Page 41 of Love is a Game

Down to her panties…she spreads her legs. I toss the remnants of the pastry out of the way—across to the adjacent benchtop. The last dregs of whiskey get upended with a crash to the floor as Pen lays back, writhing with impatience.

I undo my pants as she lifts to her elbows, staring at me with open lust. I grab her thighs and drag her to the edge of the bench. Rip her panties free.

“Condom.” She pants.

“I know.”

I fish for one and prepare, my dick straining with urgency.

What I want is to fuck her hard and fast.

But I won’t.

I’m going to make this last.

Chapter 14

Penelope

Some kids have stuffed animals or dolls they drag everywhere.

For me, it was a picture book about a little hermit crab. A simple kindergarten story—big, colorful illustrations, easy words—but I held onto it long past the age when I should’ve outgrown it. It traveled with me through the trials of our life on the road, wedged into backpacks, stuffed under motel pillows, tucked into the glovebox of the Ford Aerostar we sometimes lived out of.

I think the message was about growth and change. That moving forward didn’t have to be scary if you had friends. Harry, the hermit crab, met plenty of friends who helped colonize his shell. A starfish, an anemone, even a spiky sea urchin.

Except for me, friends never lasted long. No matter where we landed, my dad’s behavior always found a way to sabotage our stay, leaving us to pack up and start over. Again. And again.

But that little orange crab taught me something else: how to disappear. How to retreat whenever the world became too scary.

I would stare at its watercolor shell, tracing the spiral with my finger, imagining myself shrinking down, curling up inside it. If I focused hard enough, I could almost feel the smooth, domed walls around me, spinning deeper and deeper until the reality of my life faded.

Until I couldn’t hear my mother’s tense voice, pleading with my father to apologize to a boss, a landlord, a cop. To ask for his job back. To stop drinking.

Inside that shell, I was safe. I was small. And no one could find me.

I perfected that skill. Still use it. Even now, as a supposedly accomplished adult. When fear grips me. When the white noise becomes unbearable. When too many people want too much from me—decisions, choices, the next collection.Alwaysthe next collection.

It used to be spring-summer and fall-winter. Now it’s micro-seasons. Pressure to produce a new body of work. Every. Single. Week.

A never-ending churn of designs, pumped out at breakneck speed, keeping consumers craving the next thing before they’ve even worn the last. Just an endless flood ofmust-haves,dictated by whatever trend caught fire that week.

It’s brilliant. It’s ruthless. And for a mid-sized brand like mine, it’s a goddamn nightmare. How do you compete with companies that can sketch, manufacture, and ship an entire collection before I’ve even finalized a prototype?

How do you convince people to invest in well-crafted, intentional pieces when they’ve been trained to desire something newer, shinier, trendier every time they refresh their feed?

Fashion used to have a rhythm. Now it’s a sprint.

And my phone is a yellow-eyed demon, always watching, waiting, pouncing with more demands, more deadlines, more meetings, moreopportunities.

Then all I want is to shrink, to fold myself into the smallest possible version of me. To sink down to the sandy bottom of my shell and disappear.

But then…there’s Tuck.

With him, I don’t shrink.

I don’t retreat.

Under his gaze, Iexpand. Stretch beyond the confines of my skin, become something more, something worthy, something infinitely desirable.

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