Chapter 13
Tippi
Iwake up with my heart pounding.
For a few seconds I don’t know where I am. The ceiling looks unfamiliar in the half-light. Rhiannon’s fairy nightlight glows faintly in the hallway, painting little pink stars on the floorboards outside my door.
Foxton. Guest room. Leo and Sadie’s.
Right.
But the dream lingers like afterburn.
It wasn’t just sex. That’s the unsettling part.
There was sex in the dream, of course; my subconscious is nothing if not on brand. Jacob had me bent over the kitchen counter, murmuring filthy things in that soft, careful voice of his that should not be allowed to sound that dirty. But that wasn’t the bit that’s got my chest feeling too tight.
It’s what came after.
In the dream, we were in some random airport.
It was a mix of several I’ve been to, but somehow I knew it without anyone saying it, the way dream logic just hands you context for free.
People wheeled suitcases past us. A voice announced a gate change.
I had my battered carry-on at my foot, passport in hand, that fizzing excitement in my veins I always get before a flight.
And he was just… there. Calm and steady as can be. One hand on my suitcase handle, the other wrapped around a coffee. The bird tattoo was on his wrist, the one Sadie did, and he kept touching it like a touchstone.
“You ready?” he’d asked.
“Always,” I’d said, and kissed him, quick and easy, like we’d done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again.
Security. Boarding. Window seat. His thigh warm against mine.
Him reading something geeky on his Kindle and nudging me when he found a sentence he thought I’d like.
Me writing a blog draft about “Ten Things Your Sex Life Can Learn From Airport Lounges”, which I should definitely write sometime. Us…doing life. Together. On the move.
No address. No white picket fence. Just continents and beds and new cities, and him in all of them.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” I mutter to the ceiling. “We are not doing this.”
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, willing the images away.
Jacob asleep on my shoulder on a long-haul.
Jacob laughing with someone at a street-food stall in Bangkok.
Jacob’s hand at the small of my back while we walk through some crowded bazaar, his body between mine and the crush.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
I am not built for this. I am a subscription service, not a one-time purchase.
Except my body clearly didn’t get that memo because my chest still hurts and my throat feels thick.
I sit up abruptly, shoving the duvet off. Nope. No, ma’am. We are not catching feelings for a man who says ‘pardon’ unironically.
A little voice in the back of my mind points out that maybe that’s exactly why I’m in trouble.
I ignore it, swinging my legs out of bed, stretching until my spine pops, and grab my phone from the bedside table.
There are no messages waiting for me. It’s just after seven.
I must have finally crashed around two, after staying up way too late editing audio for the blog.
One week left, maybe less, and then I’m gone. That’s the agreement. That was always the agreement, and I told him this. I do not put down roots. I do not stay. I do not build a life with a man who has a nine to five and has lived in the same town all his life.
I need to remind myself who I really am: pansexual. Ethically non-monogamous. Nomad. Blogger. Podcaster. Chaos fairy. The woman who built a life out of orgasms and plane tickets and has absolutely no interest in being anyone’s happily-ever-after.
Even if, just for a moment, it felt… nice. That’s all it was. A nice dream. Not a prophecy.
By the time I’m dressed in black denim shorts and an oversized band tee, my hair scraped into a high ponytail, I’ve mostly bullied myself into a better mood.
A familiar tingle of anticipation takes over when I think of the day ahead.
I’ve got a blog post to write, footage from Climax to wrangle, a Patreon Q it has my fingerprints baked into the concept.
I stand up, pacing to the window. The garden’s full of toys: a little plastic slide, a tricycle lying on its side, a water table half-full of rain. It looks like a life I’ll never choose for myself, and yet I’m oddly fond of it.
“Honestly?” I say, pressing my free hand to my chest. “I think this is what I’ve been waiting for.”
“Good. I thought you’d say that. I’ve told them you’re interested in principle. Hop on a Zoom with them this week. They want to see you, get a sense of your onscreen energy, blah-blah.”
“Of course. Tomorrow? Day after? I’m free as a bird.”
The word lingers. Bird. Jacob’s wrist, Sadie’s ink. Wings.
“Perfect. I’ll email you times. And Tippi?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t talk yourself out of this because of some guy,” she says bluntly. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“I, um - what guy?” I laugh too quickly.
“Uh-huh. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Just…” Marcy sighs. “Just remember who you are. You’ve spent years building a life that fits you. Don’t bend yourself into a pretzel for someone who doesn’t even know the right way to coil a whip.”
I smile despite myself. “He absolutely knows the right way to coil a whip, thank you very much.”
There’s a gasp. “Oh, we are talking about someone. I expect details.”
“Later. I’ll email you.”
“Do that. And Tippi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you, kid,” she says softly. “This is big. Let yourself be happy about it.”
We hang up, and I stand in the middle of the living room, phone dangling from my fingers, feeling like someone’s just opened a door in my ribcage and let a cool wind howl through my heart.