by Penny Wylder
“No time for breakfast?” he asks.
I don’t recall ever having breakfast with my other one-night-stands, but I would with him. If I could. Unfortunately, there’s no time for that.
“No, I’m sorry.”
I can only imagine what this looks like from his point of view. It’s as if I can’t get away fast enough. But there’s simply no time to think about his feelings right now—though a guy like him probably isn’t too worried about it. Maybe he’s even relieved. Goodbyes with one night stands are awkward enough without someone lingering behind when all you want to do is get on with your day.
That’s not how I feel with Heath, though. Oddly enough, I feel comfortable around him. He has a way of putting me at ease. I would love to see him again, have a repeat of last night. Of course, I’m not going to ask. If he rejects me, everything we did will be tainted and I want to be able to look back on this memory with fondness.
“Uh, thanks for last night,” I say, a bit self-consciously. What do you say to someone after a night like that?
I finish pulling on my boots and start to leave. I get to the door, my hand reaching for the handle when he says, “What, no kiss goodbye?” He sounds offended, which I wasn’t expecting. Normally guys just give a wave and roll over and go back to sleep.
“Oh, sorry.” I go back to the bed. My layers of clothes make swishing sounds in the silent room.
Leaning over the bed, I give him a quick peck on the lips. I know if I stay too long, a kiss might just well end up with me back in the bed. As much as I want to, I can’t do that. I have to go.
Each step I take as I leave the hotel and head out toward the street is agony. It feels like I just ran a marathon and had been beaten with wooden dowels along the way. I think I used muscles last night that I didn’t know I had. I smile to myself. Now this is what sex should feel like after. I would take this kind of rigorous workout over a day at the gym anytime.
I’m thinking about my night with Heath as I finally hail a cab and journey across town to the only clothing store that’s open this early in the morning. Surprisingly, when I think about everything that happened, I’m not actually thinking about the sex—which was AMAZING. Instead, I’m thinking about that smile of his that veers off to the side just the slightest. It makes him look like he’s up to something even when he’s not. And the sound of his laugh, a deep sound he makes with his belly. It was the most genuine sound I’d heard in a long time. Of course I think about those eyes too. Not just their stunning color and the way they stand out against his tan skin. It’s the way he looks at me. Like I’m the only girl in the world when I’m with him. It’s like no one else matters. It’s just the two of us and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. I know that’s not true, but when I’m with him, I can’t help but feel that way.
I’m swooning all over again by the time I get back to my apartment. How can I already miss someone I’ve just met and don’t even really know? He’s probably some supreme narcissist in his daily life and I’m lucky to have dodged a bullet in knowing him. I have to keep telling myself that to avoid this annoying ache in my chest. I am not that girl who gets attached to one night stands. I refuse to be her.
Once I’ve had my shower and wrap the gift for my boss, I head to work for a grueling eight hours. I’m putting the box in my locker when Stephanie walks in.
“You’ve been MIA lately,” she says, leaning against the locker beside me. I can feel her studying me while I try hard to get rid of the lingering smile stuck to my face.
“I’ve had a lot going on,” I say.
“Where were you last night? I stopped by your apartment to find out what happened with all that O-Maker business since you stopped answering my texts.”
Guilt sits heavy on my shoulders. Normally I tell Stephanie everything, but it didn’t even cross my mind to check my text messages or get ahold of her to tell her what happened. Heath had taken up all the space in my head.
When I turn toward her she frowns. “Why do you look like that?”
I’m trying so hard not to smile. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to hold in the sun.”
My smile breaks open, stretching my cheeks, and exposing my teeth.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You met him, didn’t you?”
“Not on purpose,” I admit.
Her eyes hatch open. “Holy. Shit. Tell me everything.”
Our cubicles are next to each other, the partition wall between us low enough so we can see each other. My cubicle is neat and tidy, while Stephanie’s side looks like a rainbow troll exploded with neon sticky notes stuck to everything and all the pens with fuzz balls and dangly bits on the lids.
I tell her about the coffee shop and the barista writing No-O on my coffee cup and finding out there’s a hashtag about it with my photo attached and everything. Then I tell her about the incident on the train and how Heath saved me. Our time in the dressing room and getting caught by the girl who worked there. And then the kiss that followed that felt so much more than just a kiss. Finally, I tell her about getting a room and the fancy hotel and all the magic that happened after, sparing no detail. By the time I’m done Stephanie’s mouth is hanging open and a bead of sweat rolls down the side of her temple.
“Jesus,” she says. “You just lived every fantasy I’ve ever had.” Then she looks at me skeptically. “So he just happened to be on the very same train you were on, in the very same car?”
“He was on his way into town to go shopping,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “In Brettsville? What did he buy?”
“Nothing. He told me he was here to shop, but I think he came to town to see a different girl.”
She takes a bite of something that had been sitting on her desk, but since we both just got to work I’m wondering how long it had been sitting there. “What makes you think that?” she says with her mouth full.
“Why else would he be here? Obviously not for the stores. Shopping is way better in San Pedro County where he lives.”
