Fuck, is this what it felt like to really fall for someone? I was fucking doomed.
But … I couldn’t call her. I’d been an idiot, an asshole. I’d become everything she said I would, everything I promised I wouldn’t be when we’d started the whole no strings thing. My stupid pointer finger is hovering over her number, just willing me to text her.
“Oh, fuck it.” Now I’m talking to myself in the middle of the street. In New York City, that could get you arrested.
Not wasting another minute debating with myself, I go to the App Store. Searching for exactly what I need, I download it when I find it, and instantly put her number in the application.
What app is that? 1-800-Don’tTextHer. I’ve heard about the male version before from some of my employees; it basically prevents you from drunk dialing your ex. Whenever you try to, the app bings first, questioning if you really want to do this or not. You can even customize it to pop up with messages like, “Remember when he forgot your birthday?” or “He refused to meet your parents.”
And now Gemma’s number is in the app on my phone, and I’m not taking her out. Maybe I should program a message for it that reminds me how shitty of a person I am.
Because right now, that’s all I feel.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gemma
Cody shuddered, exhaling and saying “baby” as if it was a curse. His body spasmed and then slammed down onto me, cutting the air from my diaphragm and squeezing my whole body as if he was trying to wring me dry just like he was doing with his cock.
I gritted my teeth and allowed it, the crushing sensation of him growing more uncomfortable by the second. My pussy cried for relief, the throbbing and burning of a barely-there orgasm at the forefront of my brain. And my clit.
After a few seconds, Cody pressed a kiss to my temple and rolled over, inspecting the condom for how much he just came. It was a weird and not-sexy-at-all habit, like he was trying to see if this was a good amount of sperm or a superb amount. Kind of like when you pop a big pimple and compare each pop after it to that substantial time.
“That was insane, babe.” He smiles, flashing those pearly whites at me.
I collect my disappointment and stow it away in the back of my brain. “I know, you’re so sexy. It felt so good.”
Cool girl is back, and I fucking hate her.
This is how it goes every time we have sex. I try to moan louder when Cody hits a spot that could get me off if he went at it for longer. I try to ride him and make myself come, but he gets impatient and flips me over. I try to tell him how I like it when he fingers me, but he insists he knows how. After awhile, I just stopped trying. I let him fuck me and while it feels good, I never come. He screams as he gets his rocks off, and then I pat him on the back for a fake job well done.
I’m back to my people pleasing, man catcher old ways and I want to cry as I fall asleep in bed with my boyfriend at night. Don’t get me wrong, Cody is absolutely amazing. He’s kind and funny, takes me out on nice dates, is respectful when we hang out with my girlfriends, lets me keep clothes and a toothbrush at his apartment. He isn’t a commitment phobe and always wants to know how my day was or go do something adventurous.
Our newly fledgling relationship is probably flawless on paper. But inside, I need so much more. I’m not satisfied, but he’s the first nice guy I’ve dated and gotten serious with in a while, and I don’t want to lose it. It’s like … do I settle for him because he’s statistically perfect? Or do I cast him aside and see what other frogs there are out in the toxic pond of Manhattan?
Cody comes back from discarding the condom, and snuggles under his sheets while pulling me close. His body is muscular and firm, and his skin is warm and a little damp from the energy of our sex.
“I feel like I’m having sushi burps.” He laughs, commenting on our dinner.
He took me to this hole in the wall Japanese place, but it was the best raw fish I’ve ever eaten.
“Me too, I can taste that tuna.” I flip over and laugh, our combined breath probably smelling absolutely disgusting.
See, then there are times like these. Cody is genuinely funny and I’m comfortable being goofy or gross with him. On our third date, I’d gotten food poisoning and thrown up in his bathroom before we were about to have sex for the first time. He’d held my hair back and even gone to the store to get eggs so he could make my favorite sick meal. Scrambled eggs with cheese.
“What time are you getting up in the morning?” He pushes the hair out of my face and looks into my eyes.
I trail my fingers down his naked thigh and he shies away from my slow tickling. “Probably like eight thirty.”
He rolls his eyes. “On a Saturday? I don’t even know what that time looks like on a weekend. You are perfect, you don’t need to go work out.”
I bat my eyelashes like his compliment means a thing to me. Like if I were fifty pounds heavier, he’d actually be sleeping with me.
“Myra and Sam want me to go to the cycling class with them, and I haven’t had girl time recently. I’ve barely been home. I have to go.”
He snuggles me closer, and I feel a sense of relief. After Cody asked me to be official, or exclusive, with him … I felt a weight off my chest. I was no longer in the single category. I had begun to drop the word boyfriend to coworkers and complete strangers. When we had a group outing, I was no longer the only girl without a companion.
It felt nice to be looked after and consulted with. And if it wasn’t with someone I could be one hundred percent myself with also, then that was okay. For now.
The instructor, whose ass looks like it was sculpted from frigid bitch ice, yells at the crowd. “Let’s get it going, ladies! Burn off those nasty carbs and love handles. And sprint pedal in three, two, one!”
I wanted to fucking murder this woman and I couldn’t even remember her name. With her barely sweaty hairline and Carrie Underwood legs, she was the picture of perfection.
