10
Lola
My apartment is conveniently located above the bookstore. It's about the size of a shoebox, but it’s cheap. Most of my neighbors are of the geriatric variety, and they’ve lived here forever, so it’s a good location too. It’s quiet, and I usually don’t mind socializing with the residents, but today’s a different story. When I catch sight of Mrs. Needleman on her way out to walk the poodle, I cringe.
I can only imagine what I must look right now, fresh off the sex express. My skirt is ragged, and there’s no doubt my hair’s a mess. I quickly divert and dart inside the store. Britt is at the cash register tapping away on her phone, and the shop is empty. Her eyes pop up for a second to acknowledge me before she drags her attention back to her screen. She's says something to me, but my mind is fuzzy, and I can’t process whatever it is. I tell her I’m not feeling well and wait a few more minutes before slipping back upstairs.
My fridge is empty, and I’m really not that hungry anyway, but I feel like I need to give my hands something to do. I need a brainless task that I can focus on so I don’t think about what just happened.
The freezer is where I hit the lottery because there’s a brand-new tub of vanilla ice cream. I douse the top with Hershey’s chocolate sauce and grab a spoon before dragging my ass to the sofa. There’s never anything on TV during this time of day and today is no exception. I settle for QVC and lean back against my oversized cushion, staring blankly at the screen while I stuff my face.
Twenty minutes later, all I’ve managed to do is give myself a belly ache. I lay back on the couch and pull my throw blanket over me while I contemplate calling Mellie. But I don’t because she can’t fix my problems. I wonder if Daire feels as drained as I do right now.
That’s the thing that always happens after a high. You crash and burn.
I can’t imagine him feeling this way though. He’s probably at his desk right now, handling business as usual. As if this afternoon never happened. Daire can do that because he doesn’t get attached. He doesn’t think about me when I’m not there. He thinks about getting what he wants when he wants it.
I wish I could be more like him, but I can't. I'm not wired that way. And I don't know who I'm kidding. This isn't anything new. I've been trying to protect my heart from Daire for as long as I can remember. It's the reason why I only handle him in small doses. It's the reason why I keep my distance. And I'm beginning to think this is the worst idea I've ever had.
But the thought of letting him go sends a wave of panic through me. I don't want to let him go. I want to torture myself. I want to go back to being seventeen again so I can pretend that I don’t know any better. The young, starry-eyed girl in me wants to analyze everything. She wants to think that it makes her special that she's the only one he's ever fucked without a condom. She wants to doodle his name in her notebooks and check the compatibility of their astrological signs.
Only that girl died a long time ago, by a thousand little wounds. Harsh words and mocking laughter and late night drunken phone calls. I can't forget those nights, even if I want to. I can't forget how many times I let him lean on me while I got him back to his building, reeking of a woman's perfume. Lipstick smeared on his collar. His clothes, disheveled.
Sometimes, we don't love what's good for us. Sometimes we board a sinking ship and punch the ticket anyway. Because self-sacrifice is such a romantic notion.
Until you grow up. And then it isn't.
Loving an addict isn't for the faint of heart. And my heart’s taken a beating between the two brothers. Daire’s vices are alcohol and painkillers. Ryan’s were anything and everything. He wanted to be high on life all the time.
He liked to say that it was a curse of the wealthy. It was normal for trust-fund kids to experiment with cocaine-fueled binges before they went off to college and became the doctors and lawyers of the world. But that was just a cop-out. At his core, he was reckless and selfish.
He was a tornado intent on destroying everything in his path, and I got swept up into the eye. I thought if I loved him harder, he would stop. But the harder I tried to prove myself, the more he hurt me.
It's a vicious cycle. And after a while, you learn to protect yourself. You shut down. You stop feeling. And you accept reality. You recognize that you are going to lose them and there's nothing you can do about it.
I got to that place a long time ago. First with Ryan. And then with Daire. I'd traded one addict for another. Self-preservation dictated that I had to wear blinders around Daire. It was the only way I could survive. I lied to myself, over and over again.
But lately, the waters have been muddied. It almost seems like he’s better. Even now, I find myself questioning it. He hasn't had a drink in front of me for a long time. But it doesn't mean he's not drinking. It doesn't mean that since he stopped drunk dialing me, he's not calling someone else. He's trying to pull me back in. And I can't let him.
