Page 76 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
What I was doing clearly wasn’t working, so I’m not going back to it. What’s next? I have no idea.
Right now, I’m going to take a beach vacation with my best friend, and not worry about any of it.
By the time I’m done packing, Imogen is buzzing at the front door. I let her in and she’s at my door in seconds. I barely have the door open when she shoves through, already chattering, literally vibrating with excitement. She’s talking so fast I can barely keep up with her, and I don’t even try. She’s talking about drinks with umbrellas, and cabana boys, and should she have higher SPF with her, and Jesse is so jealous he’s talking to James about scheduling a boys’ trip for when we get back, and…
I let her talk, absorbing her joy. I’m still not okay, but I’m okay with not being okay. It’s a weird kind of peaceful resignation. I know I’ll figure it out, one way or another. This is a turning point in my life, I’m realizing, and I’m trying to just take it one step at a time and enjoy the process, even the not-being okay part, if that makes any sense.
She’s pawing through my suitcase, checking my packing. She goes through it twice, and then stops chattering abruptly. “Audra, there’s something missing.”
I frown. “What? I’ve got clothes for nice dinners, bikinis, sandals, makeup, bras and underwear…what am I missing?”
“You don’t have any…” and here she gestures vaguely at her hoo-ha. “You know.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Say what you mean and use big girl words, Imogen.”
“You don’t have a vibrator or condoms.” She gives me a meaningful look. “I thought you never went anywhere without that stuff. I remember you telling me that a few years ago.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I don’t usually. But I’m…” Another sigh, and if I sigh again I’ll turn into an accordion. “I’m on hiatus. From everything.”
“Another ninety-day celibacy thing, like after Jared?”
I shrug, nod, and then shake my head. “Yes—no. I don’t know. I told you I haven’t been able to get with anyone since Franco, well…that hasn’t changed. But I’m not with him either, and I still can’t get with anyone else. Worse yet—I don’t want to. He…he broke me. He ruined me for anyone else, and now he doesn’t want me. Which is what I was worried about in the first fucking place. Worst of all, Imogen—I can’t even give myself relief. I’ve tried that too, and I’ve just got no…mojo, for lack of a better word. I’m frustrated as fuck and I can get close, right to the edge even, but I can’t get myself over it. I can’t bring myself to orgasm, Imogen! It’s utter hell! The asshole didn’t just ruin me for other men, he ruined me for myself! It’s not fair.” I groan, and wave both hands toward the door. “Which is why this beach vacation sounds fucking phenomenal, so let’s quit yammering about my bullshit and get out of here!”
A brief but significant pause, and then Imogen brightens. “Beaches and drinks with umbrellas, and cute cabana boys, here we come!” she sings, zipping my suitcase and handing it to me.
On the way out, I glance at her. “Why are you so excited about cabana boys when you have a guy like Jesse at home?”
She rolls her eyes as we head out to my parking lot. “I love Jesse with all my heart, and I’m one hundred percent devoted to him, and if he doesn’t ask me to marry him soon I’m going to end up popping the question to him. But. I still like looking at cute guys. Doesn’t mean I want them, or want to do anything with them, I just appreciate nice-looking things. Like art, and architecture, and flowers…and men.”
I laugh. “Atta girl, Imogen.”
When we get out to my parking lot, Jesse is parked in one of my guest spots, his giant truck rumbling with screeching, howling, death metal or whatever it is shrieking from his speakers. His window is open, one thick, tattooed arm hanging out, two fingers tapping to the beat. He has his phone up to his ear with his other hand, and he’s alternately listening and talking. I can’t make out what he’s saying, much less figure out who he’s talking to. But then Jesse sees me and Imogen, makes a quick end to the phone call, tossing the device into the console cubby under the dashboard as we approach. I have a niggling suspicion about who he was talking to, and about what.
I push that train of thought aside, because it doesn’t matter. What happened, happened, and what is, is.
And now it’s vacation time.
I open the rear passenger door, shove my little suitcase across the bench seat beside Imogen’s and climb up and into the truck, buckling up as I close the door. “Hey, Jesse.”
