Chapter 24 Lexie
Two and a half weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since I tried on the dresses. When I got home that night, a piece of me thought that I’d made up what happened in the dressing room. The way the electricity crackled in the air, the way he touched me, the way my skin scorched with need.
I didn’t even make it up the stairs that night before I burst into tears.
I bolted through the door into the bathroom and threw up.
I’ve never, ever been the other woman. I can’t believe I allowed myself to get trapped in his dark, addictive, gravitational pull.
I told myself I was only getting close to him to prove he was a cheater.
Something I could couple with the video I have of him and Olivia at the hotel to convince Annabelle to leave him. I was doing it for her.
But the sheer guilt and shame that consumed me from the way my body responded to his touch showed me I did it for me.
When did I become this person? I should demand an immediate reassignment, promotion be dammed.
I should turn myself in, turn him in, file some sort of formal complaint, fucking something.
Not sit here and drool over the way my core quivered and clenched with a brush of his finger.
A brush. The lightning-fast heat that zoomed through my body took me off guard, and even though I faked the hell out of it, I didn’t recover until I got home and took care of myself.
And God forgive me, I want it again. I want to drop to my knees and run my tongue along his cock and inhale his scent. My body burns with the need to be touched by someone who knows what they’re doing. And I bet anything, that person is Theo.
That’s all this is. I don’t want Theo as much as I want someone to make me feel good.
Right?
“And that’s when the purple banana crashed into the earth,” Justin says and my eyes snap back to him.
“Wait… what?”
“Welcome back! I swear you’re just like Dylan when the Real Wives of Salt Lake City is on,” he says as he dips a sushi roll into wasabi. “You’re miles away. What’s going on?”
Yes, that’s right. I’m at work, eating sushi with my best friend, talking about…
oh yeah, about wedding stuff, and not my wicked urge to blow my client.
“God, sorry, I suck. It’s nothing.” I pop a wonton in my mouth.
“I was just thinking about everything I still need to do for the wedding. You know, the bride never fails to surprise me. Just the other day, I sent Annabelle a list of the top five caterers with sample menus, and she comes back with ‘how about a taco truck instead’. She’s a Barlowe—how can we seriously have a taco truck at the reception? ”
Justin shakes his head, rolling his eyes in humor. “People with money have the wildest demands. What did she say after you talked her out of it?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Literally, nothing. I followed up with a friendly nudge that we really had to decide soon and… crickets. I swear this is the chillest bride I’ve ever worked with in my life and, ironically, it’s still stressful.”
“Did you ask the groom then?” he asks.
Don’t look at him, don’t look at him. Justin will read my face and absolutely see right through me and I can’t have this conversation.
Theo is not chill. “No, not yet. He’s been busy,” I say, trying to disguise the fact that I haven’t asked Theo hardly anything, since I’ve been avoiding him at all costs.
“Well, I do have some good news for you,” he says as he cracks open a soda. “I booked the string quartet they wanted.”
My eyes shoot up. It’s the best news I’ve had this entire week. The quartet was one of Theo’s parents’ special requests, and even though he clearly didn’t give a shit, Annabelle was pretty adamant on it.
“I can’t wait to see the groom’s face when the bride walks down the aisle to a string rendition of Canon in D,” Justin says dreamily.
The image lands like a gut punch. Of course I still believe this wedding should be called off—Annabelle has no idea who she’s really marrying, and she deserves better. And I deserve my revenge for what he did to me back then.
Except doubt has started to creep in. Lately, I’ve been questioning what I—or what I thought—I knew about Boston. A small, irritating voice keeps asking whether I’ve been clinging to a seven-year grudge for nothing. I refuse to listen. Stubbornness is next to godliness.
I try, however, not to think about the fallout from canceling the wedding.
The string quartet. The caterers. Rentals, florists, cake…
Stop. Deposits would be lost, sure, but everyone would still receive a cancellation fee.
Annabelle’s family are freaking billionaires.
With a capital B. Money isn’t the real cost here.
Theo ruined my life. Annabelle deserves better. And this—this is just money.
“Tell me you got back on the dating apps,” Justin says. “You deserve to one day plan your own wedding too.”
“You’re the best, you know that?” I give him a smile, and after Justin leaves, I reluctantly swipe through the piled-up messages on the dating app that I’ve been ignoring since reactivating it. Ugh. Do mirror selfies of a shirtless guy flexing really do it for other women?
I swipe through the DMs and chuckle at one from a guy I hooked up with about two years back.
Decent enough in bed, no spark, but right now, I need some sort of distraction.
I shoot him a quick message back that I’m free next Thursday, but then open up a social media app and continue searching for “Olivia, New York.” I am going to find out who this woman is if it kills me.
On the walk home after work, dark clouds move in fast and furious, overpowering the sun and quieting the sky into ashy gray.
Of course, today would be the day that I not only forget an umbrella, but my coat doesn’t have a hood.
I speed walk the four blocks from the subway stop to my studio and just as the first crack of lightning hits, I’m racing up to my apartment.
Pellets slash against the windowpane, and dribble down in fat lines.
The noise rattles my chest, and I take a moment to breathe.
I flip off all the lights in the apartment and gaze out the window.
Lightning bolts fissure through the dark sky chased by booming thunder.
The window squeaks as I crack it open and inhale the metallic scent of fresh rainwater against brick and pavement.
God, I love the rain. The power, the force, the strength it carries makes me momentarily forget everything and just be.