This is what addicts do. This is how they break you in a thousand different ways. It’s a complicated cycle to break. Familiarity has always been my worst enemy. I crave it, just as I crave Daire.
But it doesn’t mean it’s what’s good for me.
Daire calls me twice over the course of the day. Voicemails remain untouched, and messages go unread. The shop is quiet, and Britt is gone. I have my face buried in the pages of Wuthering Heights when the phone pings again. My urge to resist is wavering, and ultimately disappears altogether when I see the notification is from Tap Left.
ThatGuy:
Riddle me this. How can someone put raisins in cookies and not call themselves a monster? I mean, you can't even tell until you bite into it, and then it's too late. You're already committed.
I smile, and it feels like a betrayal as I tap out my reply.
LolaB:
They're raisins, not rat poison. A little fruit won't kill you.
ThatGuy:
They aren't chocolate chips. End of.
ThatGuy is easy to talk to. The conversations with him aren’t rigged with explosive emotion. We talk about silly things. Stupid things. And he makes me laugh a lot. My decision should be simple. I think I want to meet him, but I also dread it too.
Dating is hard. And it only gets harder with age. You have to navigate through a sea of potentials who are judging you based on their first two-second impression of your face. It isn’t like before when a guy would flirt with you in a coffee shop or restaurant because he found you attractive. Now they want your handle. They want to interview you and see how compatible you are. Or if you’re cool with no strings attached, which seems to be the requisite checkbox on Tap Left. They want to see photos of your body before they decide if you’re worth their time. And the pressure is too much.
The only decent guy I’ve found so far is ThatGuy, and I’m beginning to wonder if the girl in yoga class was full of bologna when she raved about this app.
I have messages from other guys who want to connect. Damon being one of them. He is smart and handsome and successful to boot, but my gut tells me that he's not being completely honest about himself. He wanted to meet with me in a hotel due to the fact that his apartment was being renovated. And if that didn't work, he suggested we meet at my place.
No and no.
I’m exhausted already, and I haven’t even begun. The only reason I haven’t deleted the app altogether is because of ThatGuy. He has made no such sleazy propositions. And it feels safe with him knowing there's a boundary there. There is a three-week buffer before I actually need to make a decision.
Another message comes through.
ThatGuy:
It's a hell of a day at the office.
LolaB:
What do you do?
ThatGuy:
Oh, I have my fingers in all sorts of pies.
LolaB:
So you're a drug lord, basically.
ThatGuy:
Basically, yes.
A text from Daire.
I'm thinking about you right now. Bent over my desk. We need to do that again soon, LB.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating on a reply. I don't know what to say, but I can't ignore him forever. He'll know something's up. So I send him back a winking emoji. Short and sweet.
ThatGuy:
What do you do, Lola B?
LolaB:
I work in books.
ThatGuy:
Huh. Figures.
LolaB:
What's that supposed to mean?
ThatGuy:
The trifecta. I knew you were too good to be true. Funny, cute, and now smart? I can't handle it. I think I need proof.
I open the camera on my phone and take a shelfie of one of my favorite book sections and send it to him.
Another text from Daire.
Use your words, Lola.
Lola:
Sorry, but I’m working. It’s busy.
I hate lying to him, but I don’t know what else to say. It’s one thing to be at his beck and call, but I’m not sure I’m down with the sexting.
Daire:
Only good girls get to come. Remember that.
I can almost feel his breath on my skin as he whispers those menacing words. He’s not even in the room, and still, he affects me. Bastard.
Lola:
Okay.
ThatGuy is on a roll now. He's asking me which books are my favorite and why. He tells me he's not much of a reader himself unless the news counts. We talk for a long time. It ends when I have to close down the shop, and he says he has a meeting to attend anyway.
I eat a Lean Cuisine in an attempt to be healthy and pair it with a giant glass of Moscato. It’s been a long day, and a bubble bath is in order. I want to close my eyes and relax, but my phone won’t allow it.
Daire:
Tomorrow night.
Lola:
What about it?
Daire:
I have plans for you. Six PM. No arguments.
I’m too tired to fight it when I know I’ll only end up giving in anyway.
Lola:
Okay.
Daire:
Good girl, LB. I might even let you come.