Page 29 of Come Back to Bed
7
Matt
FROM: DOLLY KEMP
TO: MATT MCGOVERN (personal)
Greetings from Vienna! Oh, what a city. You know, I never thought of myself as an elegant person, but all this grand architecture just makes me want to put on a ball gown and stop swearing so much (or at least learn how to swear in German).
So fucking happy to hear from you, Matthew. I’m so glad you and Daisy are enjoying my apartment and—yes—you may continue to do so for as long as you need to. Marty and I are not done trying out all the hotel beds in Europe yet. Speaking of beds and men and women—I do hope that your reason for staying there really is that you haven’t found a new place for yourself and Daisy yet and not that you’re still hoping you’ll move back in with that Vanessa.
It has been ONE MONTH!
Nut up and move on, my dear boy. You’re a catch and I’ve always told you that you deserve better than her. Bless your sweet little boy heart, you’re good at so many things but you’ve never been good at choosing girlfriends. Remember that redhead you had a crush on when you were fifteen and I came to visit? You thought she was an angel and I told you she had the fiery blood of hellhounds coursing through her veins. But you didn’t listen, and it’s fine. Tell me, did you keep in touch with her when she was in juvie?
Speaking of better than Vanessa—I’m glad to hear that you’ve made Bernadette’s acquaintance. She never ceases to delight me, that one…Not that I don’t trust you with my plants, but maybe you should have Bernadette over to check on them. She has a green thumb. And nine other magical fingers that I’m quite sure are capable of making other things grow and thrive as well…
But don’t listen to me! I’m just your dottie old Aunt Dolly.
xx DK
Subtle, as always, Aunt D.
It’s Saturday, and my buddies refuse to come uptown to hang out and I don’t want to go downtown to meet up with them, because I don’t want to run into Vanessa again. The last time that happened—three weeks ago—she just happened to be at the same bar where my friend had his birthday party. She accused me of stalking her, started crying and apologizing for being so awful to me, saying she missed me, grabbing me and burying her face in my chest and then telling me she can’t see me because it’s too hard for her and ran off. It was puretelenovelacaliber drama, and it made me want to break things. But I didn’t.
Again, she didn’t ask about Daisy. I don’t know why that pisses me off so much, but it does. I don’t know why I was so sure she needed me, but I did. I don’t know why I thought I needed to love her, but I did.
I do?
I did.
But it lingers. I don’t know why, but it does. That’s a lie. I know why.
It’s the falling in love part that I don’t want to let go of, even though it let go of me so long ago. It’s the first month of Us that I’m hanging onto. It’s the first time I saw her, when I held the elevator door open for her. The way I felt when I found out she was the summer law clerk at my law firm. She wore no makeup, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, obviously trying to tone down her looks, to no avail. The way she laughed when I quietly gave her the low-down on every single employee, including myself, in the break room. The way she said my name the first time I kissed her when we worked late that night.
I stayed in love with the firsts. I stayed in love with the beginning, and the fantasy of our future, even when it became clear that we had two completely different ideas of the future and two completely different ideas of who I was and who she was. I stayed with her, even when it became clear that she had no desire to be the person that I thought I fell in love with. Even when it was obvious to everyone that I was blinded by her beauty, I needed so badly to believe that it was more than that, as if you can will yourself into being the right person for someone. As if you could try to will the other person into becoming the right person for you.
I hate that I can tell my brain what to think, and I can tell my heart not to feel, but I haven’t been able to stop my body from missing hers.
And I hate that I am so fucking horny.
And moody because of it.
It’s been almost three months since I’ve had sex.
Things did change for me after that night when I ran into Vanessa, though. That was when I told my brain it could stop feeling obligated to think about her when I got off. And that’s when my brain made it clear to me that it’s a total fucking asshole.
No, Aunt Dolly, it’s not because of Vanessa that I’m still in your apartment.I just haven’t found a new place that would be good for me and Daisy. And also, because Daisy is having this annoying love affair with your fucking hot weird neighbor.
Bernadette. I like her paintings. I don’t like that it bothers me so much that she isn’t painting anymore. I hate that I now despise Sebastian Smith, even though I used to like his work, because she’s at his beck and call all day every day and because of the way her voice changes when she talks about him. I like her apartment. I don’t like that when I was in her apartment my dick of a brain scanned each and every surface, picturing which would be the best to fuck her on, against, over. I definitely don’t like that I can hear things. I don’t like that I know her nighttime habits and her weekend morning routine. I don’t like that I wonder what she’s doing when she’s not on the other side of a wall from me. I really don’t like that I wonder what she’s wearing or not wearing when she is on the other side of the wall from me.
One day last week, I had forgotten to take my suit to work. I needed it for a dinner meeting with my company’s investors, so I had to come home on my lunch break. When I was in the guest room getting the suit out of the closet, I heard moaning from the vent. I didn’t expect her to be home in the middle of the day. At first, I was concerned. I honestly thought that maybe Bernadette was sick in bed with food poisoning or something. Then, when I got closer to the wall, I could hear the sound of a vibrator. A loud one. Like a mini jackhammer. Soon, she was groaning and gasping and swearing like she was in pain, and then finally she half-screamed, and I thought surely she was done but she kept going.
I was so fucking hard that I knew I’d have to take care of it before going back to work. I pictured her with her head thrown back, her eyes closed tight, her pouty swollen lips forming an “O” as she caressed her tits with one hand and worked the vibrator with the other. I imagined opening my eyes and finding that she had snuck into my apartment to find me here and then she’d wordlessly climb on top of me for a little afternoon delight. Grabbing onto the headboard and riding me until I exploded into her. After we both came she’d just kiss me once and then leave. I could see her doing that in real life, and that is a huge turn on for me at this point. I stayed as quiet as a mouse, but following her resounding grand finale I heard the jackhammer turn off, a drawer slammed shut.
A few minutes later, I was out my front door, wearing my suit. Fuck my co-workers if they can’t handle me in a suit at the office—I needed to wear that suit so I could feel more in control of myself. When I got down to the foyer, Bernadette was there, looking very relaxed and cheerful, talking to a lady with a poodle. The look on her face when she realized I had just been upstairs was priceless. I nodded at her and the other lady and continued on my way back to work.
I’m always startled by how beautiful she is, every time I see her. It’s strange. It must be some kind of defense mechanism. Despite my asshole brain’s insistence on casting her as the star in every filthy fantasy I’ve had in the past few weeks, when my hand isn’t on my dick, when Bernadette’s not around, that same brain keeps reminding me that she’s not my type. And then I catch sight of her, a block away, three feet away, wherever, and my type is dark wavy auburn hair, bright hazel eyes that observe and question and mock me, and a sassy grin that simultaneously makes me want to spar with her and slam myself against her. Yeah. I’m feeling the Bern.
