Page 131 of We Can't Be Friends

It’s annoying, a bit overkill—at least for someone who can’t stand notifications.

Oh, and having a dog that has to be walked?

It’s not like I need to be notified when Cal is coming and going. The only other person who comes over is Miller, and he always texts or calls ahead of time.

I turned on my notifications this morning after showering, eagerly awaiting Callum’s return from London. Since we moved in together—maybe even since we met—this is the longest stint we’ve been apart, and I miss him.

I hate that I miss him.

These feelings are unwarranted and confusing. Misleading. Especially because I’m at the point in my cycle where my sex drive is ready to go from zero to one hundred. His romance books haven’t helped, and let’s all agree on this: a toy will never be as good as a man who knows how to eat and loves to eat.

Cal looks like both.

I still can’t stop thinking about Cal all day.

I cleaned the entire place, playing a memory game of what products get used where. My nerves about seeing him again had me fluffing the throw pillows and karate chopping the middle anytime I walked past them.

Tapping my phone, I open our text thread, clicking the link to his flight information. The status finally reads the word I’ve been craving to see:LANDED.

Sprinting up the stairs, it's like I’m back in high school getting ready for a first date again. Except I’m not stealing a dress from Adler to wear and having her help me do my makeup. Reaching under the bed, I pull out the bags I’ve been hiding.

Turning around to face the floor-length mirror, I slowly pick my chin up.

Caroline blue, sheer lace bralette. Dainty daisies dot up the thin straps. In the center of each cup, another daisy is pressed to conceal my rosy-brown nipples. My underwear leaves nothing to the imagination—my goal for tonight. I don’t want to leave what I believe is going on between us up to my imagination. I want it all. I want him, and I’m putting it out there for him to see.

Everything I can let him see.

I doubt this is what Miller meant when he said to tell him, but. . .

The material cuts up my hips, sitting above my hip bone. I’ve always had a petite but athletic build. I run my finger along the strap, over a couple stretch marks.

After the accident, I wasn’t able to eat. My appetite vanished as quickly as it all happened, and I lost weight. Became obsessed with it the more that boys noticed. It snowballed from there, becoming my vice: starving myself while I starved for any attention, looking to anything and anyone desperate to feel something.

It lasted a year, but by then, I was numb and didn’t know any better.

Not till Cal.

I want to feel everything with him. Not a quick high,everything.

Choking down the thought that he won’t like what he sees, that somehow when he sees my body again, he’ll notice the—some invisible—scars I’ve inflicted on myself.

A stretch mark from gaining the weight I lost back. A cut on my calf from a skate.

My phone buzzes. He’s entered the garage.

I run my hands through my hair, scrunching the top to add volume and give me a falsely effortless appearance.

Will he even like the lingerie?The question has me staggering on the bottom step.Was this a mistake?

You are going to mess this up, and he’s going to make you leave, leave you—Stop.

I take a deep breath, letting my racing heart return to its positive racing—a giddy anticipation.

Lingerie isn’t for everyone, but I love it. Even on the days I spend at home wearing my silly shirts, I enjoy putting it on.

For the longest time, it was how I expressed what the flirty, feminine, and soft side of me I hid from others.I always enjoyed the empowerment of wearing a matching set under my clothes. It was never for anyone else, only me.

So why are you nervous if this is for you?

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