Page 42 of Roses in Summer

“Fine, but you will speak to me. I will—”

“What the hell is going on?” Liv interrupts, emerging from her bedroom and closing it shut behind her. My eyes narrow on her rumpled clothes, messy hair, and the lack of lipstick on her face after a seemingly long shift. The thing about my best friend is that she hates not being put together. Even in sleep, she wears matching sets, sets her hair in heatless curls or a braid, and is like a fifties housewife in the perfect façade she presents. She and I both know that her outward appearance masks the thinly veiled chaos that swirls inside her.

For her to open her door, even if it’s just for Bianca and me, looking like she just had sex is highly unusual, not only because of her vanity but also because she hates intimacy.

“Seraphina locked herself in a bathroom, and we had to leave early tonight. She refuses to tell me why. But maybe you can get an answer out of her.” Bianca huffs, waving her hands to showcase her annoyance.

“Sera—”

“Is there someone in your room?” I ask, interrupting Liv’s question. “Weren’t you supposed to be at work tonight?”

Liv’s eyes widen, and she backs to her door, gripping the handle as though she will bar anyone from entering the space. Or leaving it. “Wh-what are you talking about?” She shakes her head, her fingers turning white on the handle. “Of course I had work. I got home an hour ago. I was about to take a shower. Oh, look, the water is running; I should go jump in. It’s probably hot. Have a good night.” Liv points behind her, gesturing toward the en-suite bathroom her room holds, opens the door a crack, and slips in, not letting the door fully open so that we can’t see in.

“Well, that was weird,” Bianca murmurs, her voice holding all of the confusion I feel. She stares at the door briefly before whipping her head toward me. “But don’t think Liv’s weirdness makes me forget about you. We will talk tomorrow. Don’t you dare run out of here.”

I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back as I nonverbally respond. She eyes me, her gaze narrowing on my face before she stomps to her bedroom and slams the door. As soon as I’m alone, my shoulders drop, the weight of the night leeching from my body. Running a hand over my face, I walk to the fridge and pull out an unopened, cold bottle of water. I’m not conscious of my pulls from the bottle, and I’m surprised when I’m met with air and the crunching of plastic as I drain the last drops.

Throwing it in the recycling, I walk lightly to my bedroom door, relieved that I don’t need to share a private space with my sister and best friend. With the former, she wouldn’t be able to stop talking, and I’d have to suffocate myself with a pillow to drown out the noise. With the latter, I’m almost positive there was someone in her room, and the idea of sleeping with the smell of someone else’s sex makes disgust trickle down my spine.

Setting my bag and phone down on my dresser, I open my top two drawers to gather an oversized T-shirt and pair of boy shorts to sleep in. I know I should shower and wash the night from my body in some self-anointed cleansing ritual. But for some reason, the thought of showering doesn’t sound appealing.

I can blame exhaustion and claim that sleep wants to take me. But I know that’s a lie. I know that I don’t want to shower the stench of the night off me because Lincoln touched me; his smell surrounds me.

Part of me is surprised that he smells of the spicey cologne he used to wear. I remember the first night we met, the competing powers of ginger, tobacco, and vanilla were so heady I couldn’t tell if my reaction to him was because of his appearance or his scent. When he bent down to kiss me hello tonight, my mind was transported back to the moment I first laid my eyes on him.

“Stop acting so obsessed,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I reach for the back zipper to remove the dress. “I should have asked Bianca to help me. Dammit, where is—oh, thank God.” My fingers land on the small, hidden pull tab, and I yank it down, not caring that the sound of tearing fabric fills the room. I already need this dress dry-cleaned after spilling sangria on it, so I’ll have to add “replace zipper” to the list of my grievances tonight.

Along with “fantasizing about someone else’s boyfriend.”

Sighing, I let the dress fall off my body and carefully step out of the heap of fabric on the floor. I don’t waste time donning my T-shirt, but when it comes to the boy shorts on my dresser, I hesitate, biting my lip as I consider my next move.

