But Luke loves me, which is different. And in my own way I love him back. I try, anyway. I give him sex and gifts and attention, because that’s what I have to give. But he needs more. Of course he does. He needs real love to bask in, not this strange mirrored heat I throw.
I knew this day would come, just not like this. I thought I’d be in charge of it. Now Luke is asking more of me when he’s already scraped the shallowest depths of my soul. “Fuck!”
Still cursing, I slam through the stairwell door into the sparse hallway that serves as a lobby to his building. One of his neighbors is getting mail, and she squeaks with alarm and drops everything on the floor as I storm past and out into the night.
If I were a real girl, I’d be excited by Luke’s sudden proposal to cohabitate. My man wants to take it to the next level! He’s ready to settle down!
I’d be looking up real estate websites and planning my dream kitchen. That’s what my best friend, Meg, would have done. But those kinds of dreams destroyed her like they’ve destroyed so many others, so I’m better off. She’s dead. She’s dead because those dreams fell apart and she killed herself, and I’m glad I’ve never felt anything that deeply.
I know I can’t have it all, so I won’t bother trying to fool myself into thinking I can make Luke’s dreams come true.
“Shit,” I growl as I beep my car door open and drop into the seat. My phone buzzes.
Please come back. Let’s talk.
He may as well have typed, Come back so we can feed your fingers to a rabid wolverine, because that sounds like just as much fun.
I thought you’d be at least a little happy??? he tries.
Well, there’s the problem. Luke doesn’t see me for what I am. When we started dating, he guessed that I was on the autism spectrum, and I let him believe that. He accepted me and my quirks, so I could let my guard down with him. Stop constantly masquerading as normal. It was nice.
But I haven’t told him the real truth, and I won’t; so as fun as this relationship has been, it’s over now. The end.
“The fucking end,” I growl past clenched teeth.
I ignore the phone and peel out onto the quiet downtown street, desperate to get home. Four blocks away from his building I have to slow for a small bar district. People walk past, young and happy and buzzing. They all seem to be in groups, connected by companionship and looped arms. Their faces flash beneath streetlamps that light up their joy in the dark.
I want some of that. I’m too empty. Always too empty.
Impulsive is my favorite speed, so when I see an open parking spot at the end of the block, I drop my desperate run for home and swing toward the curb to park. As I shove my phone and wallet into my coat pocket, the unfamiliar claws of that bad feeling—anxiety? fear? I’m not experienced enough to identify it—begin to retreat, and by the time I reach the door of the closest bar, the pain is gone entirely.
The biggest sign on the window reads TAPAS in fancy letters. Below that is a promise of CURATED COCKTAILS, whatever the hell that means. Most important, the music shaking through the glass is far too loud, and laughing people crowd the tables, even on a Thursday night.
I open the door and walk into the friendly chaos, and that’s all it takes. I’m instantly myself again. No scratchy, strange pain. No doubt about anything.
Fifteen minutes later I have a seat at the bar, a delicious dish of melted cheese and toast points in front of me, and one perfectly curated cocktail in my hand. There’s a man next to me, working hard to get into the good graces of the woman next to him, and I eavesdrop with delight.
“Yeah, I broke up with her last month,” he shouts over the music. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“No, but we’re not really that close,” the woman responds. “I mean, we’re friends, I guess, but she seems really high-maintenance, and I’m not into that kind of thing. Too much drama.” She laughs coyly as she throws her friend under the bus.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, she seemed down-to-earth at first, but then shit got really demanding, you know?”
Way to set up this new woman to lower her expectations. Don’t expect things from me—that’s unreasonable—and if you do, I’ll leave. I love it. So does the skinny brunette, who tosses her hair and laughs, desperate to be cooler than her friend.
Ah, the cool chick. We’ve all been there. Pretending to love sports and unsatisfying booty calls just so he’ll pay attention to you. Even I’ve walked that line in four-inch heels, though I never did it in the pursuit of love. I had other motivations.
Mr. Low Expectations waves a hand and orders two shots of tequila. The bartender, who has a styled mustache and probably calls himself a barkeep, flinches a little but sets two shot glasses down with an elegant spin. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment of his craft and he winks as he pours.
Low Expectations is utterly focused on his prey and hasn’t noticed me at all. Why would he? I’m ten years older than the brunette and I’m still dressed like the badass bitch I am in my pin-striped suit. He doesn’t need that kind of trouble. Still, plenty of other men are willing to screw a girl like me, even if I’m nothing close to a ten. Theoretically, a few extra pounds and a lack of striking beauty make someone like me more desperate and therefore better in bed. Or so I’ve heard. It’s amazing what you can pick up on the dating scene if you pay close enough attention.
The flirting pair down their tequila and giggle together as if they’ve done something particularly naughty.
“I probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner!” the brunette declares.
Instead of offering to order some delicious tapas, the guy calls for another round of tequila, then mentions something about how he has all the ingredients for a late-night grilled cheese at his house. She laughs at his obvious plan to get her to drink way too much and come home with him. “You’re so bad,” she squeaks.
Already bored with this tired scene, I make eye contact with a forty-something guy at the end of the bar wearing a too-tight shirt, but it’s just habit on my part. I don’t need that kind of energy tonight. I already had sex with Luke, and it was hotter than anything I can get with a stranger. Even during a frantic quickie in a bar bathroom, Luke took the time and effort to make me come. Half these guys couldn’t even do that if they were trying, and—let’s be honest—they wouldn’t be trying.
I sigh and sip my spicy ginger highball before digging into the cheese.
I haven’t cheated on Luke once. It’s not that I’d feel guilty. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t understand it. If you don’t get caught doing something, nothing terrible happens to anyone, so why would you bother feeling bad about it? I could have sex with any one of these guys right now, and my boyfriend would never find out. But I don’t want to. I’m physically satisfied, so there’s no need to risk a wasted thirty minutes with Bad Sex Bob. That’s just common sense.
But this relationship is drawing to a close, and I’ll have to get back in the game. It’ll be fine. I haven’t lost my edge. I can glance right down the line of men at this bar and immediately tell which guys might make a woman come and which of these jokers have never given it a thought. Still, caring isn’t doing. There are no guarantees for us humans born with clits. It’s a crapshoot but without all the fun crowds and shouting. Usually.