Chapter 2

Sarah

I sobbed myself into exhaustion on the front porch. I was bleary-eyed, weak, realizing I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days, since the breakup had begun. Josh had started the conversation in that super-smart, smarmy way guys liked, saying that he felt he was holding me back, that he didn’t think we really “connected” anymore. Were these words he thought women liked to hear?

Was this supposed to “let me down easier”?

Josh and I hadn’t been together long, really. It had been around Christmas, nearly six months ago, when we made things official. And even then, I’d always sensed he wasn’t really in it. Could I say he was using me for sex? Sure. Could I say I was using him so I didn’t feel so alone? Perhaps.

But in the end, it never feels good to be left alone. And that’s how I felt, there at my front porch steps, in the house I could hardly afford in Fountain Square. I pieced together the rent and other bills using money I earned at the nearby diner, where I’d worked for the previous three years. I was sure I would die alone.

Lifting up from the steps, I eased into the kitchen, reaching for the top shelf, where I kept an emergency bottle of red wine. Uncorking it, I poured myself a massive glass—nearly up to the rim—and glugged it like water. Ripping my mouth back, I felt drips of red wine ease down my chin. But dammit, I didn’t care.

After another few sips, I began to come around on the idea of Josh leaving. He’d filled me with torment, asking me to fulfill him sexually and never giving back in return. It had been ages since I’d spread my legs for him, watched his tongue flit around the lips of my pussy before diving into the pink folds. Ecstasy and pleasure hadn’t been strongholds with him in my bed.

And maybe, just maybe, I deserved something a bit more.

Filling a pot of water, I salted it and dropped in a layer of spaghetti. After dropping a skillet onto the side burner, I added tomato sauce, vegetables, oils, and spices, loving the way my brain was feeling fuzzy at the edges. My movements were dream-like, lost. I was going to fuel myself, in all the ways I hadn’t allowed myself in the previous few months. Trying to stay stick-thin for Josh hadn’t allowed for pasta. It hadn’t allowed for pleasure.

And dammit, what was it all for?

I turned on the burners, then grabbed the bottle of wine, filling my glass once more. I flicked on the speaker system in the corner, playing some of my favorite ‘80s pop tunes and strutting around the kitchen, feeling the weight of the breakup fall from my shoulders. The sauce began to sizzle, and I stirred it with a swoop of my spatula, bringing a bit of the red sauce onto my finger and then licking it. It sizzled against my tongue, burning me. And I felt hungry for more.

After a song break, I flung myself into the hallway near the kitchen, abandoning my glass of wine so that I could drink straight from the bottle. I giggled to myself, ripping down the hallway and easing into the bathroom. The bath looked inviting, the porcelain clean and bright. I drew the water, locking the drain and stripping myself naked. Blinking into the mirror, I reassessed my ideas about my body. Pretty, sleek and thin, like a deer’s, with large, milky breasts that had firm, saucer-like nipples in the center.

As the bath began to grow taller, I sipped more of the wine, beginning to toy with my makeup selection, painting on dramatic red lips, using dark purple eyeshadow to highlight my deep brown eyes. Perhaps I would call my best friend, Chelsea, and go out dancing downtown. Perhaps I would head to the Brass Ring bar, just a few blocks away, and flirt with that bartender with the mustache, the one who played jazz music and spoke in a pretentious way about his favorite bands and the best drummers in the world.

When the bath was drawn, I dipped one toe into the center, like a cartoon character. Finding it to be steamy—yet unable to resist its charms—I eased into it, bringing the water up around my neck. Reaching for the soap, I created a bubble bath, bringing my fingers across the surface to swirl the bubbles around.

With my legs spread wide, I began to feel sensual desire course through my veins. With a final swig of the wine bottle, I dropped it, empty, onto the bathroom floor and then brought both hands to the pink softness between my legs, bringing two firm fingers against the tight knob at my clit. Drawing my head back, I felt intense pleasure. Josh certainly hadn’t touched me like that, with such tenderness, in weeks, perhaps months. And I felt myself devolve into animalistic urges.

As I touched myself, bringing two fingers into the soft darkness within, I brought my feet along the edge of the tub. Pressing two fingers against that impossible G-spot, I began to stroke my clit, feeling my body begin to quiver with pleasure.

And just as my body filled with ecstasy, as I allowed myself to forget the horrors of the world around me—the fact that I was abandoned, that I wasn’t good enough for someone—I smelled it.

Burning.

Smoke.

And I knew, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, that I’d really fucked myself over this time. There was no going back.