Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The look Bex is giving me makes it impossible to say no, and she knows it. Wrapped in winter clothes since the early December weather has brought snow showers and single-digit temperatures, she wiggles the bribe in shape of cookies and then gives me the puppy dog eyes.

“It’s one night.”

One night.

“It’ll be fun.”

If she thinks it’ll be fun, she wouldn’t be begging me to tag along with her. “Bex, the idea of speed dating sounds…” Awful. It sounds awful. I barely even liked the idea of online dating but have been considering it for a little while now, thanks to Vickie’s encouragement. “It doesn’t sound like it’s for me.”

“It’s for anyone,” my neighbor disagrees.

“Don’t you have to sign up for this type of thing?” I ask. She says the event starts in two hours, hardly enough time for me to register that way there’s an even number of participants.

When my neighbor’s face, with laugh lines and the start of crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, shifts a little, I know she’s leaving something out. “I may have signed you up when my friends made me sign up.”

I gape, processing her words.

“I’m sorry!” she rushes out. “I know it isn’t a respectful thing to do. Truthfully, I thought I’d talk myself out of this by now and not even have to tell you, but then I thought that it may be time. And, who knows, it could actually be fun.”

I want to be angry, but the hopeful look on her face is making that hard. Plus, she’s holding gingerbread cookies that her daughter made. They’re even decorated in a way most skilled culinary students would decorate them.

Bex keeps going. “There will be a range of men there, all different ages and types. It isn’t like it’s only for people my age.”

That has me rolling my eyes. “You aren’t that much older than me, Bex.”

“Twenty years,” she reminds me, almost sadly. She lets that go quickly, though. “I could have birthed you.”

The thought of it slightly disturbing, so I brush it off.

“I’ll make it up to you somehow. Anything you want. My daughter is a great cook, too, so if there’s a dish you love—”

“Bex—”

“Please, Stevie?”

Oh God, she broke out the magic word.

I sigh, wanting to close the door, turn the TV onto something mindless, and devour my weight in sugar. But I don’t. “I’m only doing this one time, okay? I’ve never really been comfortable with the idea of this.”

She claps. “Oh, you’re the sweetest. I won’t do anything like this to you again.” Bex makes a cross over her heart and then passes me the cookies. “I’ll leave you to get ready and then come pick you up in an hour or so.”

My reluctant agreement comes in a barely-there voice as I close the door behind her and instantly regret my decision the second I let myself think about it.

Maybe she’s right.

It could be fun.

Something I need.

If nothing else, it’ll get Mom off my back for a little while, knowing I at least tried again.

 

 

I wake up sore. Head sore, mouth dry, and body aching as I crack my eyes open. The usual sunlight I’m greeted with in the morning is too much for my eyes, and I groan and turn over trying to remember what happened last night.

Speed dating.

There’d been guy after guy that left me even more in a panic. Each one of them vastly different than the man I’d said my vows to all those years ago, yet, I still found something similar with every man that sat down across from me. My neighbor must have sensed my impending meltdown because she pulled me out of there despite talking to a silver fox she seemed into. I’d have to apologize for that, but hopefully he given her his number before we left.

We’d gone to a bar nearby the event after leaving. One I hadn’t been to before. And I’d drank. Way too much. Something that, if the hangover plaguing me right now is any indicator of, I won’t be doing again for a very long time.

There’s a noise from beside me that locks up my entire body. A sound too deep to be Bex, and certainly not one that came from me.

When I open my eyes again, I see a naked back. A naked back that looks lean and smooth and unfamiliar, and the back of head with long brown hair that I don’t recognize.

Then it comes back to me.

Everything.

The drinks.

The music.

The guy who was dancing with me.

Bex told me we should go, but I’d wanted to stay. I was finally letting go after one too many drinks, and I stopped feeling like I was going to cry. It’s a little fuzzy, but I remember the guy touching my hips, hooking his arm around my lower back, and then suggesting we leave.

And I’d agreed to that.

Why did I agree to that?

There’s a familiar ache between my legs that I haven’t felt in a long time, one that tells me exactly what happened even if I only can grasp bits and pieces at the moment The feeling of soft sheets against my skin, and only my skin, reminds me that I went too far.

The smart choice would have been letting Bex drive us home after I convinced the bartender to give me another margarita, but the buzz had loosened my tense shoulders and eased the pain settled in my chest. With each sip of my drink, I’d started having more fun—stopped thinking about how embarrassed I was of myself for freaking out over something as simple as speed dating.

The man groans again, breaking apart my memory and reminding me of my poor decision.

Panic starts wrapping itself around every nook and cranny it can get its claws into. Darting out of bed with the blanket despite the protest of the other person laying on my mattress, I bolt to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

When I meet my eyes in the mirror hanging above the sink, I take in my disheveled appearance. Makeup smeared. Brown hair a frizzy, bed-headed mess. Bloodshot eyes with dark circles underneath. I’m paler than usual and my cheeks are flushed, and I can barely breathe.

Leaning over the sink when I start to feel nauseous, my eyes capture what’s in the waste basket between the sink and toilet.

A used condom.

My bottom lip trembles.

Tears sting my eyes.

“I just want to forget,” I’d told the stranger. “Help me forget.”

My head drops forward as I suck in a shaky breath, then another. It’s hard to control the stiffness in my chest. The tightness. With each inhale, it becomes even tighter, suffocating me slowly.

Slipping on the robe I keep hanging on the back of the door, I tie it around my waist and inhale slowly before counting to five and heading back out. The stranger is still sleeping, an arm draped over his face, the remaining top sheet resting low on his stomach and revealing the skin I saw far more of last night if my foggy memory is correct.

“You need to go,” I tell him, voice raspy.

Nothing.

I step forward, willing my voice to raise even though I want nothing more than to let out the tears welling behind my eyes. “You need to leave.”

This time, he wakes, grumbles, and moves to his side.

Nostrils flaring, anger rises from the pit of my stomach all the way up until it gathers on my tongue, tasting sour. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops. Get up. Get dressed. And get the hell out of my house.”

I don’t care that my voice cracks.

Or that he calls me a bitch when he finally moves, reaching for his clothes scattered across the bedroom floor.

Or even when he says I was more fun last night.

If anything, I want to vomit for putting myself in this situation.

Once he’s dressed, I make sure he really does leave, following him downstairs. He’s not that much taller than me, dressed in jeans and a long sleeve sweater. A nice pair of black shoes. His face is nothing special, not that I let myself look long.

He isn’t my usual type, though. That I can tell. Maybe that’s why I let him bring me home. Why I let him touch me. Do things to me that only one other man has before.

Help me forget, I’d all but begged.

We don’t say a word as he walks out, though he does mumble something under his breath that probably isn’t nice.

My arms are crossed over my chest as he gets into a beat-up car in the driveway and backs out, speeding down the street like a jackass.

Then I hear, “Hi, Ms. Foster!”

But instead of returning the greeting to the boy who’s playing with Admiral while his father watches from their open porch, I turn around, close the door behind me, and walk upstairs to turn on the shower.

I spend twenty minutes scrubbing my skin until it’s red and raw.

Ten minutes crying on the shower floor with my knees tucked into my naked chest.

And five minutes drying off while avoiding the reflection in the mirror.

Help me forget.