Page 75 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I find myself quietly crying, tears sliding down my cheeks as I try to picture what that would feel like. Normally, I’d ask myself why the fuck I’m crying, but I don’t have to. I know exactly why.
Imogen said it: I have secretly and desperately wanted to be loved. My whole life. I never felt loved by my dad, or by my mom. I thought I was loved by Jared, and I’d hung all my hopes and dreams for a happily ever after in which I would ride off into the sunset on the back of a white charger, my arms around a golden knight in shining armor, and be loved and be happy.
And then he fucked me over and crushed the nascent little blossom of hope I had, the tiny seedling of belief in love and men.
After that, I salted the soil of hope and belief in love and men, killing any possibility of anything ever growing there again. And I clung to that barrenness, salting the soil again and again throughout the years, making sure nothing could ever grow there.
But somehow, something is growing.
Not even a seedling, yet. More of a germinated seed, a tender little tendril of something green under the soil, just barely poking up to reach for the sun.
I fall asleep, eventually, but it’s to dreams of Franco, of hands, of lips, of breath—erotic dreams of wet warmth leaking out of me, sensual dreams of clinging to Franco through breathless spasms of mutual connection.
I wake in the middle of the night alone in my bed, and he’s not there, and my eyes sting and my chest contracts, and I know I’m at the most serious moment of my entire life.
For once, I have absolutely no clue what to do.
I don’t fall asleep again, and yet I can’t seem to stop dreaming about Franco.
Each successive dream, whether erotic or tender or sensual, only makes my heart clench harder and my body yearn more desperately for something I fear I’ll never have.
Chapter 13
Three endless, miserable days pass. I dream of Franco, and I’m absentminded at work, and even my own workouts suffer. Finally, I submit to the inevitable: I reschedule all my clients, pushing everyone back two weeks, citing personal health issues. For the first time since…ever, I have an entire two and a half weeks off—no clients, no meetings, no seminars or workshops…and no workouts.
I have no clue what I’m going to do, but like Imogen predicted—I’m burned out. Psychologically, emotionally, and physically I’m just…gassed. Smoked. Done.
My first day off, I sleep in until noon. I watch Netflix and indulge in some midweek healthy carbs, when I usually only allow them into my diet on the weekends.
The first day rolls slowly into two, and I don’t work out, which is difficult. I don’t drink, which is also difficult.
At the top of day three, I tell Imogen that I’m taking time off from everything, and she squeals loudly over the phone, hangs up, and then calls me back ten minutes later—she’s taken off three of her vacation days, got her shifts today and tomorrow covered; it’s Monday so she has a full five days off, and she’s headed my way with her bags packed.
I splutter. “Bags? Where are you going?”
She laughs. “Where am I going? You mean where are we going! I’m stealing you! We haven’t had a vacation together ever in our whole lives ever and we’re taking one right now!”
“Um. Where are we going?”
She laughs again, a light, tinkling, giggle. “Oh, you’ll see. I have plans in the works.”
“Plans in the works? What does that mean?” I ask.
Another giggle, and I’m getting annoyed at the giggling—whenever Imogen has something up her sleeve, she gets the giggles, and it has always annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me. “Can you please just trust me? Please? Pack a bag with lots of bikinis and flip-flops and sundresses, and that’s all I’ll tell you.”
“Imogen, you know I don’t do well with surprises.”
“Tough. Deal with it.” I hear her muffle into the phone and talk to Jesse, and then she’s back to me. “I’m on the way. Go along with it, and just trust me.”
“Okay, okay.” I pause. “Bikinis, sundresses, and flip-flops, huh?”
“And maybe some nice stuff in case we want to go to a fancy dinner or something. I don’t know! Just pack for everything, but especially for a lot of beach time.”
And then she hangs up as I hear her getting into her car, with Jesse’s voice rumbling in the background.
I go into whirlwind mode. I spend a few minutes trying to pick bikinis, and then just say fuck it and grab all them out of the drawer in a giant handful, toss them into my suitcase, and call it good. Bras and underwear, sundresses, skirts, tops, a few nicer dresses and a few pairs of heels, some flip-flops and some gladiator sandals, my to-go makeup and toiletries kit, and a few T-shirts to sleep in. Things I don’t bring: workout gear, condoms, or vibrators. The only thing that got me past Jared was a period of total celibacy, and I’m already well into another one, with almost a full month under my chastity belt. Might as well keep it going, right? I haven’t heard a word from Franco, Imogen hasn’t brought him up, and I’ve avoided going anywhere he might be. If it’s over, it’s over. Fine. There’s nothing to be over anyway. I’m not going to try to stop thinking about him; I’m not going to try to get over him by getting under someone else. I’m just going to…live my life, and figure it out one step at a time.