Sitting by the window isn’t enough. I grab my raincoat and run up to the rooftop.
The bulleting sheets roar and tink off the metal HVAC unit and ventilation system.
I tug the hood over my head, but lift my face to the sky, letting the beads wash over me.
My face is soaked and chilled, surely covered with streaks of mascara.
But my shoulders relax, my chest fills with the sounds of Mother Nature’s symphony.
Radiant light fills the sky again and thunder roars through my body, shaking me to the bone.
The storm is so close it’s deafening. I should go back in, but it feels so damn good.
I’m not feeling the chill on my skin, or the sharp slivers of rain against my cheeks.
I feel freedom. It’s powerful and liberating and terrifying.
And metaphorical to my life—there’s a danger if it gets too close, and I love it.
For tonight, I want to forget. About Theo, and my job, and chasing unreachable dreams. I want to forget about my past. The anger and hurt, the internalized shame of my working-class neighborhood.
Instead, I’ll latch on to the knowledge that my community made me resilient.
Maybe things should’ve been different. I didn’t deserve what happened in Boston, but I still made a life for myself.
A bolt of lightning shreds the sky. The thunder is so powerful, it shakes my ribcage.
Why the hell don’t I do this more often?
Every storm, I need to come up here and breathe.
Jesus Christ, it’s cathartic. The city below me has slowed.
Empty sidewalks. Inching traffic. Bright red brake lights cut through sheets of rain.
My gaze drifts to the building across the street, and I squint to see a few other people looking out their windows at the storm.
Are they absorbing the power, too? Are the booms and crackles allowing them to forget for a moment?
Another hard snap of lightning crosses the sky, illuminating the building across from me like a spotlight and… what the fuck?
Did I just see what I think I saw? No… wait… no, I’m seeing things. I’m delusional. The thunder rattles the building as I stare at the shadowed figure standing in a window across the street. Lightning bursts through the sky again, and this can’t be right. No. No… no.
Theo? The body is standing with drapery hooked to the side with their finger.
This cannot be him. Theo, the doctor who lives in Tribeca, does not live in the run-down apartments across from mine.
Another crack of lightning illuminates the building and my breath hitches.
It’s him. Holy mother of God, I think it’s him.
What in the ever-loving fuck is happening?
I shake off the accumulating rain from my arms, dig out my phone, and zoom in as close as I can.
With a shaky finger, I tap record, waiting for the lightning to strike again. When it does, my heartbeat pounds so hard in my chest that it almost drowns out the storm. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my fucking God. That’s him. I might be exhausted, but my eyes don’t deceive me.
The buildings and city spin. I grab the metal railing on the edge of the brick to keep from falling. What the hell is happening? Has he always lived here? I’m going to be sick. Spots invade my vision. My neck heats. My heartbeat is thudding so hard into my ears that I think I’m going to pass out.
My shaky feet barely touch the ground as I abandon the storm for the safety of my home.
I rush down the stairs and tear into my apartment.
Water drips from my jacket and hair into a puddle at my feet.
I shake off my drenched coat and kick off my shoes, then bolt to the window to close the blinds.
My heartbeat thumps so loud it’s the only sound I hear as I lift the phone.
I play the video, cropping and scrolling, and even though I can’t see completely, I know.
I fucking know. How long has he been watching me? How have I not noticed?
My God, my God, he can see me. Thunder crashes and I claw at my wet neck. I wrap my arms around myself, my body almost trembling. Almost. Why am I not shaking? Why am I not screaming and calling the police? Why am I not disgusted? I should be. This is disgusting. Right?
What the fuck is wrong with me? I flick open the blinds a few inches to peek, then snap them closed and brace myself against the wall. This motherfucker… But, why? If he doesn’t remember me from college, it doesn’t make sense.
My palms slide down my torso. My gut twists. How often does he watch? Do I always have my shades open? I close them when I get dressed, right? But at night, I love looking at the sky… Heat rises up my legs.
What kind of sick fucker watches people through a window?
Has he seen me touch myself? My breaths quicken and my fingers move to the waistband of my wet clothes.
He’s sick. I slide my fingers underneath the lace fabric and stroke my clit.
He watches me, wants me… my other hand moves to my breasts and I squeeze.
I scoop them from my bra and pinch my hardened nipples.
Does he stroke his cock while watching… a moan escapes.
My pulse thuds in my neck and I rub faster.
My pussy turns hot, needing release. He watches everything I do, the way I move, he wants to be inside me…
I tug on my nipples until they’re tender.
My arousal coats my fingers, and I keep rubbing, faster, harder, grinding into myself for friction.
Is he obsessed? With me? A burn builds in my core.
My needy, traitorous clit swells. This is wrong.
This is all so fucking wrong. He’s a psychopath.
I should be terrified. Urgency builds through me.
My body tightens as I keep circling myself.
Shaky, uneven breaths leave my wet mouth.
Thunder crashes… mmmmm… He craves me. He wants to slide his thick cock inside me.
I’m fucking good enough… Frantic rubs and tugs and hard breaths, and I brace myself against the wall as a shuddering orgasm rips through me.
My body convulses and my heartbeat pounds against my chest. Slowly, I retreat my hand and tuck myself back into my bra.
I should feel guilty—angry for my own betrayal, for caving to this reckless need, for releasing at the thought of him when I’m still furious with him. But instead, the knowledge that he’s been watching me sends a dark thrill through my veins.
Because this time, I’m not the one being caught off guard.
This time, I’m aware.
And that awareness gives me something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Control.