Page 21 of Reckless Desire

I don’t think my cleaning therapy is having much of an effect, but it’s at least bringing fatigue, so I won’t stop.

As much as I want to erase the bouncing little girl and the gentle, chaste kiss Hunter gave his wife, it flashes in front of my eyes. How could I have let him fool me so much?

I store the vacuum in the tiny closet by the entrance then look around my now sterile museum of an apartment. Kitchen cabinets next. Better to attack them than my self-esteem or sanity. Both are at their lowest.

I empty the cabinets. There aren’t many things to pull out, which is oddly disappointing. I have been living alone for three years, and I sold or donated most of our things before I moved here.

I polish the shelves, so now they are not just clean, but they sparkle. I don’t feel accomplished, but I keep going. I wash every dish in the sink and then dry them with a hand towel before putting them away.

As stupid and unnecessary as the activity is, it keeps my mind occupied. Barely, but it does. At least I know I can survive this. It’s nothing. I had one date with Hunter. I got over Jeremy and that accounted for years of lies, so Hunter’s betrayal is… Well, it’s not even a betrayal because it’s not like the two of us were involved.

I was a client. I wonder if his wife knows where the money comes from.Stop!

Somehow I make it through the day, and desperate to keep the kitchen clean, I order pizza. As soon as I hang up, I regret it. Cooking would have given me something to do. Cooking and tidying up again. Therapy at its best. If it worked.

What is wrong with me?

One kiss.

One date.

One lie.

Followed by one case of ensuing insanity. I try to read a book while I wait for my pizza and decide that a glass or a bottle of wine is exactly what a doctor would prescribe to snap me out of this funk.

I’m on my third glass when my dinner finally arrives, along with an epiphany. I’m hurt.

It might not be logical because I don’t actually know the man, but somewhere between Hunter introducing himself and kissing me the following morning, despite judging his way of life, I trusted him. Or at least I let my guard down. Never again.

Hunter was right—protective walls eventually isolate you. He didn’t feel like he was on the other side. He was right there with me.

Seeing me.

Hearing me.

Making me laugh.

I finish the bottle and two slices of pizza, flipping through the channels with the dedication of a binge watcher chasing a new hit series. I have no idea what’s on, but I don’t want to go to bed.

A couple of hours later, I stare at my ceiling. A lonely tear rolls down my cheek. I’m so freaking lonely I even consider calling Paris, who is my least favorite sister because her sunshine personality depresses me.

London wanted to cheer me up, to give me a therapeutic orgasm and an unforgettable coochie service. All her gift achieved was to remind me how lonely I’ve been.

I toss and turn all night, unable to find peace. Not that I’m a peaceful sleeper by nature, but the turmoil of my thoughts is as bad as it was during the weeks after Jeremy’s death.

That realization pisses me off. One date—not even an honest one—doesn’t compare to a marriage and the loss I experienced after Jeremy.

I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and cross the room to make myself some coffee. The polished kitchen pisses me off further because it reminds me that I cleaned it to stop thinking about the asshole.

At last, somehow, it’s morning again. I take my cup to the armchair by the window and pick up my book. But it remains closed on my lap because my mind wanders, repainting the memory of Hunter’s body against mine, reviving the feel of his lips on my mouth, replaying his words, his voice, our conversation.

I must be too starved for attention if one date could stir this many emotions. If I didn’t know better, I would say I’m broken-hearted. The thought makes me snort.

Okay, I had a good time. Perhaps a great time, but the man gets paid to orchestrate that. And after the string of mediocre to plain awful dates I’ve had recently, it’s only natural last night stood out.

I sip my coffee and try to focus on the page in front of me, but I have no idea what I’m reading. Great. Now he’s ruined my lazy Sunday reading ritual. I finish my coffee and abandon the book. If I had a regular class, I’d be prepping or grading exams. But I don’t.

Maybe London is right and I should try to get a permanent position. I can’t shy away from all commitments forever. It’s been three years since Jeremy deserted me—because yes, I think of his death as a desertion—so perhaps it’s time for me to move on. To move past the hatred, resentment and fear.

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