Mister Weston

—Gillian

SUBJECT: RE: RE: DALLAS.

Nothing is wrong with me, Gillian. A21. Thursday.

—Jake.

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Dallas.

I won’t be there. Shoot your come in the trash can.

—Gillian

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Dallas

You will be there. Bring your mouth.

—Jake

SHE NEVER RESPONDED.

Days passed and no new words from her ever came. And on Thursday, I stood in the bathroom near A21, realizing she wasn’t going to show.

Agitated, I left and walked into the terminal—spotting her at a restaurant. She was sitting at a table alone with her arms crossed, looking off into the distance.

A part of me wanted to walk over and tell her to follow me back to the restroom, and another part of me wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

She’d get over it.

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

PRESENT DAY

FOOLISH, FOOLISH GIRL...

So much for not being a doormat.

I feel like one of the heroines in an old romance book—one of the Mary Sues who’s willing to put up with anything from an asshole hero in exchange for amazing cock. But I honestly can’t continue to live like this—can’t let someone toss my heart into a grinder over and over again for shits and giggles.

I denied him in Dallas, gave into him in Charlotte, and let him do whatever he wanted to do to me in New York.

And the only words spoken between us were moans. That, and a “See you next week.”

I know better than this...

Write later,

Mary-Sue

**Taylor G.**

1 COMMENT:

KayTROLL: The ‘Misadventures of Taylor G.’s Emotional Pussy’ continues...

GATE B27

GILLIAN

Memphis (MEM)—> New York (JFK)

I STARED AT JAKE AS he tossed a condom into the trash, waiting for him to make eye contact with me, but he seemed too pre-occupied.

“Jake, is something wrong with you?” I asked.

“No.” He adjusted his cufflinks. “I’ve told you no every time you’ve asked for the past couple of weeks.”

“Well, why don’t you answer my phone calls anymore?”

“I have nothing more to talk to you about.” He put on his blazer and walked over to the mirror. His eyes met mine in the glass and he raised his eyebrow. “Why?”

“I just thought we were getting somewhere...” I shrugged. “That’s why I asked. I feel like we’re—”

“We’re back to just fucking?”

I nodded. “I thought we were becoming more, and now you’re...You’re moving backwards, and you promised not to burn me.”

“How the fuck am I burning you?” He turned around. “I’m not doing anything different.”

“You’re shutting me out. You won’t fucking talk to me about the simplest of shit, and you get agitated if I ask you about your goddamn day.” I didn’t mean to yell, but my loud voice echoed off the empty walls. “You can’t say you haven’t noticed a difference between now and a few weeks ago. You were almost a Prince Charming, letting us connect on all the great things we have in common, but now you’re on the verge of being an unbearable asshole. You’re colder, meaner, and I don’t think I like you anymore.”

“You don’t need to like me to fuck me,” he said. “You just need to like fucking me.” He stepped closer, letting his forehead touch mine. “And from the way you still come every time we meet up, it’s clear you still like that.”

“Watch the way you talk to me.”

“Says the person who just said unbearable asshole?”

“I’m sure your feelings weren’t hurt at all.”

“I guess I’d have to have feelings for that to be the case.” He glared at me. “I’m not doing anything different. We’re fucking like we’re supposed to, you come every time, and I don’t think you can expect more than that. Yes, we share a love of crossword puzzles, traveling, and we both know plane design, but that’s as far as this will go, so if you want something more, tell me and I’ll walk away for good. Or since you always have to have the last word, you can walk away first. Do you want more?”

“No.” I lied, keeping my face stoic as I looked away from him and down at the watch he’d given me. “No, I don’t want more from you.”

“Good.” He grabbed the handle of his luggage and walked away. Then he looked over his shoulder. “See you in Chicago next Thursday.”

I refused to admit that the tears falling down my face were real.

“HONEY, I’M HOME!” MEREDITH waltzed into our apartment several days later. “Oh god, what is that smell? Did you attempt to cook again?”

I didn’t answer.

She fiddled with pots and pans—turning off the food I’d burned. Then she lined up her shopping bags on the counter. “I’ve had interviews with Dior, Michael Kors, Furstenberg, and Coach. Oh! And you won’t believe the new line that’s coming from Hermes this fall. It’s edgier than anything they’ve ever put out on the market.”

I stared straight ahead.

“Gillian? Can you hear me?” She stepped in front of me. “Gillian, why aren’t you—Whoa...What’s wrong with you?”