Dirty Love Romance

5

That night after work I put on my flannel pajamas and throw my hair up into a messy bun. It’s not like I have anywhere to be on a Sunday night. Brettsville doesn’t have much in the way of nightlife anyway. Just one club and a couple of dive bars.

Stephanie and I went to the club once. The music was terrible and the people were worse. There was a fight that ended up with some prissy blonde’s weave being yanked off and the cops being called. After the cops arrived and started checking I.D.s, several minors were busted with fake licenses. The place was shut down a week later. That was six months ago and it only re-opened last week. Chances are, if I felt like going out, it would be packed. I’m not really in the mood to go wait in line during a near blizzard in the freezing cold wind. Once we finally made it inside, then we would have to wait even longer for a drink.

Why bother with all that drama and suffer through hours of tedious top forty remixes when I have a comfy bed and an iPod full of music I actually want to listen to here? I don’t have any alcohol, but that’s probably a good thing. I shouldn’t be drinking alone right now. It’s an especially bad idea when I can’t get Heath out of my mind. I know myself well enough that after a few drinks, the thought of trying to contact him would sound like a great idea.

Nope. I’m sticking to coffee.

Stephanie is on Instant Messenger. We talk about the upcoming Christmas party and what we’re going to wear; who she can take home after and not hate herself the next morning for it. The best she can come up with is the night janitor. He’s not too old, not married, and has a ton of prison tattoos. Right up her alley.

After an internal war about whether or not I should go on Twitter, I decide to just do it. It’s far too tempting to look on Heath’s feed and find out what he’s up to. I decide I might as well. What can it hurt?

But first I check on the No-O hashtag, see how that hot mess is holding up. Once I click on it I see that all the traffic has started to fizzle down and was slowly making its way down the trending list. That was until someone decided to breathe new life into the subject. There’s one tweet in particular that seems to be getting a lot of attention:

#O-Maker has healed the #No-O with his magic wand and everyone lived happily ever after.

My stomach sits in my throat. The tweet has six thousand shares and hundreds of replies. Heath and I are both tagged in it.

It’s followed up shortly by another tweet: The end. Now get over it and move on, people

The person tweeting is none other than my best friend Stephanie. I’d be pissed if I weren’t so amused. There’s something liberating about everyone knowing that I was with Heath. I’m actually kind of proud of that fact. I would never announce it to the world, though. And if Stephanie would’ve told me she was planning on doing it, I would’ve made sure she didn’t. Which is obviously why she didn’t tell me in the first place.

Then a horrifying thought hits me, and instead of keeping it to myself, I message Stephanie.

Me: Why the hell did you post that? Heath was tagged by other people in that post. He’ll see it and know I told you about having sex with him last night.

Takes her only a few seconds to respond.

Stephanie: Who cares? Men love it when women talk them up to their friends. Roll with it, baby.

The only things rolling are my eyes. I can’t believe she did this—actually, who am I kidding? I can totally believe she did this.

I look through all the comments, and all the tags. Most of them are people saying congratulations. I put my hands over my face, wondering what Heath will think when he sees it. I should’ve left Twitter alone. Too late now.

And since I’m already here, I might as well check out Heath’s feed while I’m at it, right? It doesn’t take much convincing myself that, yes, it’s a good idea. I click on his name because I have no self-control. He’s posted several things since I left him this morning.

The first is: I’m on cloud 9.

Seeing those words, my heart hammers into action. He doesn’t say why he’s on cloud 9, but there are several replies asking him why. He hasn’t responded to any of them. I look at the time when he wrote it. 7:15 this morning. Right after I left the hotel room. Is this tweet about me?

I stand up on my bed, hands covering my mouth and the smile ripping my face apart. I try not to get my hopes up. He could be talking about anything: food, his favorite hockey team winning a game, a new job. Anything!

I take a deep, steadying breath, let it out, and sit back down. I’m annoyed with myself for getting so excited. That wasn’t supposed to happen. No strings attached was what he said when he offered to help me out with my little problem. Just a friendly guy offering to give a girl an orgasm. Nothing more, nothing less.

I move on to his next tweet. It’s in response to someone tweeting him first.

Heath O-Maker James: Sorry, not tonight. I have plans.

