Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

To have Greg Weston look at me that way.

I close my eyes and relive the moment, the way his fingertips smoothed over my wrist, the way he held me and tugged me into him, the way his breath caught in his chest as he moved in closer, as he closed his eyes and put his lips on track for mine.

His scent, like oak and spice and comfort.

His grip, somehow possessive and calming all at once.

And then his damn phone had rung.

My eyes pop open again, and I sigh, which earns me another glare from a classmate. I give her a look like What? A woman isn’t allowed to sigh in class? before she looks away with a roll of her eyes, and I stick my tongue out at her behind her back.

Real mature, Amanda.

“Alright, let’s pause here,” Professor Millikin says, eyeing her watch before she stands from where she was leaning against the edge of her desk. “We’ll pick up where we left off on Wednesday. Don’t forget we have a quiz next week. You can run through a practice round in the online portal to get an idea of what will be on it. My office hours are posted in the portal, too, if you have questions.”

With that, we’re dismissed, and I pack my things away into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder and following the other students filing out of the room.

My head is still a mess as I walk across campus to the bus stop. God, it was nice having Greg’s car last week. First, it’s a 2020 BMW 8 Gran Coupe, which will make anyone driving it feel sexy and alluring and rich. Secondly, it smelled like him, and had little traces of his existence everywhere — a half-eaten protein bar still in the wrapper in one of the cup holders, a gym bag in the back seat, an extra pair of scrubs in the trunk.

And thirdly, it meant I didn’t have to ride the bus. Which, as much as I assured my son I was fine doing after we tried and failed to find me a car this weekend, I was truly dreading.

No one is at the stop when I get there — likely because most of the students live on campus or in one of the dorms nearby. They also likely have cars or bikes. Regardless, I settle in, checking the schedule hanging by one of the benches and knowing I’ll have to wait at least ten minutes.

It’s a good thing that his phone rang. It’s a good thing I didn’t give in to every urge I had in that moment, because I’d have quickly crossed a line that has serious consequences.

The biggest of them being that my son would absolutely freak out, and then likely disown me and punch Greg right in the nose.

Not to mention if Josh found out, which was unlikely but still possible, he might back out of our settlement and continue making my life a living hell for another two years.

And the icing on the cake?

I’m forty-seven. Greg is thirty-four.

What do I honestly expect to happen?

He probably wants to get married. He probably wants kids. And about the only thing I want nowadays is someone to do a better job than my trusty dildo, which seems a high task if I’m being honest.

I don’t even know why I’m thinking about this! It’s not like Greg wants me — not like that. He might want me as a sort of bucket list, the way one might want to travel to Paris just once to say they did it.

Bang my best friend’s hot mom? Check.

I sigh, shaking the thoughts from my head and trying not to laugh at how stupid I am as the bus finally pulls up.

Once I’m inside the smelly, questionable thing, I take a seat near the back and put my headphones in, letting a podcast steal my attention for the ride home.

The bus drops me about a quarter mile from the house, and I finish up my podcast as I walk through our little neighborhood. It’s old, a bit run down, a bit on the wrong side of town, if I’m being honest. But it’s quaint, quiet, and filled with people whom I know well enough to trust won’t murder me at night.

It’s a pleasant evening, the sun starting its slow descent over the houses as a cool breeze fills the streets. Fall in Florida is nothing compared to what most of the country experiences, but I’m happy just to have a small reprieve from the horrid humidity we live with most of the year.

When I turn the corner onto my street, I stop short at the sight of that pearly white BMW in my driveway — along with David’s Subaru.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Nerves grow and tangle in my stomach like weeds as I walk the rest of the way home, pushing inside the screen door and dropping my bag on the couch.