by Sky Corgan
“Well, I appreciate it.” Caleb fills his bowl and goes to sit on my sofa.
“Do you think that Peter would like something like this?” I glance down at the chili.
“Maybe. But if you're going to cook for him, you're going to have to bring all of your own ingredients. Peter's kitchen is like a barren wasteland. He eats out 99% of the time.”
I already knew that. I'm surprised that Peter had enough ingredients to make me soup the other day. Maybe he even had to go out to the store to buy them.
“So when are you going to play tennis with him?” Caleb asks.
“Later tonight.” I take my bowl and go sit next to him.
“So you come home and make dinner for me then go play with him?” He arches an eyebrow at me. “You are one strange girl.”
“Is there something weird about that?” I screw my face.
Caleb reaches over, and I feel his fingertips brush my cheek. My heart stops beating from his touch. I look at him, and I feel something that I haven't felt in a very long time—not since we were in high school together.
And then his fingers leave me, and it's over.
“There was a piece of hair in your mouth,” he tells me before standing to take his bowl to the sink. He must have inhaled the chili when I wasn't watching.
I feel frozen in place. My heart starts beating again, but there's discomfort churning in the pit of my stomach.
“Thanks for the food. I'll let myself out.” Caleb waves to me without even turning before he leaves.
Sense finally returns to me, though I'm still trying to process what just happened. It was nothing outlandishly strange. We just spoon-fed each other. He brushed a strand of hair away from my face.
But his touch. It's lingering with me. And the more I realize what I'm feeling, the more I hate myself for it.
An hour and a half later, I'm on the tennis court with Peter. He's whooping my ass like it's nobody's business, but he's smiling and laughing, so at least I know he's having a good time.
“You've improved,” he tells me cheerfully as he serves a ball that I can't possibly hope to return without breaking my wrist.
I run for it anyway, and my stomach gurgles angrily from indigestion. When I couldn't figure out what the chili was missing, I went a bit heavy with the chili powder. For as much as I want to blame my oncoming illness on Caleb, this is my fault.
Still, I try to push through for as long as I can. I run. I pant. I sweat. I miss balls. I push myself to the very limit of what I can physically handle, but then the discomfort gets to be too much, and I have to call it quits.
“I'm sorry.” I sulk. “I'm not feeling too well.”
“What's wrong?” Peter jogs up beside me.
“I had chili with Caleb tonight, and I think I put too much chili powder in it,” I confess.
The second that I say Caleb's name, I know I've goofed. Peter's expression immediately shifts to what I can only assume is jealousy.
“You put too much chili powder in it,” his voice trails off for a moment. “You ate together tonight? You should have told me. We could have gone out to dinner so you didn't have to eat with him.”
“I needed to repay him for something, so I cooked for him.” Holy awkward. I feel like I'm digging my grave even deeper, but I need to make our eating together seem justified.
“Repay him for what?” he asks boldly.
I don't want to tell him that I needed a refresher course in tennis, so I lie. “He helped me move some furniture.”
“You should have called me. I could have helped you.”
“I'm sorry.” I shrink slightly. “I thought I could move it myself. I just got so frustrated that it seemed easier to go next door and ask for his help instead of bothering you.”
“Willow.” Peter grabs my hand. “I'm your boyfriend. It would be no bother at all. You're supposed to call me when you need things.”
“I'll remember that,” I reply timidly.
“How's your stomach?” He gently rubs my tummy. It gurgles angrily in response and he chuckles. “Let's go to the store and get you some medicine to take care of that.”
To say I feel bad for Peter finding out that I cooked for Caleb is the understatement of the year. Now, cooking for him is out of the question. He got so jealous when I told him. I don't want to remind him by doing the same thing for him that I did for Caleb.
I need to do something that will only be for him. So I decide to go to the adult video store and buy some lingerie. My guilt is so strong that I don't even wait until the next day. I head straight there as soon as Peter and I wrap up our evening, even though it's quickly approaching midnight and I need to get up early for work the next day. Buying the lingerie now will alleviate some of my guilt, because I'll know I'm taking steps to mend things between us.
My heart beats fiercely as I pull into the dimly lit parking lot. I've never been in one of these stores before, and as I kill the engine, I think that maybe it's an experience that I should save to have with Peter. Maybe I should just leave and go to Victoria's Secret tomorrow. But Victoria's Secret is so expensive. I would go to Walmart instead, but I know they won't have anything as sexy as what I'm looking for. And if there are two things I won't buy at thrift stores, they're shoes and intimates.
I have to do this, I decide as I stare up at the neon sign and try to gather my courage to go inside.
I push open the door, expecting to see a plethora of sleazy men. The store is completely empty of customers, though I shouldn't be surprised considering that I was one of only three cars in the parking lot. The other two must belong to employees.
I'm greeted at the door and asked for my ID before I'm allowed to enter dildo and porn land. My mouth falls agape as I take it all in. One side of the store looks like a smutty Blockbusters. The other has rows of shelves with sex toys. The lingerie is against the walls, but that's not the first place I go.
