“She’s gone.” Sunny drops her hair and sighs. “What’d you do to her?”
I don’t think honesty is going to work for me here, so instead of saying I tongue-fucked her until she came on my face, I go with, “I think there was a miscommunication.”
A kid comes up to me, wearing a familiar look of idolization. “Randy Ballistic?”
I smile. “Yeah, man, how’s it going?”
“Can I get your autograph?” He holds out one of those homemade photo books. He’s even got one of my rookie cards in a special, protective sleeve taped to it.
“Yeah, sure, of course.”
His mom is standing behind him, smiling. “Thank you so much. He loves you. He wants to be just like you when he grows up.”
Usually that’s something I like to hear, but right now it doesn’t make me feel good at all. Not based on what happened in that bathroom.
Chapter 3
Intentional Overreaction
LILY
Okay, so the way I handled that situation could have been better. But his insinuating I was going to take care of his dick later freaked me out—even though I’m the one who brought it up. Because he’s right. I would have, had the universe not intervened, even though none of that was supposed to go down. Especially not Randy.
Then there’s that whole part where I had an orgasm with only rubbing through fabric. There wasn’t even any real touching. Not at first. That’s never happened before. I may have had an orgasm even before he started leg-humping my girl parts. It was a baby one—nothing more than a repressed sneeze version—but still. How does that even happen?
I haul Brett out of the arena and call my aunt, who picks us up. Brett’s definitely not happy about leaving, but he’s thirteen, and it’s after ten-thirty, which is later than he usually stays out. I’m totally distracted the entire ride home, which is fine because Brett can’t stop talking about how awesome Miller and Randy are and how he totally wants to be a professional hockey player.
My aunt nods and smiles and makes the appropriate positive comments, but when she catches my eye in the mirror, I know this has set him up for disappointment. Brett is one of six kids. My aunt stayed home to raise them, and my uncle has a good job, but it’s a lot of mouths to feed. Four of them are boys between the ages of three and fifteen. The grocery bills in that home have to be outrageous.
My aunt and uncle can barely manage the costs associated with Brett’s rec hockey. The time it takes to attend all the away games, not to mention the money, will make it impossible for him to go any further. Hockey’s an expensive sport. Just like figure skating.
My heart breaks a little. I know his impending disappointment personally. Four years ago I was on the edge of qualifying for the Olympics. It would have meant sponsorship and the opportunity to move forward in that career. Figure skating was the only thing I knew and my greatest love. But my dad, the deadbeat asshole that he is, stopped paying child support. He owes my mom something like eighty grand. He also owes me my goddamn dream back. But I’m not bitter about it. I went to the University of Guelph instead.
By the time my aunt drops me off, I’m not quite so buzzed on mojitos and shooters, and my body no longer feels like it’s going to explode. I search my purse for my key and enter the lobby of the apartment building. My mom and I used to live in a little house. It was small, but it was ours. When my dad stopped with the child support, we had to move. The apartment isn’t bad. It’s in a nice neighborhood, because Guelph is generally a nice town, but it’s small, and I miss having a backyard.
I call out when I enter the apartment, but I’m met with silence. My mom isn’t home, which may or may not be a good thing. She has the night off, so she could be over at one of her friends’ or she could be on a date.
I head to the kitchen. I need water. Lots of it. I don’t drink much. I don’t like being out of control, and it doesn’t take much to get me that way. Maybe that explains the spontaneous orgasms.
I root through the cupboards for something to eat. I need to get groceries tomorrow. It’s slim pickings. I find a bag of extra buttery microwave popcorn and watch it spin around for ninety seconds. Once it’s done, I melt some margarine and pour it on top. I have a hard time keeping weight on, so the more fat I consume, the more likely I am to stay where I’m supposed to be.
I tuck the bowl under my arm, refill my glass, nab my purse from the counter, and go to my room. It’s small; the double bed takes up almost half the space. I drop down on the mattress and flip open my laptop, which is one of Sunny’s old ones. It’s really nice. My phone buzzes from inside my purse. I fish it out, and my stomach does some flip-flops as I scroll.
I have several texts from Sunny, which isn’t unusual. We’re together a lot—except when she’s at school, teaching yoga, or volunteering at the animal shelter and I’m not working at one of my two jobs. It’s the messages from Randy that make my stomach feel like it’s trying to jump out of my throat.
I ignore all of them to test my self-restraint and log in to my computer. As soon as the browser opens, I type in “spontaneous orgasms.” I don’t get much in the way of helpful information. Mostly it’s a bunch of nonsense and hypothetical crap. One article is about a woman who has more than a hundred orgasms a day. It sounds awful, and embarrassing. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had unprovoked orgasms every time I saw Randy. Or maybe I can.