Chapter 26 Aurora
AURORA
Sleeping Beauty,
You looked so pretty, I didn’t want to wake you. The band has a full day, but dinner tonight?
- Mabes
My heart stutters as I read the note again.
I’ve read it probably twenty times since finding it on my nightstand this morning. I could close my eyes and picture it perfectly.
She has the most elegant handwriting. Each word is written in flowing, loopy cursive, and if I didn’t know her, I might be surprised.
I might expect something more edgy and chaotic, something more rock and roll, but that’s just not Mabel Rossi.
Her voice from last night plays in my ears, and my blood heats at the images that come with it.
I’m just a girl who likes pretty things.
The sultry makeup. The pink lace and leather. The matching piercings.
She’s so hot that it hurts.
I drop my face into my hands and groan. I can’t get a handle on my emotions. I keep jumping from oh my God, I can’t believe that happened giddy giggles to oh my God, I can’t believe that happened anxious panic. It’s been a chaotic morning for my nervous system, and I haven’t even left the room yet.
But seriously. I cannot believe it actually happened.
I keep waiting to wake up and discover it was just a dream. Just another of the X-rated fantasies that have been popping up in my head lately. But no, the delicious ache of my muscles and the technicolor film reel of memories flashing on repeat in my mind say otherwise.
I read the note one more time before sliding it into the back of my leather journal, then press my hand over my heart, feeling the thump thump against my palm.
I am awake. It did happen. Every touch. Every kiss. Every amazing, blissful, terrifying moment. It was all real.
I was completely naked in this bed with Mabel Rossi last night. She tasted and caressed every part of my body, and I enjoyed it. She brought me to orgasm multiple times, and never once did she expect anything from me in return.
That’s the part that has rocked me the most, I think.
How is that possible? Sex has never not been a chore for me.
A quid pro quo, heavy on the quo. Or is it the quid?
Whatever. Usually, my pleasure is the very last priority, so how could Mabel spend hours focusing on me, and then be just fine when I passed out from exhaustion without returning the favor?
I mean, thank God she didn’t expect anything from me, because I would have freaked out.
I’m freaking out a little now just thinking about it.
I don’t know what the heck I’m doing. I’d screw it up.
I’d make a fool of myself. I have no idea how to please a woman.
Just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean I know what to do with one sexually.
I groan again and squeeze my eyes shut.
But I want to please her. I want to make her feel good. I want to do for her what she did for me. I want to, but I don’t know if I can.
I push to standing and start to pace, then my eyes catch on my journal on the bedspread, and I think of her note again.
She called me Sleeping Beauty and said I looked pretty.
I can’t remember the last time someone called me pretty or made me feel special.
I don’t know when, if ever, I was put first in a relationship.
My eyes widen the second the word forms in my head. Relationship.
Why would I think that? This isn’t a relationship.
It’s not. It can’t be. Right? What happened last night wasn’t that big of a deal, was it?
It felt like a big deal for me, but was it for her?
She’s a rock star. People throw themselves at her.
I literally watched that guy at the club in Adelaide do it.
She’s experienced. She’s not hurting for attention.
She probably hooks up with people all the time.
Are we just hooking up, too?
Is that what I want?
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
God, I am such a mess. I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know if I am allowed to want what I might want even if I knew what I wanted. Do I even like women?
I mean, I like Mabel. That much is obvious. After last night, I can’t really deny that anymore. So does this mean I’m gay?
The question gives me pause and makes me a little dizzy at the same time.
No.
I’m twenty-three. I would have known by now, right?
I guess I’ve always appreciated women. The more I think about it, the more I think I’ve always appreciated them more than men, to be honest. I had crushes on boys in high school, but I can’t recall ever feeling truly attracted to a single one of them.
Not physically, not emotionally, and certainly not like with Mabel. Not like this.
Was I conforming? Was I lacking in self-awareness?
Am I even self-aware right now?
I don’t know.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
But, God, it probably doesn’t matter, anyway. A relationship with Mabel Rossi is totally unrealistic. It could never work. She’s hot and famous and talented and everyone wants her, and I...I...
I drop back onto the bed as the final bit of bone crunching reality takes me out at the knees.
I have a husband.