I go back to see who had asked the question and what exactly the question was. Then I find it.

WanderwomanBree: How about U&I 2night, a bottle of red and some handcuffs?

A knot forms in my stomach and my teeth start to grind together the longer I stare at the screen.

After his tweet to her she responds with a sad emoji and ‘she’s one lucky girl.’

Heath O-Maker James: Believe me, I’m the lucky one.

I feel sick.

All day I’d sat at work, reliving the memory of us together over and over. It was like I was floating over my desk, watching everything happen from distance while I was off in some magical sex Narnia where only Heath and I existed. Meanwhile, he was making plans with the next lucky girl on his list of conquests—oops, my bad; he’s the lucky one.

Well, fuck him.

I try to will myself not to feel anything. I should feel nothing. I don’t know him. Not in any real way. But it’s impossible to feel nothing after the connection we had. Or, at least, I thought we had. So I try to be mad about it instead.

But that doesn’t really work either. When I close my eyes and let the silence in, all I feel is sad. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help it. He didn’t even give it a full 24 hours before moving on. I’d hoped to have at least made enough of an impression to satisfy him for a little while. I guess not.

My Instant Messenger chimes. I open it.

Stephanie: What are you doing? You got quiet all of a sudden.

Me: Nothing. Not feeling very well. I think I’m going to go to bed.

Maybe I do need that drink after all. There’s a liquor store around the corner from my apartment that’s open all night. I could run over there and grab something. No way in hell I’m getting out of my PJs. I’ll just go like this. It’s classier than half the people I’ve seen frequenting that place. Especially this time of night.

Stephanie: Alright. Take care of yourself and get some sleep. Maybe you overexerted yourself with all those orgasms you had last night.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to think about Heath anymore, or my night with him.

I reply, just to satisfy her.

Me: Yeah, maybe.

She says goodbye and signs off. I’m just about to shut off my computer for the night when I hear the alert from Twitter. Probably someone responding to Stephanie’s recent post. I think about ignoring it, but decide what the hell. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

As soon as I look at the message and see Heath’s name, my ears start to ring and my mouth goes dry. My tongue is like s piece of jerky, heavy in my mouth.

Heath O-Maker James: You left in a hurry this morning. Was it so bad that you couldn’t wait to get away from me?

When I reach for the keys, my hands shake so bad that everything I type comes out with multiple letters.

Me: iii hhad too wworkk

I delete it and stretch my fingers. Why the hell am I so nervous right now? Get it together, Callista.

Finally, my hands stabilize, and I’m able to write. I check the spelling before sending. Several long, excruciating seconds tick by before he replies.

Heath: Come have drinks with me.

My heart grows wings, betraying me. I’m not supposed to feel aflutter right now. I’m supposed to be mad. I’m supposed to feel nothing.

Have a drink with him? Tonight? His date must’ve fallen through. I’m not going to be his plan B this time.

Me: Sorry, I can’t.

I was about to throw his own words back at him: ‘Sorry, I can’t. I have other plans tonight,’ like he’d said to the girl on Twitter. But then he’d know I was snooping in his feed and that would make me look desperate. Which I am, only, he doesn’t need to know that.

Heath: Come on, please? I turned down wine and handcuffs for a chance to be with you tonight.

Wait, what? I’m the “lucky girl” in his Twitter conversation? This time when my heart takes flight, I don’t try to hold it down. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

Me: What time?

Heath: I can be in Brettsville in an hour.

Me: I’ll see you then.

After sending him my phone number and address, I turn off my computer. After the initial shock wears off, I squeal and jump on my bed, doing my happy dance. The neighbor downstairs thumps on her ceiling to quiet me down. Obviously she’s not accustomed to a ruckus in this particular part of the apartment. It’s been a while since I hosted a man in my bedroom.

To keep the peace, I climb down off of my bed, but the celebrating doesn’t stop. Even while I dance to the living room to turn on music while I get ready, I’m telling myself not to get too excited. ‘Drinks’ is just another word for booty call. I’m okay with that, but part of me wishes there could be more. He’s the kind of guy I could see myself with and not just for the explosive orgasms. It’s a huge bonus, but it’s not everything.