Her brow furrows as she reaches for her phone, which is lying on the blanket next to her. “You know she’s still going to call you. She never falls for this.”
“She’s been more understanding lately.”
Probably trying not to drive away the only child she has left.
Dahlia sends the text and sets her phone down again. “Are you going back to work tomorrow? Anissa will be back from Ohio. She wants to see you, but she doesn’t want to pressure you to hang out.”
My heart aches at the thought of Anissa being unsure about whether I want to see her. Anissa and Dahlia were also close with Elle. But I sense they’ve made a pact to set aside their pain so they can comfort me.
“I’ll text her later tonight,” I say as I stare at my pink drink. “I don’t know if I’m going back to the salon.”
The thought of going back to my job at the dog grooming salon makes my shoulders tense. I know my boss, Grant, needs me back soon, or he’ll have to fire me and hire someone new. Nothing makes me happier than working with animals. But lately, I’ve been stuck on the idea of working on a honey farm.
“Are you gonna quit?”
“I don’t know.”
I hold out my drink to her so we can switch.
She takes my pink drink and hands me her caramel Frappuccino. “I thought you loved it there?”
“I do. But being stuck in Duvall for the rest of my life sounds nightmarish.”
Her eyebrows shoot up in agreement as she sips from my beverage before we trade drinks again. “You can always sleep on my couch until you find a place in Seattle.”
I take a long pull off the pink drink to wash away the bitter coffee flavor. “Next time, remind me how much I hate your taste in coffee.”
“Are you seriously considering moving to the city? ’Cause if you are, we need to make plans.”
I shrug as if I haven’t given this much thought. But the idea of leaving my parents’ house seems more appealing with each passing day.
“I just want something different. I want to feel something different.”
Dahlia winces at my words. “You sound like my mom.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s an insult.”
Dahlia’s mom left her to be raised by her grandmother when she was twelve, so she could pursue a psychology degree at the University of Florida. For years, Dahlia pretended she was glad her mother left. It wasn’t until she also wanted to pursue a psych degree that she realized she probably has some abandonment issues.
On the upside, her mother’s neglect helped Dahlia grow up quickly. She’s been living on her own in Seattle since we graduated high school almost four years ago. Dahlia, Anissa, and I chose to go to UW together. Since I dropped out about six months ago, we’ve stayed close, mostly because I’ve spent so much time near the university at the Children’s Cancer Center.
“Actually, it’s not an insult,” she clarifies. “But I don’t want to get into that.”
I stare at her for a moment, lost in thought. While I’ve been suffering Elle’s loss, it seems she’s been making some breakthroughs of her own. I wish I had the emotional strength to ask her to share her progress with me.
“I want to feel how I felt that night,” I say, letting out yet another sigh. “Fuck. Saying that aloud makes it sound more pathetic than it did in my head.”
She fixes me with a fierce glare. “It’s not pathetic. It’s human.”
“I just don’t get it. It didn’t feel like a pity-fuck until he left. Why does it feel like a pity-fuck now?”
“It was not a pity-fuck. He probably had something come up. Maybe he’s a single dad, or something. Like, maybe his babysitter fell through.”
“If he’s a single dad, he could have at least left me his phone number. Even his last name would have been nice, so I could google him.”
“Well, you can always visit him at the bar.”
A smug expression comes over her pert features as she sips from her green straw. Since she started her psych courses, Dahlia can always be counted on to dish out the best advice. But she still has a recklessly impulsive streak.
“No, thanks. I’m not interested in becoming a stalker.”
Her eyes widen as she seems to have a lightbulb moment. “Actually, come to think of it, maybe that’s why he didn’t leave you his number. Maybe he wants you to go to the bar.”
“Can we please not be those girls?”
“What do you mean ‘those girls’?”
“You know, the girls who read too much into a guy’s actions, trying to look for signs he likes them. Like, men aren’t a fucking astrological chart. If he doesn’t act like he likes you, he probably doesn’t.”
“Okay, first, you know I’m not one of those girls. I’m fucking queer, bitch. And second, I don’t care what you say, astrology is fun. And third, are you one of those girls who’s all, like, ‘he’s just not that into you’?”
“If the shoe fits…”
She shakes her head. “I don’t believe he would do what he did for you if he didn’t like you. I mean, how many times did he make you come?”
The corner of my mouth tugs upward in a brief half-smile; my first smile in days.
“Six times,” I reply, mentally replaying each orgasm in my mind.
“Also, he went out of his way to drive you home safely and take care of you.”
“Maybe he has a caretaker fetish.”
“How do I find a guy with a caretaker fetish? I’d like six orgasms in one night.”
I look her in the eye and shake my head in dismay.
“Maybe it’s not that he has a fetish. Maybe it’s just that you’re afraid of getting hurt because you’re already hurting?” Her face softens when I recoil at her words. “There’s nothing wrong with guarding your heart, babe; especially when you’re vulnerable. But if you want to feel that way again, you only have one option. Go to him.”
“I feel like an addict chasing a high.”
“You’re a vulnerable person seeking comfort,” she says, and I can’t help but feel like she’s using therapist-speak on me.
“What’s the difference? Besides, seeking comfort from someone who’s less-than-available seems like a stupid thing to do when I’m this vulnerable.”
“Now you’re just making excuses. Of course he’s less-than-available. We all have shit going on in our lives. He’s no exception.”
I prop my drink up between some tufts of tall grass, then I lie back on the blanket to gaze at the gray clouds rolling in. “If I go to the bar, will you come with me for moral support?”
She leans her frappe against my pink drink and grabs my hand as she lies next to me. “I’ll go with you tomorrow if you promise to eat some solid food today.”
“I see you woke up and chose violence.”
“Sometimes it’s the only option,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Or… you can skip the food if you’d rather just have sex with me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m too boring and straight.”
“So is spaghetti until it gets wet.”