The Loner's Lady

Between classes this afternoon, I sat in the common area, masses of students crisscrossing around me—and I fantasized about John grunting into my neck, my thighs around his waist, his big, rugged body moving over mine.

Fucking me.

My panties grew damper and damper until I found myself walking like a zombie to the ladies’ restroom. I closed myself in a stall and shoved a hand down the front of my panties, masturbating myself in the busy bathroom while whispering his name again. And again. And again. As soon as I’m alone tonight, I’ll need to touch myself again, even though I know the release won’t live up to the one he could give me. Nothing will ever live up to the feel of him, the size and texture of him.

“Christ, you’re shaking.” I’m pulled into his all-encompassing embrace and I sag. My sudden, boneless state is involuntary, but God, he’s just so warm and reassuring. His big hand cups the back of my head, his heart pounds in my ears and I never want to leave. “I’ve got you. The safest place you’ll ever be is with me.”

The memory comes unbidden to my mind and makes my breath hitch. My feet continue to move on the sidewalk—I’m only a block from my mother’s building now—but I feel like I’ve left my heart on the cold pavement.

Again, I hear footsteps and turn around, jogging backward. There’s a figure in the darkness. A silhouette of a man. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? He’s medium-sized. Stocky build. Just like the man who attacked me all those months ago. I turn around and start to run, but when I throw another glance over my shoulder to see if he’s giving chase, I watch in confusion as he’s yanked off his feet by an unseen force, disappearing from view behind a dumpster. A cracking sound follows—and then silence.

Knowing better than to be caught witnessing a crime, I turn and sprint for my mother’s building, skidding to a halt at the base of the stoop and vaulting up the stairs. I make sure to close the main door behind me and with shaking hands, I use my key to open the second, glass door that leads to the carpeted stairs. My mother’s apartment is on the third floor and it seems to take me an eternity to reach it, but I do and let myself in—only to find Mason laughing with my mother at the kitchen table.

“Oh,” I breathe, my eyes filling with tears at the sight of my best friend. “Hi.”

He hoists his glass of red wine. “Hey.”

True to form, he’s giving away nothing. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching Jeopardy. Gossiping with your mother.”

“I’ll give you two a minute,” my mom says, leaving the room.

Only a few seconds of silence make their way past before Mason rolls his eyes and sets down his wine glass. “Oh God, Lyssa, stop being dramatic. I’m here to get you, of course. Why else would I come to Brooklyn?”

I clasp my hands to my breasts and almost collapse with relief. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Now can we get back to Manhattan before I get a rash?” He points at the wine. “Think I can get a to-go cup for this?”

“I missed you,” I wail, throwing my arms around Mason’s neck. “I’m so sorry about everything. I’m a terrible friend.”

“No, you’re not.” His denial is firm. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you since the Catskills. I’ve been…busy with a few things. But trust me. No one is mad at anybody.”

“I don’t deserve you,” I say, stepping back and rubbing at my waterlogged eyes. “I’ll go get my things.”

He picks up his wine and sips with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll hunt for an expendable water bottle. No wine left behind.”

“No sir,” I call over my shoulder, already jogging for my bedroom.

In no time at all, we’ve kissed my mother goodbye and are piling into an Uber. After my scare on the walk home, I’m reluctant to return the same direction for the train and Mason doesn’t question me. We catch up on every single thing that happened over the last two days, all the way from Mason discovering the best breakfast burritos in the city to me acing my Advertising 101 test.

There is not one mention of John.

That should relieve me. I should understand why a sore subject wouldn’t come up between me and Mason, but the longer we talk without speaking John’s name, the more sadness and achiness I feel. Was John okay after I left? Was he angry? How is he? There are a million questions circulating in my head about the man I love and while I’m so happy to have my best friend back, I’m suddenly positive I can’t pretend as if John doesn’t exist. As if he didn’t claim my heart, my soul, my body. As if I don’t miss him beyond measure.