The room goes silent, and I feel the oxygen being sucked out the window as my chest grows painfully tight.
I have a husband—I am legally married—and I never thought of him. Not once.
Instead, I’m crashing out about my probably non-existent relationship status with someone else.
I have a husband, but I crossed many, many lines last night.
I feel guilty. I feel terrible. I am a horrible, horrible person.
Not just because of what I did, but because I can’t stop wanting to do it again.
As if Brady sensed my dread and wanted to add to it, my phone buzzes from its place on the nightstand, and my whole body freezes with fear. I don’t have to look at the caller ID to know it’s him. I can tell just by the way my insides slither into an anxious, nauseous ball.
I always know.
I haven’t spoken with him since Mabel hijacked his tirade on the terrace a few days ago. He hasn’t reached out, and I’ve been content to chalk it up to good luck.
Foolish.
Foolish and na?ve.
He wasn’t giving me space. He was waiting for me to make first contact. He wanted me to grovel, and his patience has run out.
I close my eyes and work to keep my breathing steady, but my fingers start to tremble anyway. The phone rings through to voicemail, and I count backwards from ten. I get to four before it inevitably rings again.
I do mental math. It’s around seven in the morning back home, which means he’s getting ready for work.
He has no one around to pretend for. No reason to feign decency.
No audience for whom to play the happy, healthy couple.
It’s just Brady, unchecked, and it makes the knot in my stomach pull tighter until I might actually throw up.
I don’t want to answer.
God, I really don’t want to answer.
But if I don’t, he’ll just continue to call back, and his mood will sour more every time my voicemail picks up.
I should have called him already.
I should have texted him an apology.
It never should have gotten to this point, but my mind has been on other things. On other people. Now, I have to deal with the fall out. If I don’t, it will only get worse, so I unplug the phone from its charger, force a smile I don’t feel, and accept the video call.
“Hey Bra—”
“Where the fuck have you been, Aurora?”
I flinch at the way his voice booms through the room. His face is already beet red and furious, and I frantically punch the button on the side of my phone to lower the volume out of habit. I’m alone, but I still don’t want anyone to overhear.
“I’ve been work—”
“You’ve been ignoring me!”
I shake my head. “I haven’t. You haven’t called or texted—”
“I shouldn’t have to! I shouldn’t have to chase my wife around like a fucking dog. You let that bitch berate me, and then you ignore me for three fucking days.”
I wince. “She’s not a bitch—”
“You are coming home. You are getting on the next flight out, and you will make your uncle pay for it. If you don’t tell him, I’ll call him and demand it.”
My breath catches in my throat. He can’t talk to Uncle Wade. Uncle Wade can never know about Brady. About how he really is. He can’t know how bad I’ve let it get. I shake my head rapidly and start to beg.
“No, please, I’m sorry. You can’t call Uncle Wade, Brady. You can’t. He doesn’t—"
“Shut the fuck up, Aurora. For fuck’s sake, just shut up. Do it. Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”
He hangs up, and I just sit there, staring blankly at the screen until it goes dark. I don’t move, I barely breathe, until the screen lights up again.
It’s my alarm reminding me of my session with Brynn in ten minutes. She’s got a course-mandated test today, and I have to monitor to make sure she doesn’t cheat. Despite everything that’s just happened, the thought makes me want to smile. As if that child would ever.
Slowly, I stand from the bed and get dressed.
I go to the en suite bathroom and splash water on my face.
I take two ibuprofen, then step onto the terrace to stare at the ocean.
I count to 100. I inhale the briny air through my nose and exhale it slowly through parted lips.
When I’m certain I can socialize without crying, I leave the room and head down to the kitchen.
Just as my feet hit the last stair, my phone buzzes again. When I check it, it’s a soothing balm, and the relief makes my eyes well with tears.
Mabel Rossi
Can’t wait to see you here.
She sent a picture of what I can only assume is the VIP section at the venue, and her hand is extended in the bottom of the frame, pointing to the barricaded section of seats. Her nails are a shimmery midnight blue, and her shiny bangle bracelets sparkle atop her colorful tattoos.
She’s just a girl who likes pretty things.
I smile as I type out my reply.
Me
Me too. See you soon.
“Hey! You’re getting a late start today.”