Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
But I did think about sex. Sometimes too much. To the point where I’d be in a work meeting, and out of nowhere, I’d imagine having sex with the people my boss and I were talking to. My thoughts were out of control and distressing because I didn’t want to be thinking about those people in a sexual way and I didn’t understand why I was. It was like an uncomfortable dream you fight to wake up from.
I tried counting to make them stop. I tried repeating innocuous words to distract my brain from them. I tried ignoring them harder.
Finally, I confessed them to Google. And the answer was one of those lightbulb-on moments.
You have OCD and it’s manifesting as intrusive thoughts.
I finally went to therapy, and it’s been for the best. Shira’s helped me with much better strategies and techniques, than my counting compulsion. She’s also helped me to see that my other fears—like balconies, rooftops, and subway platforms—come from the same place.
I used to think I was a freak for having these awful thoughts touch down in my brain. I used to think I was a freak, too, for craving a little domination in bed, a little playacting.
Shira’s helped me see that there’s nothing wrong with the desire to pretend I’m someone else during sex.
And that my intrusive sex thoughts aren’t the same as my true desires.
I’ve separated them now. I can tell the difference between uncomfortable thoughts and exciting fantasies.
And I’ve finally found a man whose fantasies seem to match mine.
But if I’m going to see my phantom again, I suppose it’s best to start with a base level of honesty—something Brandon never gave me.
Resolute, I nod to Camden, answering her question. “Yes, I’ll tell him, but not in a big-deal type of way.”
“A take-me-or-leave-me way,” she says, understanding completely. Before I can reply, the click of shoes grows louder behind us, and a familiar voice calls out, “You better have good snacks.”
I turn around. Layla walks toward us wearing a short-sleeve pin-up blouse that tells me she had a makeup event this afternoon.
“As if I’d bring anything less than the best,” Camden says as the keeper of the snacks.
I’ve known Layla for a couple of years and Camden for my whole life. I adore them both, but there are different levels of access.
So when Layla reaches us and asks brightly, “How was your weekend?” Camden takes the question, telling a story about a song request she got last night at the lounge where she’s bartending and moonlighting as a torch singer. She chats more about it while we head inside Harlow’s building. On the way up to her place, I try to decide how much I’ll say when the poker questions inevitably turn to everyone’s weekend.
Including mine.
Really though, how much is there to share anyway? I don’t even know that man’s name. But I want to.
“Oh my god, fuck you,” Layla says, slumping deeper onto Harlow’s orange couch as she points at me. “I can never beat you.”
Harlow nods sympathetically. “No one can, sweetie.”
“But you should keep trying,” I deadpan as I scoop up the chips from the table, thanks to a fantastic bluff on a pair of twos. Layla folded with a pair of kings. Bummer for her.
She shoots lasers at me with her bright blue eyes. “I’ve been trying for months. Since we started playing. And I swear I thought you had a full house or something. I was telling Nick and Finn just hours ago that you have the best poker face.”
Camden’s brow knits as she dips a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered orange slices. “Who’s Finn?”
“Nick’s brother. He was over at our place today. Well, they were swimming with Finn’s kid.”
The talk turns to the weekend again, coming back around to me with Harlow asking, “What did you do this weekend, J?”
Even though it was inevitable that the chitchat would return here, I’m never sure what to say when conversations get too personal with anyone other than my bestie. It’s so much easier to talk about other people than to talk about myself. I’d rather listen.
“Oh, you know,” I begin, trying to keep it light, but I feel like a little sneak, which I hate. It reminds me of terrible days long ago and of things said and unsaid that still pierce my heart.
“No, I don’t know,” Layla teases as she reaches for her glass of wine and takes a drink. “Did you make or break dreams all weekend, Jules?”
“Bridger says you’re his secret weapon,” Harlow adds affectionately.
I do love the secondhand praise from my boss, Harlow’s fiancé. Part of my job at Opening Number, the production company I work for, is to read scripts for Bridger and provide coverage on whether we should pass or not on those shows.
“Definitely, I broke some hearts,” I say, taking the easier answer, then I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, feeling fidgety.