes or comments.
Zilch.
I’m totally fine with it. It’s okay. I mean, he basically kissed me into an orgasm and walked away like it was nothing. But that is absolutely fine.
I’m a damn liar.
It is not fine. My mind says it’s okay and not a big deal to be mature and handle this like an adult. Then my insides, that beating thing that keeps me alive is screaming and crying in a childish tantrum as it wallows in sadness.
Of course, I could reach out to him. I don’t need a man to call me. But I want him to. I want him to want to call me. Oh. My. God. I’m that annoying female lead in a romantic comedy. The one who is cute and adorable who, while slightly annoying, has you cheering her on and applauding when she does whatever it takes to get her man.
I do not, in any fashion, pull off the cute and quirky girl-next-door thing most actresses in those movies do. Plus, I feel dumb for how much I’ve thought about him. About that kiss. The way it managed to heat me from my toes to the top of my head, from the inside out. The giddy school girl feeling I had as I watched him drive away.
Now, after all these days, what do I say to him? “Oh hey, Luke. How’re your lips?” Because, really, how are they? When they’re kissing me they are stupendous, that much is true.
Although Lucas has been on my mind a lot, life and adulthood responsibilities have been occupying most of my time. I’ve been busier than ever with work, and since the bachelorette party where I was surprised with the entertainment, my role as third level assistant to the event coordinator quickly progressed. The wedding that followed pushed me to the forefront when it comes to assistants, and I’ve been given more responsibilities and lead work on a few events.
Jessi was right, my time did come. I’m equally as nervous as I am proud of myself. I still feel a lot of pressure to handle the financial obligations associated with my non-wedding, even if my parents continue to send me back my checks with a note that reads “save this for a rainy day.” All in all, things are going great.
I’m lonely. I miss having someone to cuddle with and watch movies. I long for someone to snuggle behind me, spooning before I drift to sleep.
Full disclosure, I’ve yearned for both of those for a long time. Trenton was not a cuddler, and the idea of spooning before bed without sex as an end result was not his favorite. Sure, he did it, but it was never natural and after a while I gave up asking. I suppose that was the first sign of the demise of our relationship.
Today, I’m assisting one of the company’s top planners at a baby shower for the wife of a local politician. The theme is classic baby shower. Classic. At our initial meeting with the mother-to-be, she stated very simply she didn’t want anything trendy, she wanted to go back to a classic style of baby shower. Her only parameter was no decorations with storks on them. Something about phobias. I didn’t question it because, well, I have a strong phobia of alligators. No, I’ve never seen one in person. No, I’ve never been to the south where I’ve been told they roam freely. It’s just what it is, a phobia. No explanation or rhyme or reason. So, when she said birds were her one hard pass, I understood completely.
My alarm jars me from a deep sleep early this morning and I manage to pour over the check lists of decorations, games, food, and beverages while I drink my morning coffee. Fine, pot of morning coffee.
Six pages cross-checked and four texts with my lead for this event later, I feel confident in what we’re planning. A lot of pink, far too much glitter, and enough baby food containers for a game to feed a small baby army is sure to make this an event to remember.
Glancing at my phone, I realize I have less than an hour to get ready before I leave, so I toss my notes and tablet in my large tote and retreat to my room to get ready. Since I need to be comfortable and professional but blend in with the guests, I opt for a simple vintage yellow sundress with pockets, a short-sleeved cardigan, and pair of flat T-strap sandals with a little bling. I style my hair into a loose side braid and slip on a pair of simple hoop earrings to complete the look.
The wind has been out of control this week, and my allergies are in full force, which means no contacts for me today. While I usually opt to leave my glasses at home, today I’m going to embrace the new pair I got in the mail. The frames are my go-to shape, but instead of my usual tortoise shell pattern, these are a fun ombré and still a far cry from teenage me, who thought bright turquoise made me look hip. For those wondering, it didn’t.
As I return my coffee cup to the kitchen sink, my phone dings with a new text message. My heart drops the minute I open the message.
Lucas: Hey you.
Hey you? That’s what he sends?
Me: Hey.
Keep it cool.
Lucas: Sorry I’ve been MIA this week. School has been kicking my ass and I’ve barely been around.
Relief floods me when he offers his excuse for ghosting me. Scooping up my bag, I lock the door and as I descend the stairs, I tap out a quick response.
Me: No worries.
“You look pretty,” a voice says when I hit the bottom of the stairs and the screech that rips from my throat startles even me.
“Shit, sorry.”
“Lucas. Oh. My—” I huff out between gasps.
“I’m sorry, I thought you saw me when you came down the stairs. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Wh . . . wha . . . what are you doing here? Can’t catch my breath. Jesus.”
