Page 62 of Drowning Erin

At first,having Gabi as a roommate works out pretty well for me. I seriously can’t believe there’s a female alive who wants to get laid more often than I do, but I’ve got no complaints. It’s all pretty perfect—until suddenly itisn’t.

“Your friend Rob,” she ventures one afternoon, looking up from my iPad. “He’s the one dating that girl youliked?”

“Yeah.”

“So her name is Erin?” sheasks.

My jaw drops. “Are you reading myemail?”

“It was just open when I picked it up,” she says with ashrug.

But this is bullshit. I haven’t heard from Rob in at least aweek.

“So…Erin,” she continues. “That’s her,right?”

“Yes. And please get out of myemail.”

“Do you have a picture of her?” she asks. Her voice is neutral, but I catch a glimpse of something in there, something needy andfearful.

“No.” I do, of course, but if she’s jealous, seeing a picture of Erin sure won’thelp.

“What’s her last name?” asksGabi.

“What are you doing?” I sigh. “I never even dated the girl. Why does thismatter?”

“It doesn’t. I was justcurious.”

The conversation ends, but it also remains. It is wedged between us all night, Gabi’s discontentment almost palpable. I’d like to end it, reassure her that it’s over for me. I just don’t think I can do itconvincingly.

43

Erin

Present

When I get homeI struggle to fall back asleep. Instead I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in my head. Until tonight, Saturday was the most amazing sex I’ve ever had, but I was able to rationalize it—there’d been so much build up between me and Brendan, and I’d gone without it for so very, very long. But none of those factors were in play this time, so how is it even possible that itimproved?

In spite of my exhaustion, I arrive at work feeling absolutely wired. I want to stand on my desk and announce my discovery to the world. “I finally get it now! I understand why sex is such a big deal to youpeople!”

But as the afternoon winds down and the office begins to empty, reality sets in as well. Just because what happened with Brendan was amazing formedoesn’t mean it was amazing for us both. Tonight, in fact, he’ll probably be experiencing a repeat of it, only with some othergirl.

By the time I get home, my joy has ebbed away completely. What did I think was going to happen? Did I really think one good blow job and a little intercourse was going to make himinfatuatedwith me? If so, I couldn’t have been more wrong. It didn’t even make him want to do itagain.

And I shouldn’t be thinking about him anyway. I’m moving out of here once Harper’s back from vacation at the end of the week, which means this is one of my last nights in the home I’ve lived in for the past four years, the home I thought I’d raise children in. There is no universe in which a series of orgasms should trumpthat.

The next morning I get in a good, long run before Pilates. Operation Forget Brendan has begun, and working out is really the only strategy I’ve got so far. I return so exhausted I’m certain I don’t have the energy for either lust or obsession, but by the time I’m standing under the showerhead, he’s already taking over my brain. I imagine him behind me, wet and soap-slick, sliding into me with ease. I add shower sex to the never-ending list of things we didn’t get todo.

My phone is silent all day. I pretend I’m not watching it, reminding myself that it doesn’t matter if he contacts me because nothing I want can happen again anyway. What we did was wrong, and it has tostop.

I forget all these things, of course, when he finallytexts.

He asks if I’ll help him paint.He does not in any way reference Saturday night, Tuesday night, or a desire to repeat either. Maybe he legitimately wants help. Maybe suggesting a friendly activity is his way of reinstating our friendship, making things normalagain.

Or maybe he wants more, the way I do. So much that it feels like I might explode even as I sit here in my cubicle on the synthetic-fiber cushion of my chair, staring at a memo someone has taped to the wall about labeling food in the breakroom.

Operation Forget Brendan, I’ve got to say, is sort of abust.

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