Stephanie wipes the crumbs off her shirt and turns her computer on, pretending to work. I do the same just in case our boss walks by. “So he came to town to see another girl but ended up spending time with you instead?” she says.
It does seem odd, but she might’ve stood him up or something, or maybe her plans changed and I ended up being a convenient plan B. Except I don’t remember him ever checking his phone other than to look on Twitter. I was with him the whole time. He didn’t even slip away to use the bathroom except after we had sex, and even then he left his phone next to mine on the nightstand.
“If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it,” I say.
“I got nothing. It’s a strange coincidence.” Her eyes grow wide. “Or maybe it’s fate. Maybe the two of you are soul mates and it’s the universe pushing you together.”
I roll my eyes. Stephanie always tends to venture into new age ideology. Every time she has anything in common with a new guy she blames it on fate, and look how those turned out. But I have to admit, the thought of Heath and me being made for each other is quite appealing. His is a face I wouldn’t mind looking at every day for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I don’t share her same belief system. Everybody takes the train. It’s the fastest and cheapest way to get from one town to the next and not have to worry about traffic jams, rush hours, and ice on the road. It’s possible we’ve ridden in the same train car many times and it was only because of our conversation on Twitter that our crossing paths were finally revealed. Though I doubt I would forget a face like his. When I’m on the train, I keep my head down and try to get from point A to point B without anything weird happening like most people onboard. So it’s very possible I might’ve missed him before.
“Are you going to see him again?” she asks.
My shoulders wilt and there’s a tinge of sadness in my stomach that feels almost like a hunger pang. I want to see him again, of course, but chances are it won’t happen.
<
br /> “I doubt it,” I say.
She doesn’t press me about it or try to convince me to try and talk to him again. We both know how one night stands work. No one wants to be that annoying person who lingers longer than they should.
I’m thankful when she drops the subject. We don’t talk about it again. We don’t talk about anything actually. It might be the most productive day at work that we’ve ever had.
5
That night after work I put on my flannel pajamas and throw my hair up into a messy bun. It’s not like I have anywhere to be on a Sunday night. Brettsville doesn’t have much in the way of nightlife anyway. Just one club and a couple of dive bars.
Stephanie and I went to the club once. The music was terrible and the people were worse. There was a fight that ended up with some prissy blonde’s weave being yanked off and the cops being called. After the cops arrived and started checking I.D.s, several minors were busted with fake licenses. The place was shut down a week later. That was six months ago and it only re-opened last week. Chances are, if I felt like going out, it would be packed. I’m not really in the mood to go wait in line during a near blizzard in the freezing cold wind. Once we finally made it inside, then we would have to wait even longer for a drink.
Why bother with all that drama and suffer through hours of tedious top forty remixes when I have a comfy bed and an iPod full of music I actually want to listen to here? I don’t have any alcohol, but that’s probably a good thing. I shouldn’t be drinking alone right now. It’s an especially bad idea when I can’t get Heath out of my mind. I know myself well enough that after a few drinks, the thought of trying to contact him would sound like a great idea.
Nope. I’m sticking to coffee.
Stephanie is on Instant Messenger. We talk about the upcoming Christmas party and what we’re going to wear; who she can take home after and not hate herself the next morning for it. The best she can come up with is the night janitor. He’s not too old, not married, and has a ton of prison tattoos. Right up her alley.
After an internal war about whether or not I should go on Twitter, I decide to just do it. It’s far too tempting to look on Heath’s feed and find out what he’s up to. I decide I might as well. What can it hurt?
But first I check on the No-O hashtag, see how that hot mess is holding up. Once I click on it I see that all the traffic has started to fizzle down and was slowly making its way down the trending list. That was until someone decided to breathe new life into the subject. There’s one tweet in particular that seems to be getting a lot of attention:
#O-Maker has healed the #No-O with his magic wand and everyone lived happily ever after.
My stomach sits in my throat. The tweet has six thousand shares and hundreds of replies. Heath and I are both tagged in it.
It’s followed up shortly by another tweet: The end. Now get over it and move on, people
The person tweeting is none other than my best friend Stephanie. I’d be pissed if I weren’t so amused. There’s something liberating about everyone knowing that I was with Heath. I’m actually kind of proud of that fact. I would never announce it to the world, though. And if Stephanie would’ve told me she was planning on doing it, I would’ve made sure she didn’t. Which is obviously why she didn’t tell me in the first place.
Then a horrifying thought hits me, and instead of keeping it to myself, I message Stephanie.
Me: Why the hell did you post that? Heath was tagged by other people in that post. He’ll see it and know I told you about having sex with him last night.
Takes her only a few seconds to respond.
Stephanie: Who cares? Men love it when women talk them up to their friends. Roll with it, baby.
The only things rolling are my eyes. I can’t believe she did this—actually, who am I kidding? I can totally believe she did this.
I look through all the comments, and all the tags. Most of them are people saying congratulations. I put my hands over my face, wondering what Heath will think when he sees it. I should’ve left Twitter alone. Too late now.
And since I’m already here, I might as well check out Heath’s feed while I’m at it, right? It doesn’t take much convincing myself that, yes, it’s a good idea. I click on his name because I have no self-control. He’s posted several things since I left him this morning.
