Chapter 6 Lena #2
My phone buzzes while I am loading bags into the car.
It is a text from my dad. He asks how Jace is and then adds that a friend's son is new in town and "very responsible" and "would be good dad material if you stopped being so picky.
" He finishes with a comment about how I should think about "presenting myself better" if I want to attract a serious man.
My chest tightens. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, then type back a simple reply saying Jace is fine and we are busy today.
I don't respond to the rest. I tuck the phone in my bag and focus on starting the engine.
By mid-afternoon, I am home again at the kitchen table, laptop open, camera plugged in. I scroll through the morning's shots and flag the best ones. The juice in the glass glows. The mint looks fresh.
Rhea's hand sneaks into one frame, and I keep that picture.
Her wrist is soft and strong, and I want someone who looks like her to see that and feel good.
The neighbor’s dog barks at every delivery truck. A group chat of other parents keeps pinging with debates about lunchboxes and screen time.
I answer one message and then mute the conversation. The work settles me. Adjusting color, cropping, sending a preview sheet to Maya. When I look up, it is time to pick up Jace.
School pickup is a rush of backpacks and shouted goodbyes. Jace runs to me and launches himself at my legs. "Mama, Tommy brought a rubber spider and Miss Kiran screamed so much," he says. "She jumped."
"This is top-secret information," I say. "I'll need the full report over snacks."
Back home, the tea room becomes a café again. I slice apples, sprinkle cinnamon, and drizzle a small line of honey.
He arranges them on a plate and tells me I owe him ten pretend dollars for the privilege of eating them.
We do a little coloring together. I answer a couple of emails from clients while he builds a tower of blocks at my feet.
The evening rolls out the way it usually does. I boil pasta and steam vegetables while he lines toy cars along the kitchen floor. He helps stir sauce and pops one noodle into his mouth before it reaches the pot. We eat at the table.
He tells me a long story about a boy in his class who insists that dragons are real.
After dinner, there is bath water on the floor, a wet towel on my head courtesy of my son's attempt to "style" me, and the same dragon book at bedtime for the third night in a row.
By the time he is finally asleep, tucked under his blanket with his stuffed animals on either side, my shoulders feel heavy and my feet hurt, but my heart is full in a way I don't know how to explain.
I stand in his doorway for a few extra seconds, watching his slow breaths, then ease the door nearly closed.
The living room feels very still after the noise of the day.
I walk into the kitchen, reach for a bottle of wine, and pour myself a glass. The first sip loosens a knot between my shoulders.
I carry the glass to the couch and sink into the cushions, stretching my legs out in front of me.
My phone lights up on the table. A text from Tom. Still on for dinner? 8:30?
I groan under my breath. I forgot about that one. Tom is nice enough in a structured, calendar-reminder kind of way.
We've been circling each other for weeks, both pretending this might become something.
The idea of putting on real clothes after a day like this makes me want to melt into the couch, but I already said yes.
I text back, Yes, see you then, and finish the rest of my wine in one go.
Dating in my late-twenties is supposed to be mature, full of clarity and stability.
I have met enough stable men to know that stability can be the most boring thing in the world.
They don't make my pulse jump the way Gabe did. In fact, they're perfectly polite, successful, appropriate, and capable of average or good enough sex.
There is nothing wrong with them, which might be the real problem.
The sitter, Raina, arrives a few minutes later.
She is cheerful and reliable, a college student whom Jace loves. I give her quick instructions even though she already knows the routine. She waves me off. "Go have fun," she says.
Fun feels like a tall order, but I go to my room and open the closet anyway.
I pick out a black dress that fits well and doesn't need ironing. It has a low neckline and makes me feel confident.
I brush my hair, fix my lipstick, and for a moment, looking in the mirror, I almost believe I could be someone who has time for things like this.
The restaurant is loud and full of people trying to look effortless. Tom is already at a table near the bar.
He stands to kiss my cheek and smells faintly of expensive cologne.
He looks me up and down in a way that feels more like evaluation than appreciation.
"You look great," he says. "I like when you make the effort."
I smile, small and polite. "You too."
He talks a lot. About work, about a trip he's planning, about a friend who bought a boat.
I listen and nod, sip my drink, answer when needed.
The food comes. He compliments the wine list, then tells me he doesn't really do carbs anymore.
When I order pasta, he raises an eyebrow.
"I admire how relaxed you are about food," he says. "I wish I could eat like that and not stress about it."
I twirl my fork and keep my tone even. "It's called being hungry."
He laughs too loudly, like I made a joke. Then he leans in. "You should make more time for yourself, though. Get a sitter more often. You don't want to spend all your energy on the kid. You'll forget how to be a woman."
I set my fork down and look at him. "I'm doing fine remembering."
