Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
She isn't here.
But her knickers are. The ones she was wearing last night.
The black thong is lying on my bed—on the smoothed but not made sheets—in the middle. Beneath a torn piece of paper.
Plans with Addie tonight. And tomorrow. Next time, I'll stay. I'll make a mess of your kitchen and everything.
Think of me tonight. I'll think of you.
- Eve
She is teasing me. She's driving me out of my fucking mind.
I fix dinner. Shower. Try to focus on a new TV show.
The crime drama is supposed to be the most exciting, thought-provoking thing to grace the small screen all decade.
The dialogue is sharp; the characters are vibrant; the world is clear and moody.
But it fails to hold my attention. My thoughts keep slipping back to her smile, her laugh, her groan.
All the curiosity in her grey-green eyes.
She owns my thoughts until I prepare for bed. Put away my cell. See a text from her. A picture.
From this morning.
Her in the bed—my bed—in the lingerie I left for her. A sheer lace bodysuit with a delicate floral print. All of her, from her head to her toes.
I give up on thought.
On reason.
On anything besides fucking myself to her picture.
And sending one in return.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eve
Original Sin
Friday, June 20th
Nine p.m.
Dear Diary,
I like a boy. Does he like me? Let me find a daisy and count the petals. He likes me. He likes me not. He likes me. He likes me not.
Can you imagine?
I suppose I shouldn't make fun of infatuation. That's denial, plain and simple. And, really, it's more internalized misogyny. We make fun of women who count petals on a flower.
What about the men? Is it always women, waiting, wondering, begging men to love them back?
That's silly.
I'm not mocking this girl. Even if she's an idea, not an actual human being.
I am holding up a mirror, laughing at the difference in our experiences.
There are no petals in this story. Unless you count the ones that make up my "virtue." Or whatever antiquated term you want to use.
There's no field of daisies.
No beautiful day in the park, with the bright blue sky, and the world full of possibilities.
Only there is.
Sure, I'm not lying in the grass, counting petals. Sure, I'm in my apartment, in only a tank top and panties, sweating my ass off despite the ice water on my desk.
Sure, I'm not a blond in a pastel dress.
But I'm sitting here, trying to spin my thoughts together, failing to quiet that voice asking: Does he like me?
No, I know he likes me, but does he like me?
Here I am. An ordinary girl. Twirling my hair around my fingers. Planning my next trip to Sephora. Wondering what I'm going to wear when my sister and I go out for ice cream.
Thinking about the boy I like.
Only he's not a boy.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is all man. He's twice my age. Old enough to be my father. With an entire history. An entire life lived before I learned his name.
A life I want to know.
It's not like with the cute boy from my chemistry class. It's not like with the bassist with the cold hands. Or the guy I kissed at my best friend's party.
It's not a crush.
It's deeper, stronger, infinitely more painful.
He's my new favorite book.
I want to pry apart his pages, underline his explanations, dive into every ounce of his meaning.
Does the metaphor make sense?
Am I really using this space to talk about a boy?
But then he's not a boy.
And this isn't a normal summer fling.
This time next month, I’ll never see him again. That's the deal. That's what's so terrifying. Not that I'm going to lose him. That's scary, sure, but it's not what I feel in my bones.
There's this idea about ledges. People aren't afraid of falling. They're afraid of jumping. They're afraid they'll see the ground beneath them and give in to the urge to meet it.
I'm not afraid of falling.
I'm afraid of jumping into the abyss.
I don't want to say goodbye. But knowing I have to…
There's something freeing about that. Like this space. I can spill every ugly thought in my head. I can tell him about my shitty father. My fantasies of ending the asshole forever.
I can tell him about what happened with Addie and how I was so scared I'd lose her. And under that, so jealous she had the guts. So in awe of her bravery. Because I felt that way too. I wanted out too. I would have done anything to make it better too.
And I…
It was a lot of things. Impulsive, unfair, desperate, tragic. And brave. I don't want to admit it. I don't want to consider it. I don't write about it here. Or anywhere. Because I'm too scared of the ledge. I'm too scared of jumping.
I'm too scared of landing in a puddle on the floor.