Chapter 18
Ophelia. Now.
Spud licks me awake. The pug’s tongue sloppily laps at my cheek and I groan and roll over, out of the splash zone.
“I’m up! Okay, I’m up.”
Spud rolls out of bed with a heavy plop.
The dog of unknowable age has been with me for two years now.
After my sister moved out, short term roommates rolled through my apartment as though on a turnstile.
Finally, Dove moved in, and the two of us have been stuck at the hip ever since.
But before Dove, there was Jake, the theatre-kid who gave Broadway a month before having a breakdown and going back home. He left his dog, though.
I have a habit of adopting strays.
I pull on pants, toss on a shirt, and comb my fingers through the mess of curls that have sprung up around my head overnight. When I exit my bedroom, I’m hit with a very specific, very familiar smell.
Fresh citrus.
Phantom’s been here.
The dishes are gone from the sink, the dishwasher rumbling. The clothes that were hanging out of the dryer like a tongue have now been neatly folded up and stacked on the couch. Spud’s hair has been wiped from the floors, which practically sparkle in the morning light.
There’s a note propped up on my kitchen table, supported by a vase of fresh flowers.
I’m sorry.
In Phantom’s scratchy handwriting.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Not accepting apologies at this time. Try again later.”
I ball up the note and toss it at the trash. It bounces off the rim of the can and rolls across the floor. Spud sniffs it and wags his curlicue tail.
“C’mon, bud. Let’s go.”
I hook Spud into his bright pink harness and matching leash. We do a loop around the block, which is about all he has the energy for, before going back inside. When I enter my apartment, there’s a man in my house.
I let out a yelp of surprise. Spud follows suit.
Dorian blinks at us. He’s wearing nothing but pajama pants, crooked glasses, and a completely bemused expression.
“Fuck me,” I swear.
“No, thank you.”
I unhook Spud. He goes and splats on his dog bed, like the excitement is all too much for him to handle.
Dorian just…stands there. He has the look of someone who stepped into a room and completely forgot what he came in for. His dark hair is a windswept storm cloud on his head. Dorian, I’ve learned, is not a morning person.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“I spent the night.”
“Huh.” Weird. Usually I hear them fucking all night—
As if he can read my mind, he says, “We invested in a ball gag.”
“Ah. Coffee?”
“Please.”
He flops down at the kitchen table. I take out three mugs, fill them, and take the other seat just as Dove exits the bedroom.
“Morning!” she says. She is bright and, somehow, full of energy. She sweeps over beside me and wraps her hands around the mug. “Mmmm. Coffee, coffee, coffee.”
I pour a spoonful of sugar into my mug. Dorian clutches his mug like it’s the holy grail, but he’s still looking around the apartment like he’s just stepped off a spaceship. “Did someone hire a maid?”
“It’s Phantom.” I wave my hand dismissively. “If he’s had a long day at work, sometimes he comes over and deep cleans my apartment before going home. My apartment is apparently his own personal Zen garden.”
“Can he have a bad day at my apartment? I’ve got bookshelves that need sorting.”
“I like to call it the magical cleaning fairy,” Dove adds. “That way, I don’t have to think about Phantom going through my laundry.”
“He cleans your house. For free.” Dorian still sounds in shock. “Why are you breaking up with him again?”
“Actually, this is exactly the problem,” I argue. “Notice how he didn’t text and say, hey, can I come over? No. He just does shit and then I’m supposed to, what? Fall all over his dick for it?”
“So entitled.” Dove shakes her head.
“I’ll suck him off if you don’t,” Dorian offers.
“No, no.” Dove puts down her coffee and puts up her phone.
I watch as she swipes into the Seekers Club app.
“We’re not going to let one little act of kindness erase a whole three years of absolutely fuckery.
Let’s not forget Phantom is also a liar, and a meddler, and you deserve better.
You deserve…oh.” Dove slides the phone across the table to me.
She taps the profile of an attractive man around our age.
“Hot, tattooed Dominant. And he’s a bartender. Free drinks for days.”
I frown at the profile. “Ugh. Dating sounds…exhausting right now. I just don’t know if I can go back to mediocre sex after I’ve had a grown ass man who knows exactly how to move his fingers to make me squirt.”
Dove sighs dreamily. “That does sound nice.”
Dorian narrows his eyes. “Why are you…saying that like you don’t know?”
She tilts her head. “What. Have I squirted before?”
“Have you…” His lips thin. “Yes. Multiple times. Are you serious right now?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know! I guess it all feels the same to me. Are you sure I wasn’t just really wet?”
“I’m sure!” he says, exasperated. “You have! You definitely have!” Dorian leaves the table and throws up his hand. “Unappreciated in my time!”
He takes his coffee and walks away. He flops on the couch and picks up a book, mumbling to himself.
