Page 56 of The Fake Dating War

I yank my hand out of my pants.

What the fuck am I doing? Okay, the wetness on my fingers isn’t subtle. Clearly, Iknowwhat I’m doing. But thinking of Coleman? Clearly, I’m repressed and so bottled up with stress that anyone or anything will do!

I bring my hand back inside my pants, shut my eyes, and shuffle through better material. Let’s imagine a Viking with his battle axe. Some sort of after-battle-ravish-me-on-the-grounds-of-his-hut situation.

I rub small circles around myself.

It’s not quite working, so I go faster.

That’s not helping. If anything, I’m drying up.

The Viking grins down at me and smirks. A very familiar, arrogant smirk. Blue eyes turn into green?—

My eyes pop open. I’m swearing. Isn’t this great? I can’t even do a quick self-fuck now! My situation has truly deteriorated. And since when has Viking Man not done it for me? His big swinging axe—both the literal and metaphorical one—used to be a paragon of my male fantasies! But no?—

My eyes close shut. Obviously, I’m afflicted by some condition. I need help. I need medicine. I need to go to the bathroom and clean myself up.

I do, because if I finish to the thought of Coleman, I won’t be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

With nothing else to do, and since sleep feels impossible, I return to bed and open my laptop again. If I can’t work, and if I can’t close my eyes without being bombarded by his fucking face, then I need to find something practical to do.

My email inbox is open. I go into the History folder and find the one I sent him last night. A list of facts and interests, because knowing I’m flat-footed and that I like thunderstorms is going to save this mess I’m in.

So far, there’s nothing real or personal I’ve shared with him. Logically, I know he needs to learnmorefor us to be a believable couple.

I start typing.

You probably don’t know that I was married once and am now divorced. It’s not shocking. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, so there’s no point in judging me. Not that I care if you judge me.

Though, since you’re not one to keep your opinions of me subtle, I bet you think the divorce was my fault. Something about working too hard. Don’t worry. You wouldn’t be alone in thinking that way.

I did work too hard at being married to a gambler. And in doing so, I became a gambler myself in a way?—

I stop typing mid-sentence, coming back to reality.

What am I doing?

Might as well title this email Dear Diary.

The thought of Coleman learning about my past is mortifying. What would he think of me? I don’t want to find out. I don’t wantanyoneto find out. Not when I’m privately trying to get everything back under control.

I delete the email.

Opening a new one, I type another list.

On the spectrum of grossly personal andthe sky is blue,this one lands somewhere in the middle.

On nights I have trouble sleeping, the smell of lavender helps.

Strangely, I hate the taste of lavender.

I don’t think I’ve physically gone running this last year. At most, I’ve jogged.

My childhood nickname used to be blueberry because I loved to squish them all over myself. They are still one of my favorite things to eat, but only when they are kind of sour.

When I was a toddler, my parents thought I’d run away, but I had just wanted to go to the park so I took my tricycle there, fully intending to come back.

I like purple.

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