CHAPTER ONE — DAVID
I stare at my phone and the text message I've typed out but haven't sent.
We need to talk.
I'm thinking of sending it to Stephanie. In fact, I've been thinking about it for two hours now, but I haven't sent it. I feel pathetic. I feel like a lovesick sixteen-year-old, but I don't know what to do.
I feel like sending a text like this will come across as desperate and pathetic, but I also think saying nothing is the wrong move. Stephanie disrespected me, and I can't keep pretending like it didn't happen. That would be weak.
But if I show her I care, I'll play right into her hands. I know how she is. This is a game to her. She was probably trying to rile me up, and unfortunately, it worked. I don't want to give her the satisfaction.
But if I ignore her, that's also a losing move. I have to hand it to her: what she did was smart.
I guess after what happened with John, she realized that simply hitting on other men in front of me wasn't going to work, that it wouldn't be enough to make me jealous.
So instead, she targeted my real weak spot: respect.
Her bringing over a man and doing God knows what with him wasn't about making me jealous.
It was about flagrantly breaking the rules. And not even just that, but being rude.
I mean, who uses a power-tool sex toy at 2:00 a.m. for hours? Someone who has zero social decorum, or who is trying to deliberately piss someone off, like their landlord. And, well, it worked.
It took every ounce of willpower in me not to go downstairs and barge in last night.
But every time I contemplated it, I decided against it, because I'd be giving her just what she wanted, and I couldn't have that.
So instead, I put in my earplugs and tried to ignore the sound of a small plane landing directly below me, because I swear to God, that's how loud her vibrator was.
I've never heard that one before, which makes me wonder whether she busted it out just for this occasion, or purchased it to make this point.
That fact actually makes me feel a bit better, because if she bought it just to mess with me, well, that implies a certain level of emotional involvement, right?
Fuck. The fact that I'm even asking myself that — the fact that I kind of want that to be the case, that I want her to care that much — is a sign that I care.
As much as I've been trying to tell myself I don't, or stop myself from getting in too deep emotionally, it's too late. I'm already in too deep.
Her flirting with my coworker John got under my skin at the time, but at least I knew she didn't actually like him. That was a ploy to get back at me, and I could see it for what it was. This is different.
I don't know what to do, though. She won't respect me if I mess up here. And if I escalate this situation, if I show her my cards, not only could she hurt me, but I could get myself in hot water legally. I mean, what we're doing isn't exactly kosher.
I'm tempted to text my brother, who's a lawyer, and ask for advice. But I'm too embarrassed, because then I'd have to admit what I've already done, which is have sex with my tenant multiple times, exactly what he advised me strongly not to do.
No, I'm on my own for this one. I sigh and throw my phone onto my bed. Well. I did this to myself.