I take my time browsing, feeling much more comfortable since I'm the only person in the store. Some of the dildos and toys have to be for novelty, because there's no way I can picture people using them. There are plastic cocks bigger around than a soda can and close to two feet long. That just looks painful.
Finally, when I'm done wandering around, I go take a look at the lingerie, frowning at how all of the models are perfect with their tiny waists and big tits. I glance down at my chest, thinking about how my boobs practically disappeared when I lost weight. I feel so self-conscious naked with all of my loose skin that I haven't even let Peter keep the light on during sex yet. Wearing lingerie was supposed to make me feel braver, but with all of the sheer fabrics, it would only be a minor improvement over him seeing me naked.
My mood tanks as I search through the different pieces for something suitable. Sexy but not too revealing. Something made for a girl like me who has lost a considerable amount of weight.
Despite the nearly endless selection, I can't find anything I like. I try to picture myself in each outfit, and all I see are my flaws. The cellulite on my thighs. The droopy skin on my stomach. My bat wings.
There's no way I would look sexy in any of this.
My mind goes to an even darker place as I wonder why in hell Peter is even with me. He could have any girl he wants. Girls with perfect bodies like Becky. Girls who could afford to pay back his generosity. There's nothing special about me. When I'm with him, I feel happy but also useless. So useless and out of place and...unworthy. He deserves better.
I sigh, taking one last lingering look at all of the lingerie before deciding to surrender and go to Walmart. I'll be able to find something less revealing there and more in my price range. These things are for sexy women, and I am not a sexy woman. I'm a broke woman with a frumpy body. I'm a Walmart girl dating a Gucci guy. How is this ever going to work out?
My face is set in a frown as I shuffle out of the store, my purse clutched tightly to my chest. Depression has washed over me like a wave, drowning me as it pulls me out to sea. I probably shouldn'
t even bother stopping by Walmart tonight. I know that I'm in one of those moods where nothing will please me.
I get to my car and pull my keys out of my purse. Strong arms grip around me, and a hand clasps over my mouth.
My eyes go wide and I drop my keys as I panic. There's a moment of confusion before I realize what's happening. I'm being pulled back into a vehicle.
I struggle with everything in me, flailing and trying to scream. If there's more than one person, I can't tell. Whoever has me loses their balance. I'm halfway into the van, and my only comfort is that my feet are still touching the cement.
I grab the hand against my mouth and pull it closer, biting into the fingers. I bite so hard that blood fills my mouth. I don't care. The man holding me screams and lets me go. I use the moment of freedom to swing my elbow back into his face, miraculously hitting him right in the eye. He clutches his face, cursing between his teeth.
I turn to see that it's only one man. I commit his features to memory before realizing that this is probably my only chance to escape. I scoop my purse up from the pavement before running at full speed back to the store.
Thankfully, the man doesn't follow. Instead, he gets into his vehicle and peels out of the parking lot.
“Call the police,” I yell to the store clerk, my heart pounding in my chest so rapidly that I worry I might have a heart attack. “A man just tried to abduct me.”
The clerk moves too slowly, so I pull out my phone. It's not 911 that I dial, though. My fingers instinctively move to Caleb's name. By the time he picks up the phone, I'm a sobbing mess, leaning against the counter to keep standing.
“Caleb. I need you,” is all that I can manage to get out. “Come quick. I need you.”
Caleb
I'm going to kill him. I don't care who this guy is or where he's gone, I'm going to track him down and murder him.
In between helping Willow with the police, I've been on my phone trying to find out as much information as I can with the license plate number that the store caught on camera. This guy better hope that the police find him before I do.
Willow seems to have a photographic memory. She gives the cops every minute detail about her assailant and the vehicle he was driving. Everything from the color of his eyes to what his visible tattoos were and a detailed description of his van and all of its cosmetic flaws. No wonder she remembers everything about our childhood.
We're at the station for a good hour before she's finally free to go. Her expression is dead—definitely that of someone who has just suffered a major trauma. I can only imagine the what ifs going through her head. She was lucky to escape.
“What were you thinking going to a place like that by yourself this late at night? You should have had Peter with you,” I lay into her.
“I wanted to surprise him,” she tells me meekly.
“Well, this is definitely going to surprise him.”
She clutches onto my arm, looking small and defenseless. “Follow me home.”
I soften instantly. “Are you alright to drive?”
“I'll be fine. I just...don't want to be alone tonight.”
We go back to my place. The whole way there, I wonder why she called me instead of Peter. It doesn't really matter as long as she's safe.
“Do you have any alcohol?” she asks as soon as we're inside.
“Are you sure that drinking is a good idea? You have work in the morning.” I quirk an eyebrow at her.
“I'm not going in. I need a day to recover. Need to forget.”
The glassiness of her eyes is concerning, but I honestly don't know the best way to help her cope with this, so I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make her feel better. “What do you want me to make you?”
“Do you have tequila?” She leans against the kitchen island, absentmindedly petting Max. He's being unusually relaxed, which must mean he senses that something is wrong.
I nod.
“Shots. I want shots.”