Putting on the panties is an admission of sleep, a silent confirmation that I’ll succumb to whatever dreams—or nightmares—present themselves. But I feel too keyed up, too needy. I know damn well that an attempt at slumber will be unsuccessful and restless. At best, I’ll dream of Lincoln, and at worst, my mind will spiral down the path it’s taken so many times: all the things I’ve missed out on.

I started therapy soon after Mitch and his father’s motives came to light and after my parents were cleared of any prosecutorial misconduct. I had to relate the best and worst moments of my life, understand their outcomes, and deal with acceptance. I’m okay, for the most part, but it’s that nagging lack of trust in people that seems to always rear its head. Aside from Liv, there have been no new connections made—both platonic and romantic—that have meant anything to me. On the one hand, my ability to trust easily is obliterated, and on the other, I was a hopeless eighteen-year-old who fell in love over the course of six weeks with a man I’ll never have.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t harbor feelings for Lincoln, dormant as they may be. But I also know that pursuing him is not only unfair, it’s wrong, both because of his girlfriend and the mistakes I’ve made. There’s a reason I didn’t reach out to him after everything was settled with Mitch, after the restraining order was fully in place, and it’s because I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t good enough for Lincoln. Maybe it’s self-pity, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that most people would ask for help or at least demand proof when threatened. But me? It didn’t take much to make me believe, to make me trust that the accusations Mitch levied were true. And if I can’t trust my own instincts, which screamed “protect, protect, protect,” what good am I?

“Enough, Seraphina,” I murmur, sounding deranged, talking to myself in the third person.

With a sigh, I drop the fabric in my hands and leave the boy shorts on the dresser. Moving to my bed, I grab my laptop and fall into my nearly nightly routine of the last three years: self-pleasure. When I first started having sex, it was almost a rebellion, a way to sayfuck youto the guy who manipulated me the entire time I knew him. But then, it changed into a habit.

It’s not that I’ve been with hordes of men, but I’ve experimented. I lost my virginity my first week of college to one of my dorm’s resident advisors, a cute, if not socially awkward, sophomore who seemed to think our hookup was more meaningful than I did.

After one night, a little blood, and no orgasm, I thought our relationship would be comprised of awkward hellos when we passed each other in the hall and careful avoidance. He thought it would be dinner in the dining hall, sleepovers in his single, and date parties at his fraternity.

It became… hostile, and I was relieved to finally be placed in a different dorm for the summer session.

After him, I was more selective about where I met people, careful that no one was in my classes or dorm building. Olivia hated my experimentation and my need for freedom and body autonomy because she was terrified I would be hurt in some way, either physically or emotionally.

What I had to help her understand was that my heart didn’t belong to any of the guys I dated, and even though Mitch never violated my body, he violated my trust and perception of men. No one had the power to hurt me anymore, at least not in an intimate way.

But the one thing that was a constant source of disappointment was how unfulfilled I felt after nearly every single encounter. Even if I found my release and came in some semblance of an orgasm, there was a hollow feeling that would take residence in my soul and eat away at it. I couldn’t stop this feeling that I was wasting time with men who held no interest for me.

I stopped pursuing boys and started taking care of myself. Some people shy away from masturbation, feel disgusted by the act of bringing themselves to orgasm and feeling their own cum drip down their fingers, coating their thighs. But I’ve never felt that way. The few orgasms I’ve received from someone else have paled in comparison to what I can do for myself.

Sometimes, I fuck myself with a toy; other times, I use my fingers or the heel of my hand against my clit. But regardless of what tactic I use, the result is always the same: I come.

Needing a release after the tense evening, I lie back on my pillows and open my laptop. Navigating to my favorite site, where verified amateurs film themselves and receive payment directly for their videos rather than through a third party, I start to scroll through my favorites list. My tastes change frequently. Sometimes, I watch couples make love or swingers swapping partners, and sometimes, it’s men being pleased by multiple women.

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