He doesn't catch the warning. "I mean, men like when a woman knows how to balance things. You're still young. You should enjoy it."
The waiter interrupts with dessert menus. I shake my head. "Just the check, please."
Tom looks surprised. "You're not in a rush, are you?"
"I am," I answer. "Early morning tomorrow."
When he offers to walk me to my car, I don't argue.
Outside, we approach my car and I thank him for dinner and reach for my keys, but he leans against the doorframe and gives me a look that makes my skin crawl.
"You could invite me in," he says. "Or we could just stay here a while. The windows are tinted."
"I'm really not in the mood tonight," I say, keeping my voice calm. Another night of vanilla sex is the last thing I need right now, plus Tom also has that habit of staring at himself in the mirror the whole time, like he's grading his own form.
Not me. Himself.
I don't have the emotional strength for that level of self-love tonight.
He laughs like I'm teasing him. "Come on. It's just a quick one. You need to loosen up."
The word quick hits a nerve. I step back. "I don't feel well," I say. "I'm going home."
He holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Didn't mean to offend."
I get in the car before he can try again. The drive home is short but feels long enough to clear my head. Raina greets me with a smile when I walk in. "He didn't wake at all," she says.
"Thank you," I say, pressing a few bills into her hand. "You can head home."
She leaves, and I lock the door behind her. The house is quiet again. I check on Jace.
He's fast asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand clutching his stuffed bear. I pull his blanket up a little higher, then go to my own room.
The dress ends up on a chair. The earrings come off next. I wash my face and climb into bed, the sheets cool against my skin.
For a moment I think about the night, about how easy it is for men like Tom to talk and how rare it is to feel seen.
Gabe's name sits on my tongue, unspoken, and I hate that even now, five years later, he still has that kind of hold on my thoughts.
I turn onto my side and close my eyes.
The house is quiet. My son is safe.
I have built a life that works. And yet something in me stays restless.
I reach for my phone and scroll all the way down to Gabe's chat thread. We never really talked after that night.
He sent a few messages even though I never gave him my number. Maybe he got it from my dad.
I read them again like I always do.
Apologies. Check-ins. Soft words.
The kind of messages that sound like the start of another fantasy. My mind drifts and turns those apologies into hands and mouth, tongue and teeth, then thick cock and rough command.
The sheets feel cool on my bare skin, but heat sparks low in my belly.
Tom's face flashes through my mind, his dry voice and empty compliments, and the comparison is almost insulting.
My thighs press together on instinct. Gabe is the one my body remembers.
The one who made me feel wanted.
The one who fucked me like my curves were a gift.
I try to ignore it, but the memory pulls harder. His hands gripping my hips. His cock stretching me full. The mirror catching every thrust.
The way he yanked my hair and made me hold his stare while I came around him.
The sound of his growl in my ear as he drove into me again and again until I broke open for him.
My breath picks up. My hand moves down without thought, fingers tracing the soft curve of my stomach before slipping lower to part my thighs.
I am already wet from the memory alone. I circle my clit, imagining his thumb there instead, firm and deliberate while he fills me deep.
"Look at yourself," his voice whispers through my memory.
I arch off the mattress, slide two fingers inside my slick heat, and curl them the way he did. My walls grip tight around the intrusion, greedy for more.
My other hand cups my breast, kneading and pinching the nipple until it aches.
The fantasy sharpens: his hips slamming against my ass, his balls hitting me with every drive, our bodies locked together in the mirror's reflection while I scream his name.
"Fuck me deeper, sir," I whisper, pushing my fingers faster, clit throbbing under each rub.
The orgasm hits quick and sharp, my pussy pulsing around my fingers in tight waves.
I ride it out with shaky breaths, but the high fades fast and leaves a hollow throb behind. It is not his weight.
Not his scent. Not his voice in my ear. It is not enough.
Tom's name pops into my head, bland and available, the easiest choice if I wanted something convenient. The ache rolls through me again.
I slide out of bed and stand in front of the full-length mirror. My tits rise and fall, nipples hard and sensitive. My stomach curves softly, hips sitting wide and strong as my thighs tremble from release.
I look flushed and hungry, every curve bold and honest. Gabe would have dropped to his knees for this view.
Phone in hand, I frame the shot with one hand cupping my breast, the nipple pulled tight. I look like a woman who wants to be taken, who is done pretending she does not crave being ruined again.
I attach the picture to the chat thread and type the truth that burns through me, feeling better now.
Freshly creamed but starving for cock. Come over.
My cheeks heat as I hit send.
Before I can rethink my life's choices, I exit the chat to catch my breath, heart thudding.
Then it hits me.
The last chat I opened was not Tom's.
It was Gabe's.
My fingers shake as I tap back into the thread. There are two blue ticks under the message and two blue ticks under the picture.
Fuck.