The first is: I’m on cloud 9.
Seeing those words, my heart hammers into action. He doesn’t say why he’s on cloud 9, but there are several replies asking him why. He hasn’t responded to any of them. I look at the time when he wrote it. 7:15 this morning. Right after I left the hotel room. Is this tweet about me?
I stand up on my bed, hands covering my mouth and the smile ripping my face apart. I try not to get my hopes up. He could be talking about anything: food, his favorite hockey team winning a game, a new job. Anything!
I take a deep, steadying breath, let it out, and sit back down. I’m annoyed with myself for getting so excited. That wasn’t supposed to happen. No strings attached was what he said when he offered to help me out with my little problem. Just a friendly guy offering to give a girl an orgasm. Nothing more, nothing less.
I move on to his next tweet. It’s in response to someone tweeting him first.
Heath O-Maker James: Sorry, not tonight. I have plans.
I go back to see who had asked the question and what exactly the question was. Then I find it.
WanderwomanBree: How about U&I 2night, a bottle of red and some handcuffs?
A knot forms in my stomach and my teeth start to grind together the longer I stare at the screen.
After his tweet to her she responds with a sad emoji and ‘she’s one lucky girl.’
Heath O-Maker James: Believe me, I’m the lucky one.
I feel sick.
All day I’d sat at work, reliving the memory of us together over and over. It was like I was floating over my desk, watching everything happen from distance while I was off in some magical sex Narnia where only Heath and I existed. Meanwhile, he was making plans with the next lucky girl on his list of conquests—oops, my bad; he’s the lucky one.
Well, fuck him.
I try to will myself not to feel anything. I should feel nothing. I don’t know him. Not in any real way. But it’s impossible to feel nothing after the connection we had. Or, at least, I thought we had. So I try to be mad about it instead.
But that doesn’t really work either. When I close my eyes and let the silence in, all I feel is sad. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help it. He didn’t even give it a full 24 hours before moving on. I’d hoped to have at least made enough of an impression to satisfy him for a little while. I guess not.
My Instant Messenger chimes. I open it.
Stephanie: What are you doing? You got quiet all of a sudden.
Me: Nothing. Not feeling very well. I think I’m going to go to bed.
Maybe I do need that drink after all. There’s a liquor store around the corner from my apartment that’s open all night. I could run over there and grab something. No way in hell I’m getting out of my PJs. I’ll just go like this. It’s classier than half the people I’ve seen frequenting that place. Especially this time of night.
Stephanie: Alright. Take care of yourself and get some sleep. Maybe you overexerted yourself with all those orgasms you had last night.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to think about Heath anymore, or my night with him.
I reply, just to satisfy her.
Me: Yeah, maybe.
She says goodbye and signs off. I’m just about to shut off my computer for the night when I hear the alert from Twitter. Probably someone responding to Stephanie’s recent post. I think about ignoring it, but decide what the hell. It’s not like I have anything better to do.
As soon as I look at the message and see Heath’s name, my ears start to ring and my mouth goes dry. My tongue is like s piece of jerky, heavy in my mouth.
Heath O-Maker James: You left in a hurry this morning. Was it
so bad that you couldn’t wait to get away from me?
When I reach for the keys, my hands shake so bad that everything I type comes out with multiple letters.
Me: iii hhad too wworkk
I delete it and stretch my fingers. Why the hell am I so nervous right now? Get it together, Callista.
Finally, my hands stabilize, and I’m able to write. I check the spelling before sending. Several long, excruciating seconds tick by before he replies.
Heath: Come have drinks with me.
My heart grows wings, betraying me. I’m not supposed to feel aflutter right now. I’m supposed to be mad. I’m supposed to feel nothing.
Have a drink with him? Tonight? His date must’ve fallen through. I’m not going to be his plan B this time.
Me: Sorry, I can’t.
I was about to throw his own words back at him: ‘Sorry, I can’t. I have other plans tonight,’ like he’d said to the girl on Twitter. But then he’d know I was snooping in his feed and that would make me look desperate. Which I am, only, he doesn’t need to know that.
Heath: Come on, please? I turned down wine and handcuffs for a chance to be with you tonight.
Wait, what? I’m the “lucky girl” in his Twitter conversation? This time when my heart takes flight, I don’t try to hold it down. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Me: What time?
Heath: I can be in Brettsville in an hour.
Me: I’ll see you then.
After sending him my phone number and address, I turn off my computer. After the initial shock wears off, I squeal and jump on my bed, doing my happy dance. The neighbor downstairs thumps on her ceiling to quiet me down. Obviously she’s not accustomed to a ruckus in this particular part of the apartment. It’s been a while since I hosted a man in my bedroom.
To keep the peace, I climb down off of my bed, but the celebrating doesn’t stop. Even while I dance to the living room to turn on music while I get ready, I’m telling myself not to get too excited. ‘Drinks’ is just another word for booty call. I’m okay with that, but part of me wishes there could be more. He’s the kind of guy I could see myself with and not just for the explosive orgasms. It’s a huge bonus, but it’s not everything.