Page 24 of You Belong With Me

A guy walking a massive Great Dane passes us, and Ricole switches walking on the other side of me, as far away from the dog as she can get on the narrow sidewalk. She’s had a few scary run-ins with dogs and isn’t a fan of the larger breeds. I chuckle because it reminds me of when we were eleven and being chased by three stray dogs. To save herself, she pushed me in front of her and sprinted away. Memories.

“Enough people watching. Tell me how work is going.” A quick subject change is always a constant with Ricole. She hasn’t ever been able to stay on one topic for longer than two minutes.

“Well, I guess it’s been okay. I have almost a grand in my savings account, and everyone at work is pretty nice. There are a few asshole regulars, and our dishwasher is a creep who makes me uncomfortable. Other than that, I really can’t complain,” I respond.

“Okay, but what about your meeting with Andreas? You never mentioned how you avoided getting fired after we sexually harassed him.” I can tell by the tone of her voice she knows I’ve purposefully kept this information on lock down. She has a mischievous glint in her eyes with a half-smirk for good measure.

“Uh, well, it went okay. I just said everything Ashley and you coached me on that morning at my apartment. He just gave me a verbal warning. That’s it.” I hope I sound convincing.

Ricole stops walking and looks at me hard, her eyes narrowing. “There’s something you’re not telling me. I can smell it. Did you fuck him?”

“No,Ricole! Jesus, how would you even jump to that conclusion?!” I try to keep my face from blushing, but I fail and a telltale pink creeps into my cheeks.

“BULLSHIT! Look at how red you’re getting! Something happened! SPILL, NOW!” she yells and yanks me by my arm to a nearby bench. I nervously glance around to see if anyone is watching her dramatic antics. Thankfully, everyone is in their own little world. She shoves me down onto the bench and stands in front of me with her arms crossed. It reminds me of the stance a teacher uses when they’re scolding their students.

“Okay, fine, it wasn’t just a meeting where he yelled at me and wrote me up for being inappropriate, okay? Shit, I hadn’t brought it up because I still don’t know how I feel about it,” I reveal sheepishly.

I tell her the whole sordid tale, including how wet I was when he told me to get the fuck out of his office. I stare at my tennis shoes, avoiding eye contact for as long as possible. We sit in silence for two or three minutes, and I sweat in the hot August sun. Of course, she didn’t push me onto a bench in the shade before she started grilling me.

As she sits down next to me and takes both of my hands in hers, Ricole says, “This is perfect! After wasting two years with your ex-turd and a half, you need a little action. He’s an asshole, but a sexy asshole. I guarantee he’s good in bed. You could sleep with him and not worry about getting attached. You need to be insubordinate again to see if he’ll bend you over the desk.”

My mouth falls open in shock. I didn’t expect Ricole to encourage this crazy ass behavior. She’s usually more level-headed, and I fully expected her to call the cops and report Andreas for sexual assault.

“You can’t be serious. First, I’m not even sure he wants to sleep with me. Second, he’s my boss, and I can’t get involved with someone I work with again. That’s how I ended up broke in Indy, remember? Third, are we forgetting that he talks to everyone around him like shit? He’s probably a selfish jackhammer who expects forty-five-minute blow jobs and never reciprocates oral. I’m absolutely NOT fucking him, Rick. I’m serious.” Sweat trickles down the back of my tank top, and I can feel my thighs sticking to the bench.

“Oh, you’re going to. If it was off the table, you would’ve mentioned it in CHC as soon as it happened. I know you, Al. You’ve been stewing over this for almost three weeks now. You also haven’t reported it to anyone, so I know you’re wanting something to happen. And that’s FINE. You’re both adults and if being degraded and fingered in your work office gets you going, then fuck, go all in. When will you see him again?” she demands.

“He should be in sometime next week. I’ll just have to let you know how it goes, I guess,” I relent after a long pause. I huff and stand up suddenly. “Can we please get on with our day? I don’t want to sit around all day talking about men; it’s a waste of oxygen. How’s life down south?”

“Same old shit. The nursing home has been a shit show lately. Our activity director quit, we’re constantly short-staffed, and they cut our health insurance,” Ricole fills me in on her life, and we finish our canal walk animatedly catching up and laughing. We don’t talk about Andreas the rest of the day, and it ends up being the perfect stress reliever.

18

Chapter Eighteen

Alana

The apartment is now abysmally quiet and depressing. It always feels that way after my friends leave. We got back to my apartment, and Ricole and I watched old music videos on YouTube. We took turns rapping and singing to each other for two hours, and then she had to head home. I tried to talk her into staying, but she works tomorrow, so she left.

I walk around my apartment and throw away trash, vacuum, and wipe down my tiny kitchen. The fridge is white and so are the stove and the countertops, so they’re constantly dirty. After I finish wiping everything down, I start my Keurig to make myself a cup of coffee. While it brews, I catch myself zoning out and staring at the ugly, peeling linoleum flooring. It makes me think of Regan’s pea puke inThe Exorcist. An interior designer would balk at the feng shui of these apartments. My coffee finishes, and I add my favorite caramel macchiato creamer before I head to the couch. Just enough to flavor it, not enough to take away the bitter taste of coffee, just how I like it.

Two hours later, I wake in a panic thinking I slept all night. Panicked, I jump up from the couch and see the digital clock by my TV says it’s six forty-five in the evening. Before I can settle back onto the couch, I decide I should probably be productive.

Feeling a little light-headed from getting up so quickly, I walk into my bedroom and get ready to head to the local YMCA to swim laps. After I grab a towel from the bathroom, I scour my bedroom for my bathing suit. I only have one because Greg lost the other two when he was packing up some of my stuff when I moved out. I’m not entirely convinced his new girlfriend didn’t steal them.

Vaguely, I remember seeing it in my car, so I run out of the apartment and down the stairs to check. I open the back door and see my bathing suit top on the backseat, as well as my bottoms on the back floorboard. I grab them both, shove them in my bag, and run back up the stairs to grab my purse and keys.

When I get to the YMCA, I take a shower to rinse and change into my bathing suit. When I slide the bottoms over my feet, I notice they’re crusted over with flaky white shit. I pick them up and hold them to my nose, inhaling deeply.

What the fuck is that?I ask myself. My fingernail scrapes at the spot, and I wonder if I could have sat in something the last time I wore them. I go over to the sink and turn on the hot water, then put a few pumps of hand soap into my hands and wash them vigorously. After holding them under the hand dryer for a minute, I toss them on and head to the pool.

Swimming has always been my favorite way to exercise. Labored breathing and sore muscles make my busy brain quiet. The first thirty laps are easy, so I push myself to do fifteen more.

With the sounds of the pool room muffled by the water, all I can hear is my heartbeat. I glide through the water, exerting all of my energy into the last ten laps. Whenever I break the surface, I take a deep breath of chlorine-scented air, then dip back under. The pool water is the perfect temperature, slightly cool so that I don’t overheat, but not so cool that I’m miserable.

When I finish the last lap, I pull myself up on the edge of the pool and rest my butt on the side. I reach over to where I sat my towel to dry my hands off, then stand and walk to the chair where I left my stuff. I grab my phone and snap a picture to post to my social media story.

I go back to the showers and rinse off, change back into my clothes, and head home to make myself a quick dinner. I can’t help but think about the conversation Ricole and I had about Andreas. She was right about one thing. If I was entirely against the idea of sleeping with Andreas, I would’ve reported him. What he did to me in the office made me feel alive and desired. It was entirely different from any sexual interaction Greg and I had over our entire relationship. But what does that say about me? Is it horrible for me to want him to do that to me again?

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