Page 45 of Love Undecided
Chapter 20
Kat
As I drive toward the coast and my little house above the water, my mind drifts to Brad.
I want to be with him. I really do.
But, I'm going to die.
And not at some undetermined time in my golden years. More like in the next five years, if I make it that long.
I won't even see forty.
I'll be lucky to see thirty-five.
God, that thought hurts so much more than I expect it to.
So, I go home and make myself a drink.
Three parts tequila, one part lime juice, one part rocks.
Then I change into yoga pants and a cami and settle back on my balcony to listen to the waves. Most of my neighbors keep their back lights low or off, which makes looking out at the inky blackness of the ocean the perfect backdrop for moods like my own. Tonight, even the moon is muted, barely casting a glow on the water’s glassy surface.
I take a deep drink of my cocktail, draining almost half the glass, and wait for the heat of the tequila to start its calming effect on my body. And more importantly, my brain.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brad, as though he's been summoned by my thoughts. I can't bring myself to look at it. If I do, I'll want to respond. And if I respond, it will be to ask him to come over. So he can sit here, in the dark with me, and listen to the waves together. And I can pretend that everything is normal and back to the way it should be.
In the past, when we would sit out here together, it would always lead to sex. He’s why I traded in my Adirondack chairs for the extra-large, extra soft outdoor furniture. Because having sex in an Adirondack chair is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, it’s fun the first few times, but splinters on your thighs gets real old real fast.
And, now I’m thinking about sex.
And Brad.
And sex with Brad.
God, I miss him.
Shit. Fuck. Piss.
Do I use the RTF app tonight? I don’t think I’m quite drunk enough yet, and at some point I should probably sleep. Plus, I wasn't lying when I told my therapist I wasn’t going to keep doing this.
Supposedly RTF stands for Really Temporary Friends. Which is a joke, RTF is Ready To Fuck, it’s a hookup app that lets you know people in your immediate vicinity who are ready to fuck.
And as I look at the app, I see there is a guy right now who is two point six miles away. One swipe and I can have him here in under ten minutes.
But I’m trying to be responsible. Or, at the very least not be what my therapist would consider reckless.
Solo mission it is.
I down the rest of my drink and go inside to find my vibrator. I’ll just keep making myself come until I burn off my clit or pass the fuck out, whichever comes first.