“I pulled an all-nighter and was on my way for breakfast. Thought I’d see if you were hungry.”
An all-nighter? My mind instantly goes to a dark place. A place where he’s surrounded by horny women while half naked. Taking in the way he’s dressed—a pair of athletic pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, day old stubble on his cheeks, and a ball cap pulled low on his head—I assume he means studying.
“Sorry, I have to work. Long day ahead too.”
“You look beautiful,” he says while tugging on the end of my braid.
Pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I feel the heat on my cheeks as I whisper, “Thanks.”
“You’re wearing your glasses.”
“Greetings, Captain Obvious,” I tease. “You’ve seen me in glasses plenty of times.”
“Yeah, I know. You just . . . well, you look like you.” He looks down and a shy smile appears on his perfect mouth and my heart flutters. “So, uh, no breakfast?” he asks. I shake my head no while shifting on my feet, filled with nervous energy. “I have to work tonight, but what about tomorrow? Do you want to hang out?”
“Uh . . .”
“Maybe around one?” His tone is hopeful and the smile on his face is infectious.
Returning his smile, I say, “I’d like that.”
“It’s a date. I better let you go. Have a good day, Whit.”
I stand in my spot, not moving an inch as Lucas walks away. The appreciation I have for those pants is pretty high right about now, and when he turns back and catches me staring, I die a thousand deaths. Mortified, I fumble through my tote bag as his laughter fills the air around us.
I really need to change the designated song to wake me up in the morning. Especially mornings after I overindulge in wine and popcorn for dinner. And dessert. And a midnight snack. As it turns out, left to my own devices, I make poor nutrition choices. Britney Spears telling me to “Work it, Bitch” isn’t helping my mood at all.
Last night, after a long day working my ass off for a “classic” baby shower, which ended up being a blast and ended with a very happy mom-to-be with contractions, I came home to an empty apartment. Jessi was at a study group that turned into a night out with friends. She invited me along, but I was too exhausted to put a bra on again. Or pants.
Instead, I spent the night with a bottle and a half of wine, a large bowl of popcorn, and a movie marathon of some of the best eighties movies ever. Or I think that’s what happened. It’s all a little foggy, but I can tell by the taste in my mouth my indulgence of both popcorn with extra butter and white wine were on the menu.
As I flip over onto my side and stare at the blank wall facing me, my stomach sloshes with the remnants of my dinner, or lack thereof. This is going to be a long day. With a groan, a promise to never drink a bottle and a half of wine on an empty stomach, and a prayer request for this to pass quickly, I stand from the bed and pull on a pair of leggings I find on the floor.
After a quick stop by the bathroom, I stumble down the short hall to the kitchen where Jessi sits at the table, her chin resting on her right knee while she concentrates on the book in front of her, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
“Morning,” I mumble as I pour myself a cup.
“Hmm.”
“Hey,” I say, nudging her with my foot as I sit across from her.
“Oh, hey,” she replies as she sits up and takes a sip from her cup. “Sorry. We cut the study session short last night, and I have a lot of reading to catch up on. You were a snoring mess when I got home last night. Did someone come over? I saw two bottles of wine.”
“One and a half.” I correct her.
“Rough night?”
“Long day and my mind was . . .” I pause and find a lot of interest in my cup before continuing. Jessi is going to flip out when I tell her about Lucas showing up here. Flip out in that she’ll probably start planning our wedding or at the very least, our first romp in the sack. Yes, I said romp. “Elsewhere.”
“Oh, really,” she says enthusiastically.
Rolling my eyes in response to her wide beaming ones, I mutter, “Lucas came by.”
I jump when she smacks the table in response and offers a very loud and piercing, “Woohoo.”
“Dear God, woman. I am hung the fuck over. Bring it down.”
“He came by? I knew it. That boy is smitten. Did you bang?”
“What? No. Shut up. He came by to see if I wanted to go to breakfast, but I was heading to work. We’re supposed to hang out today, but I’m not sure I can handle a shower much less an afternoon with Lucas.”
“Girl, you are so going. I’ll make you a Bloody Mary while you shower. What time is he getting here?”
“I could go for a Bloody Mary.”
“Time?”
“One. I have a few hours to nap or die. Whichever.”
“Negative. Make some toast, hop in the shower, and we’ll have a drink together while you get ready. You’ll feel better. I’m so glad you’re going out. I have a good feeling about this.”
“Good feeling like when you cut bangs or good feeling like when you gave that guy at the gas station your phone number?”
“Bangs for sure. That dude was weird. Who hates Big Bang Theory?”
Agreeing, I leave Jessi alone to shower and hopefully wash this hangover down the drain.