Page 15 of A Fighting Chance

I gather the courage to stand back up and look in his direction, peering over the window sill.

Yep, he’s still looking at me. Staring is a more appropriate word. Staring hard.

What is that look he’s giving me?

Shock? Amusement?

He isn’t smiling but he doesn’t seem upset or offended. I have a choice to make. Slink down and out of the shower and avoid Gentry as much as humanly possible for as long as I’m here. Or be the woman I know I can be, and own the fact that I do what every red-blooded man does for himself and there’s nothing wrong with it, and stop acting like I have something to be ashamed of. I decide I have to be the latter. I stand up, making eye contact with him, and then I grab the conditioner. I pour some into my hand rather dramatically and then begin to lather it into my hair. His jaw drops. I stand there—unwilling to break eye contact first—and watch him pick his jaw back up. Then he smirks and shakes his head, before he turns away and walks toward the barns.

I won. I fucking won. Damn right I won.

Society is strange about masturbation. I personally think it’s extremely healthy to touch yourself on at least a semi-regular basis. Although as of late, I haven’t really done much of that either, so this shower release was actually much needed.

Diddling yourself relieves stress; this is a fact. I can feel a difference in my body already. I often encourage my friend Cora to do it, which she finds strange but in an endearing way, thankfully. Last Christmas, I bought her and a few of our close friends vibrators and we had a good laugh about it.

But I bet those toys aren’t sitting somewhere in the back of their closets unboxed or unused, that’s all I’m saying.

In fact, I have it on good authority that none of them are. I know for sure Cora uses hers. As best friends, we share everything. Guys call itoversharing, but I think it’s completely normal to know what kind and color your best friend’s vibrator is.

I finish my shower and head back to my room in my towel instead of dressing in the bathroom. It’s too humid in there and I’m not a fan of clothes sticking to my wet body.

When I sit on the edge of my bed I hear a knock at my door. “Who is it?” I call, but no one answers. Instead, there’s just another short knock. I call again, this time a bit louder. No answer—again.

Walking across the room, I tuck the towel around me and then turn the knob to my bedroom door, opening it just slightly, not wanting to reveal too much of my toweled body in case it’s someone other than my sister or Nan. But no one’s there. I look up and down the hallway.

Weird.

As I’m about to close the door, I notice a note stuck to the outside of it. I pull it off and step back into my room, turning the piece of paper over in my hand. It’s folded in half, no marks on the outside. I open it and slowly read the words scrawled inside.

Do you endeavor to awaken this hunger within me?

The one I snuffed out so long ago?

You, and your form, momentous in its movement,

seek to coax it from slumber.

It will surely burn me from the inside out.

Be careful, woman.

Now my jaw is somewhere on the floor. I don’t even know where. It could have rolled away for all I know. I look over my shoulder like I’m going to see someone there but I’m still alone. I read it again. And again. I blink. I have no words. This isn’t like me. I’m not the type of woman shocked into silence by a few words.

But these words?

These words are something else. Something more. Ridiculous in their beauty. Threatening in the way they warn me.

I fold the paper back and set it on top of my dresser. I’m not really sure what to do with my hands now.

Part of me, the really naughty part, wants to do something. Because apparently my shower rub wasn’t enough.

Write back?

No, that’s stupid.

And god knows, I’m not nearly as poetic.

I shake the thoughts from my head. That’s just not a good idea. No way.

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