Me and my friends? Holy shit. We looked like hell warmed over and then burnt again. My spandex pants were so soaked with sweat that by the time I got off this bike seat, there would be a puddle under my machine. My sports bra was making indents the size of potholes in my back, and my hair was plastered to my neck and temples. How did celebrities look so fucking chic coming out of the gym, and I looked like Chewbacca?
“I want to throw a dart through that woman’s eye,” Myra breathed heavy and then spat, all humanity lost amongst our group as we ground it out to the finish.
“Fucking blame Sam. Why we agreed to this torture was beyond me. Next weekend, sign me up for waterboarding instead of this.” My muscles sang out in agony.
“Come on, you pussies. We’re seriously almost done.”
The trainer has us going all out for the last two minutes, and I can hardly breathe, let alone talk. Finally, fucking finally, it’s over. The groans and laughter ring out around the room, the space divided into two camps. Those who feel elated, carefree and humbled by the experience.
And those like me. Women who are so tired and sore that all I want to do is lie on my couch and eat a cheeseburger. In that order.
“We’re going to get milkshakes. Now.” Myra read my mind.
We hosed off a bit in the locker room showers, not fit to wander out in public. After rolling on a fresh coat of deodorant and twisting my soaked hair into a French braid, I was ready to stuff my face and gain back the calories I just lost.
Twenty minutes later, we were seated at 5 Napkin Burger, salivating over the red meat-packed menu.
“Didn’t we just kill ourselves for an hour to lose weight?” Sam eyed us distrustfully.
I didn’t even pry my eyes off of the milkshakes being served to the table next to us. “No. We worked out like beasts so we can come here and eat like pigs.”
Myra giggled, her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight streaming through the open front of the restaurant. I’ve gotten less jealous over the last two months, but my gut still roils each
time she dangles it in front of me. It’s flawless, and she won’t stop saying the word fiancé. Like she’s some French model who uses the word in everyday conversation.
I’ll most likely be the same way when some guy gets down on one knee for me.
“Now that I have a boyfriend, I need to eat junk by myself or with my girlfriends. Why do I have to pretend I eat salad for every meal?” I pout.
Myra blinks at me. “The other night, I ate an entire pint of ice cream for dinner and Jase just laughed at me. He thought it was cute. Fuck the whole cool girl, salad-eating days. You need to be over that.”
The big green monster reared his ugly head again. She was completely comfortable in her relationship, and I was seething with annoyance.
“Well, I just stay single. That way I can eat McDonald’s on my couch and masturbate all I want. No one telling me to wear sexy underwear or eat three balanced meals a day.”
Was it bad that I was jealous of Sam too? For so long, I’d wanted to be coupled. And now that I was, single looked better than ever.
Or better yet, be absolutely comfortable with who I was coupled with. I couldn’t fucking help that right at that second, Oliver popped into my head.
Over the last two months, I’d dared not to think about him. But like a typical woman, I fantasized about the one I couldn’t have. It didn’t matter that our relationship hadn’t even been a relationship, that we hadn’t even dated. My head and heart couldn’t comprehend that while we’d been on, he hadn’t wanted to commit. That he’d ignored me for weeks at a time, and only called me late at night to hook up. I understand that those were our rules, but if Oliver had actually wanted me, he would have pursued me until I was his.
But for some reason, I couldn’t remember these things when I daydreamed about what we could have been. About the hours we spent in bed, fucking and talking. About how he’d grabbed my face and kissed me at the Yankees game. About the way his face fell when I’d told him I was ending it in the café.
“Did you see that Instagram post Lana Mayer put up? God, her life seems freaking perfect!” Myra scrolled through her newsfeed while she popped a fry in her mouth, interrupting my thoughts.
“Instagram is such a lie though. People only let you see what they want you to believe is their life.” Sam cut through all the bullshit.
I nod my head, happy to talk about something else. “Yeah, don’t you know that Instagram celebrities like that have social media curators? People who are paid to make them look cool online.”
Myra points her fork at me. “I wish I could have one of those people. Whenever I take a selfie, my eyes are always crooked. Or like if I’m trying to show off my room, there is always a pile of laundry in the background that I didn’t notice until I post it and someone comments like, ‘you need to do your laundry’.”
I crack up around the bite full of burger in my mouth. “Or if you are stalking a hot guy, drooling over his abs or work out pictures, and you accidentally like something from five months ago. I’d like someone who could help me erase that mistake!”
Sam gapes at me. “Stalking hot guys? Yeah right! I stalk girls on Instagram. Those hair videos, or the makeup tutorials where the girl’s skin looks like pizza and by the end she looks exactly like Kim Kardashian. I want to know how to do that.”
With a smile on my face, I continue my gossipy brunch with the girls. I may not have it all figured out when it comes to love and marriage, but I have some great friends.
And as long as I have them, I can give my mind the day off from worrying and searching for answers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gemma
I’d seen about thirty-two naked chicks today. That was thirty-two hairless vaginas more than I’d ever wanted to see in my lifetime.
