The following week flies by in a blur. There isn’t much time for me to dwell on how easily I spread my legs for Matteo. Classes at Northwestern begin as does my volunteering stint at The Art Institute. I tell myself that I have more than enough to keep my mind occupied. I’m nonstop busy during the day and crawl tiredly into bed every night.
I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t admit that I spent the first couple of days keeping my eyes peeled for my next-door neighbor.
The morning after the limo incident, the ride down to the lobby was nerve-racking. I considered not running. Or going at an alternate time. But then I realized, I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I had a sexual encounter with a gorgeous man. I’m certainly not going to skulk around the building as if I did something wrong.
I didn’t.
What happened, happened.
No big deal.
End of story.
My palms were a sweaty mess by the time the elevator doors slid open. My knees almost gave out when I realized that he wasn’t waiting for me in the lobby. I was so relieved that I ended up running seven miles that morning.
It must have been all the nervous energy thrumming through me.
Every morning for the rest of the week, I held my breath as the elevator doors opened to reveal a smiling George at his post.
I want to ask the doorman what he knows about the resident in Thirty-B, but I don’t. Even if George were privy to information, he wouldn’t share it with me.
By Thursday, I know our morning runs are a thing of the past. It’s just as well. Clearly, Matteo got what he was looking for.
He told me himself that he doesn’t date women.
Just fucks them.
The man was blatantly honest about his intentions. I can’t claim that he led me on.
And I let him touch me without so much as a peep. I spread my legs wide and allowed him to finger fuck me while talking dirty in his melodic voice.
I want to shake my head as those thoughts crash down upon me.
I’m not sure what’s worse- that I let him finger me in the limo or that he brought up the fact that I masturbated while listening to him screw another woman.
It’s a toss-up.
It would be in my best interest to avoid my neighbor like the plague until we both forget these two incidents occurred. Until I can look him in the eye and not turn the color of an overripe tomato.
I have a lot going on, so pushing him from my thoughts when he does pop into them isn’t a problem. My mind is fully engaged with the art history classes I’m taking this semester. School is challenging, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m immersing myself in the program. And I love volunteering at The Art Institute. If I could squeeze a few more hours into my schedule for it, I would.
Each echoing corridor and every beautifully displayed exhibit all bring back nostalgic memories of my family that fill me with comfort. I feel closer to my parents when I’m there. The museum is like a second home to me. I know every collection. I can recite from memory every informational card regarding the displayed work.
I’ve also made a few new friends, too. Abigail, Zoey, and Clint are in my classes. We’ve already had lunch on campus. Kim and Jonathan are volunteers at the museum. Jonathan has taken me under his wing and shown me the ins and outs of being a docent.
Every day, life becomes a little fuller. A little less lonely. I’m making a concerted effort to introduce myself to new people, which is something I haven’t done in years. What I love most is that no one has any idea about what I’ve been through recently. Pity doesn’t fill their eyes, just interest in getting to know me.
I start each day by running five miles before class. I usually hit the streets around seven, and I’m out for about an hour. It’s become habit to stop in the park right by the sparkling blue water to take a moment or two to catch my breath and feel grateful that I’m no longer in the bad place I once was.
I’ve moved on.
I’m moving forward.
It feels wonderful.
I’ve already forgotten about the gorgeous guy next door.
Matteo who?
Yep. That’s exactly right.