Page 35 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“We have chemistry,” I say as I slug back a double pull of my Grey Goose. “Not just a connection. It’s weird and scary and I don’t like it. So yeah, Imogen, I’m going to cut him out of my life and go back to the endless parade of empty, meaningless, casual sexual encounters with complete strangers, even though I know damn well I have a real and possibly serious connection with Franco. Because, in the end, I don’t think Franco is any different than Dad or Jared or any other scumbag man on this planet.” I peer at her, blinking hard to clear my double vision. “I do hope, for your sake, that Jesse, at least, is different. But I will keep my skepticism on that subject entirely to myself.”
She smiles, but she looks sad. “Oh, Audra. So cynical.”
“That’s me. Audra the cynic.” I shake my glass, peer at it, realizing it’s empty, and that Imogen has been sneaking water into it this whole time, letting me think I was drinking vodka. “Sneaky, sneaky.”
She smiles. “That’s what friends are for, Audra.”
“Love you, bitchface.” Very, very carefully, I set down both glass and can, and lay down on the couch. “Nighty night.”
She hauls me upright. “Hey now, if you’re gonna pass out, you’re gonna do it in your bed, not out here.”
She helps me into my bed, and I cover up with the blankets, still in my robe. Imogen is in the bed behind me, spooning me.
“Imogen?” I ask, my voice muzzy with impending sleep.
“Yeah.”
“Is Jesse really that different?”
“From guys like your dad, Jared, and my ex?” She sighs. “Yes, Audra, he really is. He’s as different from guys like them as…god, I can’t even come up with a metaphor.”
“I’m too drunk and tired for metaphors anyway.”
“He’s the sun, and everyone else is a candle flame right before it dies from lack of oxygen.”
“That’s a metaphor.”
“He’s really that different. There’s no comparison.” She hesitates. “And his friends are all cut from the same cloth. Meaning, Franco is that different too.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“You’re not trying to.”
I’m fading, then, and can’t summon a response. But before I fall asleep, I realize she’s right.
The question is…am I likely to change?
Probably not. I’ve been Audra the cynic for far too long to suddenly become Audra the hopeless romantic.
Chapter 7
The next several weeks are crazy busy for me—I pack my schedule with clients from six in the morning until seven at night. As well, I’ve got meetings and seminars all over the state. The results my clients are getting from my workout regimens are making me a little bit famous, on a local level, in certain circles.
It’s a mercy I’m so busy because, honestly, I manage to stay so busy I barely have time to sleep or breathe, much less think about Franco. My nights out with Imogen continue as they always have, but she knows me well enough that she doesn’t bring it up.
The one time she trie, about two months in, I get up and walk out, leaving her with the bill. A bitch move, I know, but I just can’t handle any of it. I can’t handle thinking about him, talking about him, nothing. He’s cut out of my life.
That move costs me with Imogen, though—she won’t talk to me for over a week, and we skip our weekly burritos and margaritas outing for the first time in years. Finally, I show up at her house unannounced on a Monday night after work, and I’m pretty sure I interrupted a make-out session that likely would have resulted in kitchen sex had I not shown up.
She pulls away from Jesse, leaving her hands on his shoulders, peering at me past him. “Hi.” Her voice is flat, wary.
I shuffle a foot against the tile, standing in the entryway to her kitchen. “Hi.” I hesitate; apologies aren’t really my thing. “Um, so…I’m sorry I walked out and stuck you with the bill. It was a bitchy move, and I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I literally could not care less about the bill.” Imogen plucks a loose thread on the collar of Jesse’s T-shirt. “It just hurt that you’d walk out on me like that without a word. I know it’s a touchy subject for you, but…it was me, for Pete’s sake.”
“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m just not ready to talk about it.”
Regardless if Jesse is listening or not, she sighs and continues, “Meaning you’re burying and repressing the whole thing like you did after Jared.”
“Dammit, Imogen—”
She holds up her hands, stopping me. “I know, I know. I won’t say anything else—I’ve known you for two-thirds of your life, Audra, I know better than to think anything I could say will change your mind.”
That stings a little—both the resigned hurt and sadness in her voice, and the fact that I know she’s right. “Imogen, I’m sorry, I just—”