Whenever I went to fashion shows, and with my job that was quite a lot, I thought about how much prep work went into being a model. They basically looked like hairless cats; and that either took a lot of painful waxing, or more likely laser treatments. How was their hair so shiny? Did they pump it full of chemicals to get it to look like that? How were they so skinny? Although, I guess if looking good was my only job and I had someone to tailor my workouts and cook my food, I could look like that too.
“Gemma! Do you have those interview questions yet?!” Medusa hisses at me, and I jump to attention, smoothing down the cape-coated dress I had decided on for today.
Why she needed to double check my work was beyond me. I’d done a hundred of these runway show interviews with designers or makeup artists. I was a great editor and she knew it, but she just loved to micro-manage. At least I could laugh that one of her fake eyelashes was coming unglued and she looked like she had a lazy eye. And no, I wasn’t going to tell her.
“Yep, they are right here. I thought I could ask her questions that highlighted the makeup she used to go along with the designers concept.”
Medusa gave me the stink eye and then looked down at the pink Kate Spade notebook I’d handed her. Even with the technology of tablets and recorders, I couldn’t let go of writing down my interview questions and recording answers.
She rubs her pointy, pale chin. “These are decent. Just make sure you ask about the butterfly concept of the show. And ask about the products she used. Oh! And how each model’s skin type differs.”
I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Why did bosses or people of higher authority always have to talk to you like you had the brain cell count of a carrot? I knew how to do my job.
Once I realized she was no longer sniffing in my general direction, I slunk away and took my seat in the third row. Third row, because the first was reserved for grade A celebrities, and the second was for less famous people. But still people more famous than a lowly press member.
“Crabber & Fong really went all out for this, huh?” Whitney took her seat beside me and pulled out her camera. She’d been tasked with photographing the event, so here she was.
“The new line is called Chrysalis. It’s supposed to be evolutions of the clothing, they’re all very adaptable and detachable. We’ll see if they actually work, or have any style.”
I’d already been backstage, snooping around on the beauty prep. The models’ hairstyles were all glued back in tight chignons, which were supposed to mock a cocoon. And their makeup was all pastels, violets and blues. Exactly the way I used to draw butterflies when I was six.
The concept was kind of cheesy, if you asked me, but I was going to give it a chance.
The lights dimmed, and the whole place tittered with excitement. I caught sight of the girl from Glee, and a beautiful musician whose record was being played all over the radio. And next to her was the actor who was dating the famous model closing out the show. It was all so glamorous, but I’d been on the fringes of this world to know better. It was all an act. These people had the same problems and insecurities we all did, they just had managers and agents who hid it for them.
The first models began to strut the walkway, and the clothes are … just meh. But runway shows never fail to excite me. The ambiance is amazing, and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.
Until, that is, my eyes scan the room and lock on someone. Or, more than that, they lock on the eyes I’ve been avoiding for nearly two months.
Sitting front row center next to this month’s latest TV drama queen is none other than Oliver Anders.
“Fuck, shit.” I think I mutter this under my breath, but by the turns from the people in front of me and Whitney staring my way, I know it was too loud.
“Are you okay?” she whispers.
“Yep, just excited about the clothes.” I pretend to scribble something, but I know she’s looking at me like I have two heads.
Double fucking fuck. I pick my head up, pretending to look at the runway, but I feel those baby blues stuck on me like heat-seeking missiles. Oliver has spotted me, maybe even before I knew he was sitting just feet away across that runway. At this point, I can’t even fake that I haven’t seen him, because my ey
es keep pulling back to the spot where he sits, his arm draped behind the chair of that leggy blonde.
“Is that Gianna Produr?” I nudge Whitney, even though I should be paying attention to the show.
“Shhh. And yes. Looks like she’s got some new man candy too. He’s hot, in an Adam Brody kind of way.” She’s annoyed with me, and continues to click away.
So he is with her. I try not to let the jealousy pour off my skin and strangle the crowd members around me. God, my reaction is so pathetic. I can’t even commit to not committing to Oliver, or rather, him not committing to me. I’m weak and stupid, but I dare to chance a glance back over at him.
And when I do, it’s like I’m burning inside the hottest tanning booth made to man. Full third-degree burns, he’s smoking me out with his expression. His back is ramrod straight in his chair, and he’s locked on me like a hunter about to shoot it’s prey. I’m sweating, my hands becoming damp on my notebook and an errant bead rolling down the back of my neck.
Oliver looks stunned but thrilled, and his lips form into a mega-watt smiling greeting. He mouths “hi” from across the room, and it seriously feels as if the rest of the crowd evaporates. He’s in a navy blue seersucker suit that fits him in all the right ways, and his hair is much longer than the last time I saw him. Those brown curls tuck behind his ears and fall onto his forehead. He’s sporting some serious stubble in a sexy way. I’m clinging to the edge of my seat for his next move, and then it slams into me by way of Whitney elbowing my rib cage.
“You need to take notes on the outfits! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Shit. I haven’t looked at the show for the last five minutes, and I have no idea what came down the runway. I’ll have to use her photos as backup for my online write-up. And I’m pissed at myself that instead of doing my job, that I just complained Medusa was unnecessarily hassling me over, I was fantasizing about a dickhead guy.
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