Chapter 12
TWELVE
As usual, Jayden invited me over tonight, asking if I wanted to grab dinner somewhere with a patio, but after my confusing talk with Dad, I had an overwhelming urge to go to my apartment and actually spend a decent amount of time there.
It’s usually a place I go to grab some stuff before heading out somewhere else.
I’m sitting on my white leather couch, my feet up, looking around my apartment, trying to see it the same way that I did after I first decorated.
The leather feels cool against the backs of my legs, and the scent of citrus cleaner still lingers faintly in the air from when I wiped the counters down earlier.
I was already dating Jayden at the time, but I was determined to choose my own place and my own things without his influence.
I needed a place that felt totally mine.
I went shopping with Maren and Gia, so excited to pick out my own furniture.
I chose white because they both warned me that I’d get it dirty and I wanted to show them that mature Lexi could handle the challenge.
It’s still spotless and I vow to keep it that way. I always eat at my dining room table, and I never drink red wine on it. Except that one time when I came home tipsy and thought I could get away with it. Thank God I miraculously had a sense of balance that night.
If this place wasn’t mine, and this was the first time I ever stepped into the apartment, what would I think of the person who lives here?
My eyes dart to the left, where my massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf is overflowing with books.
It’s the pride and joy of everything I own.
There are spines of every color of the rainbow, but honestly, besides the material I was forced to read in college, I haven’t read any of the other books.
When was the last time I read for fun? I used to love reading.
There was a time when I alternated between my place and Jayden’s, but now I mainly spend my time at his apartment.
He told me he prefers his place, and it isn’t because he’s being biased.
His apartment has two bedrooms, and mine only has one.
His TV is bigger and mounted to the wall, with speakers set up around the room for an immersive theater experience.
Mine’s just a medium-sized one, propped up on an IKEA stand, but it’s definitely good enough for me to watch my stress-busting reality shows.
I turn to look around and really absorb the details.
My walls are painted robin egg blue, and there are pictures of the ocean on every wall, except the bathroom, which I decorated with framed posters of various poems. I figured that with all the time I spend sitting there, I could put it to good use, analyzing poetry and absorbing the stylistic elements.
Nothing says “personal growth” like reading Dickinson while you pee.
I stand and walk barefoot across the high pile white rug, marveling at how I never appreciated how soft it is until this moment.
I go to the kitchen and open my cupboards to find just a few cereal boxes—Cheerios and Shredded Wheat—still sealed.
There’s an unopened jar of peanut butter, some instant coffee, and a few boxes of tea bags.
My freezer’s full of microwavable meals and in my fridge there’s a jug of water and a bottle of white wine.
Hydration and coping—life’s essentials. The milk I have for my coffee is past its expiration date, so I dump it in the sink, rinse it out, and toss it into the recycling bin.
I don’t live here, not really.
I’m here every now and then to recharge my social battery when it dwindles, or to dodge Hairball’s latest plot to destroy me, but I don’t enjoy my time here like I used to.
I wrote a poem in the office. If I actually spent time here working on stories, who knows . . . ? Maybe one day I’d actually be a famous writer instead of just talking about how I wish I was.
I walk down the narrow hallway to my bedroom and fling open the door to the white walls and ocean prints. My bed is neatly made, with the fuzzy pink comforter that I imagined nuzzling against when I initially bought it but have never really enjoyed.
My closet’s open to a mess of clothing hanging haphazardly from hangers, in no particular order, with a pile of T-shirts and jeans forming a mountain at the bottom.
I open my drawers to the heaps of slightly wrinkled clothing and then slide open my underwear drawer and rifle around inside until I find the neon pink vibrator that I bought after I read a book about independent women throughout history.
Nothing says independent woman like being able to pleasure yourself without anyone else’s assistance.
After testing it out for a literal twenty seconds the night after I bought it, I tucked it away like a secret I wasn’t cool enough to keep using.
I bring it back out into the living room with me, put it down on the coffee table, then pour myself a glass of Velvet Moon chardonnay.
Then I lay back on the couch and sip the wine, looking around the room, finding new details in my paintings.
Like . . . did I ever really notice that the painting above the lamp had tiny dots on the sand that were meant to resemble seashells?
No, I did not. Did I ever notice the white area in the sailboat painting that was meant to be the sun glinting into the water?
No, I never looked at it that hard before.
By the time I’ve examined all my paintings very carefully, and have come up with three different ways to describe the color and pattern on my rug—mountainesque, triangles of various sizes, rustic gray geometric—I’ve finished half my bottle of wine.
A lot of thoughts are swirling around in my brain now that I have this quiet alone time. But the thought that keeps coming back to me is that most people I know have given themself at least one orgasm by the time they reach my age.
I pick up my vibrator and turn it over in my palm. It’s a good weight, like a cucumber, or maybe an eggplant. It’s not quite penis-shaped, and it doesn’t have veins like some of the others I saw in the store. This one is a cheerful ’80s neon pink, the size of a flashlight with a banana-like curve.
I slip off my pants and underwear and play with the vibration speeds until I find a medium speed with a good rhythm of pulse.
I want this to be an empowering experience, and I don’t want to have to picture Jayden’s face to turn myself on.
I want to focus on the sensations. I move the vibrator around with my eyes closed, focusing on how each motion makes me feel.
The ripples of arousal prickle through my body and I lose myself in the pleasure of the moment.
When I climax, I lean back against the couch cushions and lie there, in no rush to return to reality.
My phone vibrates against the coffee table, though not as powerfully as my little pink friend can. I lean over to grab my phone and read the text from Jayden.
Hey u still coming?
I just did, I start typing with a satisfied smile on my face but then delete it. I’ll keep my time with my pink friend a secret.
I’m a little tired. Going to stay in
I see the processing icon. He’s typing. Then stops. Then he’s typing again. “K,” he responds. Just as I’m about to put my phone back on the coffee table, a second text comes through.
Haven’t seen you as much lately.
That seems like an exaggeration to me. With the recent exception of the night at the resort, I’ve seen Jayden almost every day since we met.
Spending time with him is enjoyable but it’s also kind of like a habit now.
And habits are hard to break. Mom used to ask me if I was sure I wasn’t moving a little too quickly with Jayden, but I just thought she was saying it in case it didn’t work out.
I assumed she didn’t want it to be harder than necessary to get over him.
Now I see that maybe she wanted me to hold onto the parts of myself I actually liked, the stuff that made me feel like me.
Because now I genuinely don’t know what I enjoy.
What do I like to do? What would I try eating if I didn’t eat Nova’s linguine all the time?
What hobbies would I pick up if I had endless time and zero shame?
Stamp collecting? Competitive jigsaw puzzling?
Would I still choose these apartment colors if I moved in today? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Things just become the way they are, and after a while, it’s hard to tell if you genuinely like them or if you’re just too lazy to change the shower curtain.
If this place wasn’t mine, and this was the first time I ever stepped into the apartment, what would I think of the person who lives here?
I would think she likes to read, and she likes blue and loves the ocean and should maybe fill the fridge more and put a comfortable cover on her white couch so she can actually enjoy the place without being scared she’s going to make a mess.
Is that still the person I am? Is blue even still my favorite color? Oh god, I’m really spiraling now.
I grab my phone to Google “How long do identity crises last?” Yikes. Hopefully this is a short-term one.