Nine
Bri
It would be easier on my psyche if Liem had a flaw. Just one. That’s all I want.
Besides that, I’m making bank. This week alone, I’ve picked up two regular dog-walk clients, four additional pet visits, and five task jobs.
Back home, I needed a car to do any of this, leaving me barely breaking even after my car payment, insurance, and gas.
Here, all I have to do is stroll a few blocks to find work.
At this rate, I’ll have enough for the flight and a deposit on a reasonable apartment in a month.
I shouldn’t stay that long, but . . . I secretly wish I could.
I still feel bad for not contributing any money to our living arrangement, so I’ve aligned my schedule with Liem’s, taking him on as another job.
The man has concentration like I have never seen.
He will sit at his computer for ten hours straight and not get up once to pee or eat.
I bring him water, lunch, and snacks at regular intervals, and he seems surprised and thankful every time.
Truly, the only bad part of staying with him is that I really, really want to have sex, and he’s always six feet away, looking so good. I’m a few days away from ovulating, and I am feral.
Everything about him is so . . . fuckable. He’s smart, sexy, and kind. Taking care of me when I was cramping was the sexiest thing a man has ever done for me. That might not be saying much, though.
There weren’t many men who stayed in my life long enough to take care of me—until David.
Still, we got together after the worst of it.
The years of struggling to stay within my allowable absences in school, blowing through my sick time at every job, struggling to find a partner who would stick around when my bad weeks stretched into bad months, stealing whatever sex life I wished I could have.
And to think my endo was considered mild.
Though my treatment plan worked, and my pain is significantly better than before, my life still hasn’t caught up.
I lost years to my pain, years I could have spent completing college on time, years I could have spent starting a career rather than racking up medical bills for fruitless treatments, years I could have spent living my life for more than the two pain-free weeks I had per month.
I’ve accomplished nothing, and now I’m a few months away from a milestone I’ve dreaded most of my life. Turning thirty.
My urge to make up for lost time is worse than before, especially after the breakup, and it’s difficult not to project that onto the opportunity a room away.
Liem is in his bedroom sitting at the desk, staring at his dual monitors as per usual.
His screen scrolls through those wild pages of numbers like The Matrix.
I gently tug his headphones from his ears, breaking his concentration and ridding him of his RBF—his Resting Brood Face.
I hate to admit it looks good on him. I haven’t been able to break my habit of staring at him for enjoyment since we met.
“Hi,” he says, his grin convincing me he isn’t miserable.
I drape my arms over his shoulders and ask, “Have you consumed water recently?”
“You know I haven’t.”
He’s like a houseplant, needing me to water him on a regular schedule.
I pat him on the chest. “I’ll make dinner tonight so you can keep working.”
“I can help. Let me finish this last thing up, then I can chill until my meeting at eight.”
Being in the Eastern time zone must be rough for him. His team working until nine in Seattle means he occasionally has calls at midnight.
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Back in the kitchen, I pour him a glass of water and set it on the island for whenever he arrives.
I get the pre-prepped dinner and pour it into the pot, ready for my easy task of stirring occasionally for the next ten minutes.
Bread for a side and some strawberries from the market would go great with a red blend.
Our last bottle of hotel wine is a fingertip’s distance out of my reach in the upper cabinet. With a jump, I catch it, managing not to break the glasses at the same time.
“Careful!” Liem appears behind me, setting his laptop on the island to come help me bypass my clumsiness.
“I got it. Hydrate, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, lifting the glass to his beautiful lips.
I don’t think he knows he looks good. Truly, I don’t.
Keisha put it in my head that I’ve set myself up for the most convenient rebound sex possible, and now I can’t keep myself from flirty remarks slipping out of my lips like drool.
He is my friend, and this is extremely temporary, but she has a point.
He’s here, I’m here, he’s delicious, I keep it tight. All that’s stopping us is his lack of interest, and I’m starting to run out of reasons to explain why.
I’m not too old for him, I’m not ugly, and he’s attracted to women.
Did I ruin it by having the audacity to menstruate in front of him?
Did I accidentally friend-zone him? Is he still not over Natalie?
