Luckily, I have the ultimate card to play.
“Did I mention, she and I are part of a foursome?”
Dr. Bunton chokes on her sip of coffee.
Forty minutes later, I’m walking to the tram, my thumb smoothing over the screen that still holds Elise’s text message.
* * *
Elise: Gabe only changed one number, didn’t he?
Me: Afraid so. But I’m willing to let him think he outsmarted me if it makes you detest me a little less.
E: Hmm. Not worth it.
* * *
My bark of laughter carries down the street. This woman. I’ve got it fucking bad for her.
* * *
Me: I can think of something that would make you hate me a lot less, love, but it can’t be accomplished through the phone.
* * *
The message is done and sent before I can stop myself. I’m very aware that I’m falling back on my faithful routine of acting like a cad. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m not going to stop utilizing it overnight. Hell, maybe ever. What do I know?
* * *
E: Please. You’ve accomplished it many times through the phone, as you well know.
Me: It doesn’t come close to real life.
E: We need to change the subject.
Me: That tells me two things. I’m making you horny. And you want to keep talking to me. Consider me pleased as punch.
E: Consider me pleased to punch you.
Me: Ah, Elise. You little treasure.
E: Shut up.
E: Send me a picture of what’s in front of you right now.
* * *
I find the request oddly…fun? And I don’t hesitate to snap a picture of the tram, firing it off within seconds.
* * *
E: YOU’RE JOKING. Why??
* * *
I hesitate. Then I hear Dr. Bunton’s voice calling me loveable, of all the ghastly adjectives available in the English language. Why did I enjoy hearing that about myself? Is it…true?
* * *
Me: I’m here for therapy. Attempting to believe I’m someone worth knowing.
* * *
Sending that message makes me feel winded and shaky. I feel exposed as I step onto the tram, locking and unlocking my phone, willing her to send me some manner of response, just to put me out of my misery. Her messages come through just as I’m reaching the other side of the river.
* * *
E: Ughhh. You’re worthy of knowing.
E: And obviously dick punches. Bye.
* * *
I think today might be the best day of my life.
Chapter Eight
What does one wear on a date with three men? Red seems like the obvious choice. Too obvious? Perhaps leather? Oddly enough, I’m not feeling a lot of pressure about my wardrobe considering they almost fought each other over me while I was wearing an apron.
Realizing I’m smiling kind of stupidly into space, I jam a hand into the crowded dress section of my closet, vowing to wear the first garment I pull out. Sputtering out a drum roll, I open my eyes to find I’m holding a pink dress. An A-line fit and flare with a heavy skirt and a low neckline, purchased years ago at Marshall’s and never worn in public. It’s flirty. Sweet. No one will suspect that I’m the main attraction of a three-ring—er, man—circus.
Maybe I’ll come to my senses after one drink.
Said no one ever.
I still can’t believe this is happening. That I’m doing this.
That I…want to.
Temporarily.
Holding the dress against my chest, I sit down on the edge of the bed and replay yesterday afternoon in the kitchen of the Times, especially the part where they closed in on me, claiming they wanted to give me the “maximum amount of pleasure” even if it meant sharing, which none of them obviously prefer. What would it be like if they all actually got on the same page about that and followed through? What if the three of them could really operate as one entity of…giving?
Pleasure from men is not something I actively seek out. I can do it myself, thank you very much. It’s specifically these three men. The combination of their energy, their unique effects on me, that has my fingers curling into the satin material of the dress, a flush creeping up the sides of my face. Maybe I should release a little tension before I meet them tonight so my brain is capable of making objective decisions?
I’m already breathing fast and setting aside the dress on my bed…when my apartment buzzer goes off. “Huh?”
When I walk out of my bedroom, my roommate, Shayna, is standing in flannel pants and a Tinkerbell T-shirt, eyeballing the speaker warily. We haven’t spent a lot of time together, at least not in a social sense, but she once left her laptop open to her dating profile and I couldn’t help but take a small peek. Activism and Disney is her subheading. Many times I’ve wanted to ask about her job as a non-profit spokesperson. Reminders of the past always hold me back. “Did you order food?” she asks now, pointing a single finger at the door.