Dove grins and shifts in closer. “Sorry,” she drops her voice. “I just love to watch him throw a temper tantrum. It’s like when you accidentally step on a cat’s tail and the cat puffs up ten sizes and it makes those pft-pft-pft! noises.”
“Step-daughter problems?”
“Such step-daughter problems. Also. Let me just…” She reaches out, pinches two fingers to the bridge of my nose, and pulls away, as though she’s removing invisible glasses, “…take off these sex-goggles for a second. You have to think about this clearly. It doesn’t have to all be about…
sex and squirting. Obviously, what you and Phantom had was intense and passionate and hot.
But what do you want out of a relationship? ”
I frown. “I don’t know. I think that’s the problem.
I wanted to get married…start a family. I was ready for that.
Or…I thought I was. But now…” I look down at the profile Dove picked out.
I try to imagine myself with this man, but my imagination hits a wall.
I shake my head. “I’m going solo. No more Phantoms. No more Brodys.
No sex, no playing at the club, I’m just going to…
do yoga and eat yogurt and work on myself. ”
“I’m in,” Dove says.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“Of course I do. We’re in this together.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You hear that, Dorian? We’re going celibate.”
“Great.” He turns the page of his book. “Un-Freaky February. Love it.”
My throat goes tight.
It’s stupid. Silly. And I know she’s not actually going to keep her hands off her boyfriend, but it means a lot, knowing no matter what I’m going through…I don’t have to do it alone. Not with Dove around. “I love you,” I tell Dove, meaning it.
“I love you more.” She gets up and kisses the top of my head. “You’re going to get through this. I promise.”
We finish our coffees, toss the mugs in the sink, and the two of them leave to go enjoy brunch.
They invite me, but I pass, claiming I need to practice for my audition.
I do have an audition, but it’s not until the afternoon, and I don’t really need to practice. I just need time to gather my thoughts.
I pull up my messages with Phantom. It’s time to lay down the law. Set boundaries.
[Text: Ophelia]
Stop breaking into my apartment.
There. Sent. That should get the message across.
My phone buzzes not a minute later.
[Text: Phantom]
Stop leaving your window unlocked.
[Text: Phantom]
Really.
[Text: Phantom]
Lock your window.
I frown. This is not the apology I was looking for.
Bullheaded ass.
[Text: Ophelia]
That’s not your concern anymore.
[Text: Phantom]
You’re always my concern.
Ignore the way that message makes your heart do a flip and your thighs squeeze together.
How did Dove phrase it?
Sex goggles, off.
I regain control of the conversation.
[Text: Ophelia]
I’ll give you back your cleaning products.
[Text: Phantom]
They’re yours.
I dig into the coat closet by the door. The apartment is small, and we don’t have a lot of closet space.
However, I know that Phantom has stuffed a bucket back here, along with cleaning wipes, gloves, scented spray, and other deep-cleaning gadgets that he uses when he comes over.
He keeps it well stocked and refills as needed.
When I tug the bucket out, however, I find that there’s more than cleaning products back here.
He’s squirreled away a whole overnight bag.
I yank the backpack out. The zipper whines as I open it.
I dump the contents, and find: rope (neatly spooled), nipple clamps, a blindfold, a vibrator, a change of clothes (casual), a bag of fancy dog treats (that explains Spud’s size), and a small toiletry bag containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, moisturizer.
Most alarming of all, the toiletry bag is a silver, shiny material with brightly colored unicorn patches glued to it.
I spread the items out on the floor. Then I take a picture of the loot and send it back to him.
[Text: Ophelia]
Why do you have so much shit at my place?
[Text: Phantom]
Just the essentials.
[Text: Ophelia]
Also. Unicorns?
Phantom is typing. Erasing. Typing again.
[Text: Phantom]
I’m full of whimsy.
I can hear it in his dry, humorless tone. I snort on a laugh.
And then I hate myself for it.
No. No.
Stop being charmed by him. Stop enjoying the clean house and the secret backpack and the stupid dad jokes.
Stop being in love with him.
Anger, wild and untamed, suddenly flares up inside of me.
I shove all of his stuff back into the backpack. Then I put the backpack in the bucket, and I carry it to my window. I open the window and slide the bucket containing all of Phantom’s things out onto the fire escape. Then I snap a picture of that and send it to him as well.
[Text: Ophelia]
I’m leaving your shit out here. Come get it before it gets rained on.
[Text: Ophelia]
And that’s the last time I want you over here.
[Text: Ophelia]
Don’t break into my house.
[Text: Ophelia]
Don’t worry about me.
[Text: Ophelia]
Don’t text me.
[Text: Ophelia]
Leave. Me. Alone.
I send each text in rapid, angry succession. When they’re done, I stare at the screen, my blood fizzling and burning inside of me.
I wait. I wait for him to give me a reason. I wait to unleash this animal snarling inside of me.
Instead…worst thing ever.
He does as he’s told.