Page 68 of Come Back to Bed
16
Bernadette
It has been a month and a half since we started no-stringsing (yes, it’s a verb), and we’re not doing it right. I mean, we’re doing the sex part right, by golly. We are A plus world champions at the sex part. But boundaries have been blurred and crossed. Invisible strings are being tripped over, and so far no one has gotten hurt because we keep falling back into bed and that makes everything fine again.
But now, he has invited himself to Sebastian’s party. The party I’ve been planning forever, the one that is so important to my boss, for some reason. Matt McGovern wants to come to this party, and because he was so sweet and thoughtful when he took care of me last week, I couldn’t say ‘no.’
“You taking a date to this party?” he asked, as I left his apartment last night.
“No. I’ll be working, basically. I’m kind of the hostess.”
“Sounds like fun. I’d love to go, thanks.”
I laughed and didn’t look back at him, because I thought for sure he was kidding. But he texted me this morning to ask if I’d be coming home first or if he should meet me there. I had to come home, and he’s home now, so there’s no avoiding him. If he were anyone else, I would have ended things by now. But he’s like no one else. He’s Matt McGovern, Esq. It’s real. It’s happening. And no amount of anti-perspirant or sarcasm can hide how much I’m panicking.
We should end this. I should tell him so, tonight. Maybe when we get back from the party. Or before? On the way? So he can feel free to leave with someone else if he meets someone at the party.
Or maybe after we get home, so things aren’t awkward for either of us at the party.
But we should stop seeing each other like this, or maybe start seeing other people. It’s getting too real, too intense. Too saturated. We need to dilute things with a complimentary color. Add some green to this red-hot mess of feelings.
No, that’s not right.
Add white, to make it pink? But pink is too romantic. This isn’t a romance. We aren’t dating.
That’s not right either. It’s not one color. It’s all of them.
That’s the problem.
Somehow, this thing with Matt has developed into a monster-sized canvas covered with drips and splashes of all the vivid colors—swirling, heavy but dizzying, abstract and hitting me on a gut level in a way that my brain can’t understand. We’re redefining what it means to have a no-strings relationship the way Jackson Pollock led the abstract expressionist movement.
Maybe I should apply my favorite Jackson Pollock quote to this situation with Matt: “The painting has a life of its own. I try to let it come through.”
Maybe whatever we have between us shouldn’t be defined or restricted.
Or—maybe if that man gives me one more orgasm my brain will short-circuit and I won’t be able to think about anything anymore and that will be great.
These are deep thoughts to be having while eating a flax muffin over the bathroom sink and blow-drying my hair.
I need to respond to twenty-four messages about the party.
I need to get dressed and get back into executive assistant mode.
I need to calm the fuck down and let my handsome neighbor accompany me to this party, because that’s all that’s happening.
I pull on my special dress, the maroon-colored one that I was wearing when I first met Matt. The one I had bought with the intention of wearing to some future event, to get Sebastian to see me in a new way. The future is now, and I don’t even know if I care whether or not my boss thinks I look hot in it.
There’s a knock at my door, and he’s here exactly when I need him to finish zipping me up.
I sprint barefoot to the kitchen to dab at my armpits with paper towels for one final time tonight, cover my mouth and release one last squeal, flip my hair and then saunter over to the door like a fucking supermodel.
One look at Matt in a dark blazer and I’m a goner.
What an asshole.
Why should anyone look that good in a blazer?
He stands in the doorway, eyeing my dress.
