Hot Stuff

We used to chat a lot more, but lately, their lives are just too slammed to have any real fun.

Me: Hey guys! What are you up to tonight?

Their responses come in quickly, but they’re anticlimactic at best.

Cara: Bathing children.

Shell: Cooking dinner.

Me: Oh, cool. Mix those together and you’d be in some type of thriller movie.

Cara: Very funny, Laurie.

Shell: Did you need something?

Wow. Tough crowd.

Me: I’m just finishing up my dinner now. I thought I’d just check in with you guys. Chat a little.

Shell: Oh okay, hun. Wish I could chat with ya, but now really isn’t a good time. Everything okay, though?

Cara: For me either, Laurie. Kids in the tub is like trying to wrestle pigs in the mud. I need both hands.

Me: No worries. And yeah, everything is fine. I’ll talk to you guys later.

Ugh. Well, that was a bust. And now my phone is in my hands again. Temptation makes my head feel light and airy, and my fingers start to tingle.

I drop my phone in my lap like a hot potato and then jump off the couch so it falls on the floor.

Bad, bad phone and its evil siren call.

It wants me to do questionable things. Things I’m not sure I’m ready to do.

I shake my head to clear it and turn off The Wedding Planner.

I think J.Lo is messing with my head. She has to be.

Because I’m not normally this mentally unstable.

It’s time to go to bed. I pick up my tray of food and carry it back into the kitchen to clean up, leaving my abandoned phone behind.

I rinse my dish in the sink and let the water heat up to a good temperature for scrubbing. With a dab of soap and a dunk, bubbly suds foam out of my dish sponge and onto my hand, and I watch as they spread.

It’s mesmerizing—distracting, even—and it gives me the idea to jump into a bubble bath after this.

Because I can, I remind myself. I have nothing demanded of me. No one pushing for my time. It is my own to do with as I wish. Having that kind of freedom and hassle-less life is something to fucking celebrate.

Resolute, I scrub the dishes quickly, rinsing them and setting them to dry beside the sink so they’ll be ready for me again tomorrow. It’s a simple life, but it’s good, low stress, and that’s about all I can really ask for.

Just me. That’s all I need.

Uh-huh. You can keep telling yourself that until the cows come home, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you really, really want to see Garrett again…

My hands shake as I grab the phone off my nightstand and put it down on the bed beside me. I’m tubbed and scrubbed and masked and detoxified. I’ve done every at-home spa treatment available, and still, this is what I come back to—my phone and the desperate urge to use it. To text him.

The small electronic device has had a lot of homes tonight—always nearby and ready and willing to glare at me.

Taunting. Jabbing. Daring me to pick it up and use the number Garrett put in there at lunch today.

Instead, I swipe the tub of lotion I keep on my nightstand from the top, screw off the lid, and slather my hands in the lavender-scented cream.

It’s calming, soothing even—since it’s been a part of my routine for the majority of my adult life.

I rub every surface inch of my hands carefully, moisturizing even the skin between my fingers. It feels good, rubbing the throb of anxiety in my fingers. It’s painful and nagging, and no matter how hard I try to relax, I can’t seem to calm my heartbeat enough to make it go away.

I’m tortured. Agonized. And the truth is, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop this feeling if I don’t …use his number.

I’m tempted to just text him to tell him I can’t—that it’s not a good idea—but that would play right into his hand. That would make me exactly what he’s expecting me to be, and I refuse to be that big of a simpleton.

Couldn’t be at all that you actually want to go out with him and rejecting his invitation would kind of hinder that…

Ugh. Even though she’s right, my subconscious needs to take a hike.

Just fucking do it!

Quickly, so as not to back out or chicken out or, I don’t know, pass out, I type out a message intended for THE Garrett Alexander and hit send immediately.

No lag, no delay. Just a leap.

Me: So, I know you said I’d text you to back out, but I’m actually texting you to opt in. I win.

I slam my fist into my forehead, absolutely mortified at how dumb I sound. There’s no way he’s going to text me back now—

THE Garrett Alexander: You win? What do you win?