I inhale deeply, thinking that drinking straight liquor is probably a horrible idea, but I don't argue. Instead, I take out two shot glasses and the bottle and pour us each a shot. She throws hers back, hisses, and then slams her glass down onto the table, pushing it towards me to fill it again.
“Do you think that's such a good idea?” I ask.
“Another.” She ignores me.
I refill her glass. She downs the second shot, this time with me in sync. Then she grabs both of our glasses and the bottle and heads to the sofa, using my coffee table to fill the glasses again before sitting down. As soon as my ass hits the sofa, she curls against my side.
“Hold me for a while. Please.” Willow rests her head on my shoulder.
I already feel warm from the alcohol. Everything that's going on is so...not ordinary. I just go with it, wrapping my arm around her.
She presses her face against my chest, moaning softly, and I wonder if she can hear how rapidly my heart is beating. “This is the safest I've felt all night.”
“You're safe with me.” I mean it. I would destroy the world if it would keep her from harm.
Fuck, I hate what I'm feeling right now. This strong need to protect her, yet at the same time I'm helpless. It's not my job to protect her—to be here for her like this. It's Peter's job. So why am I here? Why am I the one she ran to?
As if to help break my focus, Willow pushes away from me to grab the shot glasses from the table. She hands me one, looking morose before she raises her glass to me. “To relationships.”
“To relationships,” I parrot, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say to that.
We drink again, and the liquor seers a path down the back of my throat. At this pace, we're both going to get wasted pretty quickly. It looks like I'm not going to be working tomorrow either, I think with an inward sigh.
“Tell me about your girlfriend.” Willow refills our glasses. I want to tell her to stop, but I can't force myself to do it.
“What do you want to know?”
“What's she like?”
Thankfully, she leaves the glasses on the coffee table.
I don't really know what to say, but I know I have to lie. And since I can't think of something off the top of my head, I pretend. I pretend that Willow is my girlfriend—that I'm talking about her.
“She's pretty great.” I nod to myself, wanting to be brief so that I don't put too much thought into it.
“What makes her so great?” Willow sits back against the sofa. It seems like she's done wanting to cuddle with me, perhaps because she realizes it's not good for either of our 'relationships.'
“She's not just my girlfriend. She's like...my best friend. I enjoy hanging out with her. Every moment we're together, I'm happy.”
“You're so lucky,” she breaths out.
Lucky?
“Isn't that how it is with you and Peter? He makes you happy, too.” I quirk an eyebrow at her.
She snorts. “It's not like I thought it would be, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?”
Willow hesitates, gathering her thoughts. “When I'm with him I'm happy. But I'm not happy at the same time. Does that make sense?”
“Not really.” I chuckle.
“I think I fell in love with the idea of him,” she confesses. “He was—he is—everything I thought I wanted. He's wealthy and attractive and athletic. But I can't keep up with him.” Willow tears her fingers through her hair, mussing it up.
“What do you mean you can't keep up with him?” I turn to face her.
“I just mean...” Her gaze falls to the floor. “It's just so many little things. He's perfect at everything he does. When we play tennis he smokes me. And he buys me things that I can't repay him for and takes me to fancy dinners that I would never be able to afford. I'm so fucking far out of my league, I don't even know how to cope with it anymore.”
“Do you really need to cope with it?” I ask, not really seeing the problem. This is what she had wanted, after all.
“It just all makes me feel so inadequate. So unworthy.” The stress is plain in her voice.
“Listen.” I take her hands to grab her attention. “You are not unworthy. Do you hear me. Not unworthy.
“You are a great catch. He's lucky to have you.”
“He is?” She stares at me. There's a different glassiness to her eyes now, and I'm not sure if it's because of the alcohol or something else.
“Of course he is. How many women would try to change their entire life just to be with someone? How many women would go out of their way to make sure that someone they weren't even dating was going to be okay when they got ill?
“You learned to play sports for this guy. You changed your appearance. You altered your life. You do so many things that make you uncomfortable just so that he'll be happy. If you ask me, you've done more for him than he could ever do for you.”
She continues to stare at me. “When you put it that way, I suppose I have.”
I can't stand the way she's fucking looking at me. It makes me want to touch her. Makes me want to kiss her and show her what she means to me. I'm not sure what she means to Peter. But right now, she's everything to me—my entire fucking world sitting only a few inches away.
I take her face in my hands and move closer. She gasps, but she doesn't pull away.
“You're worthy, Willow Stroop. You're funny and passionate and beautiful. And you deserve to be loved by a man who appreciates the real you.”
I'm fighting the hardest internal debate of my life. Kiss her. Don't kiss. The moment is right. I want to go for it, but I also don't want to betray my friend again.
A tear rolls down Willow's cheek. Her bottom lip trembles.
Fuck it. I just can't fucking stop myself.
The second I tilt my head to kiss her, she leans back, pulling out of my grasp. Thankfully, everything happened in sync, so I can pretend it didn't happen.
“I'm drunk,” she tells me, patting Max on the head before standing. “I should go home.”
My chest feels hollow from her words. It's not a rejection. She didn't see my intentions to reject me. But it still feels like one.