My thoughts ramble. He still needs time to heal, and if having a wildly convenient and hot fuckfest with the woman bumming it on his company’s dime isn’t enough for him, then—
“What smells so good?” Liem says from a step behind me, making me flinch. “Are you baking something too?”
“No, but the bread is fresh.”
“It’s . . . sweet. Vanilla, maybe? Honey?”
He steps closer, his chest barely grazing my back, nose brushing against my neck when he leans his head in. Tingles spread beneath every area he almost touches, like my skin is reaching to pull him closer. Then he smells me.
Not a creepy sniff or unwanted intrusion into my personal space. He breathes me in, slow and appreciative like he’s smelling a flower. “It’s you.”
Why is my mouth dry?
“Is it perfume? A lotion or something?”
I have a vanilla-scented body oil, but I haven’t used it in a few days. It’s not pertinent to admit I haven’t showered since yesterday either. “No. Maybe it’s my conditioner?”
Again, he breathes me in. Without a touch, I explode with microscopic fireworks. Why is my body reacting this way? Am I so touch-starved that almost touching is enough to get me off?
“It’s not that. It’s . . . you.” He steps away, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. “Sorry if that was weird. I have a thing with smells.”
“A thing?”
“Not like a kink thing. It’s a cooking thing, I think.” He catches himself. “I’m saying you smell nice but being extraordinarily awkward about it.”
I’m still conflicted over why I find that sexy.
“You smell like marshmallows,” he says. “And the soup needs more basil.”
I gasp at his audacity while he snickers and walks away. Ugh, why must he be this way? His departure gives me space to breathe less hornily. That can’t be a word.
It’s been nearly three months since someone touched me, though now, I wish it had been longer.
David was overlapping me and the side chick for who knows how long—likely only fessing up to it because he knew the pregnancy news would come out soon.
I want to erase his last claim on me, be free of him completely, but I also want to get hammered into a mattress like a bent nail.
And Liem keeps showing up, making me tingly in all the right places.
A moment before I burn it, I take the soup from the heat and pour it into our bowls, sliding one to him.
“Thank you.” When he smiles at me, my body stirs again.
You could just ask him. You’ve said worse shit to him before. What’s so different about, “Hey, bestie, wanna get naked with me?”
“I miss sex,” I blurt out. That’s one way to do it.
Liem’s eyes shift to me. One of these days, he’ll get used to my tactlessness. “Oh?”
“Sorry. Random. But it’s true.” I shift my weight, squeezing
my thighs in the process. The ache in my vagina is ridding me of my subtlety. “I haven’t had sex in months. Sitting alone at home waiting for David when he wasn’t waiting for shit.” I drop my head into my hands with a frustrated sigh.
“Damn. That sigh sounded horny too.”
“It was.” True to my lack of tact, I ask, “When was the last time you had sex?”
“The night before Natalie moved here.” He avoids my eyes with embarrassment. Sweet baby. “I should have known she wasn’t happy with me.”
“It wasn’t good?”
“It, um. She didn’t . . .” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for me to know Natalie didn’t finish either.
“Oh no.”
“I’m better than that. It was mortifying.”
He’s mortified because he couldn’t get her there? That means he always had before. I am too horny for him to put ideas like that in my head. “And you don’t want to erase that by having a better time with someone else?”
“No. I mean, in theory, I do. But I can’t.”
I stroke his back with my fingertips. “You’re not over her.”
“It’s not that I’m still hoping we’ll get back together, it’s . . .”
“What?”
His cheeks gain a rosy tint. “Natalie is the only person I’ve had sex with. Like, intercourse.”
Who says inter— I sit up straight, eyes wide while waiting for him to reveal a joke. He doesn’t. “Wait. You’re serious? No wonder this has been so hard on you.”
“The idea of a next is . . . difficult.”
Being so deeply connected with someone, having the most intimate experiences with them and only them—everything that comes next can be as monumental as the first time. “The first after your first is a big deal.”
He looks at me with a puppy-like expression. “Can I be completely real with you?”
“Always.”
“I’ve never told anyone this, but . . . I’ve never had the urge to have sex with people.
Random people. I get aroused, and I enjoy sex, like, a lot, but the thought of sleeping with someone doesn’t enter my mind for a long time.
I’d be fine not having sex with another person if I never fall in love again. ”