Page 71 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I nod. “Same here. It was fun for a while, then it was just exhausting and too much work. And then I graduated, got a job out here and started building my clientele.”
Silence, then.
He says nothing, I say nothing—but something is boiling inside me, and I don’t want to acknowledge it, or admit it into my thoughts, or past my lips.
No, no, no.
Don’t say it, Audra.
“But I have one more thing to say, Franco. What we did, tonight, was more than just sex.”
I can’t believe I said it.
Franco sighs. Nods. “Yeah, I know.”
“And not just because we forgot a condom.”
“I know.”
“And we just traded our deepest, darkest, most painful secrets.”
“We did.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to say something more. “And?” I say, when he remains silent.
He sighs again. “And what, Audra?”
“What now?”
He shrugs, his face carefully blank. “And now…nothing.”
I feel nothing at hearing those words. I refuse to feel anything. There’s no punch to the chest at his words. No catch in my throat, or burn in my eyes. I feel nothing. I’m the ice bitch. Eat your heart out, Elsa.
How long do I sit in silence, refusing to feel? A whole minute? Longer? Definitely longer. An eternity, maybe. Or just a lifetime. I don’t know. Long enough for the silence to develop a coating of hoarfrost.
“Okay.” It’s all I say for another long moment. But I have to say more, to keep the ice frozen solid. “And nothing. I just wondered where you stood about the whole thing…and now I know.”
I rise from the stool and leave the garage workshop, exiting the comfort and warmth, and the familiar scent of wood and sawdust and age. I’m halfway to the house when I hear his voice ring out.
“Audra?”
I stop, turn, and see him in the warm incandescent orange-yellow glow, shirtless and beautiful, with a carved eagle in one hand and a carving knife in the other, hair loose and golden around his shoulders, wood shavings on his thighs and the workbench and sawdust on the back of his hand.
“What?”
He pauses, swallows. “Did…did you want there to be something? I mean, did you want there to be a now?”
I think of Jared. Of Maria. Of the twenty years of one-night stands and hookups and quasi-not-really-but-almost relationships torched before they could become anything, and I think of the four-fuck rule, and the no-kissing rule; I think about how he felt in my bed, and how I felt in his; I think about the feel of his seed trickling out of me even now, and the protective curl of his arm around my shoulders, and feeling safe and small and vulnerable and protected there; I think about the stories we just traded, how it was so much easier to tell him than I thought it would be, how similar our stories are, how different we are yet how much the same; all of this passes through my mind in a Matrix-like scud and whirl and barrage of ideas and images and thoughts and feelings.
“No,” I say, and my voice is steady, low, and not quite cold enough, but as cold as I can make it sound. “No, I didn’t.”
And then I go back inside, get dressed, grab my purse, and leave his house through the front door.
It’s only a fifteen-minute walk over to my place from here, but I have no energy for it. I order a Lyft while I’m dressing, and in a stroke of dumb luck it’s at the curb in less than five minutes. The driver says hello, and I summon enough to nod at him and smile tightly—the kind of smile that basically screams fuck off and take me home; or maybe it’s my overall demeanor, or the obvious walk of shame. Ride of shame—whatever.
I see Franco in his driveway, fiddling with the eagle carving, watching me.
I thought about the bunny he’d carved, sitting on the workbench—dammit, I liked that little carving. It was cute.
And then…nothing.
Conceal, don’t feel. Yeah, I identify, Elsa.
Chapter 12
I bury myself in work and my own workouts. Imogen is worried, but I assure her I’m fine. And that works for a while, at least on my end.
Sort of.
Okay, it doesn’t work at all.
I still can’t get my mojo back, as Austin Powers would say. I can’t make myself care about guys—they’re all lackluster and ugly and boring and lame, and I have no interest in pursuing any of them. I try, and I fail, multiple times—until I quit trying. Even alone, my sexuality is frozen. And I know why: it’s safer this way. If I’m numb and frozen, I’m not feeling anything, especially whatever may be lurking below the thick layer of ice.
Finally, another three weeks after my ride of shame from Franco’s house, there’s a quiet, discreet knock at my door. It’s late, almost midnight, and I’m in my robe eating Halo Top and drinking wine and binge watching a new Netflix comedy series.
