Page 5 of His Good Girl

This was a problem that had been simmering for years, occasionally boiling over into moments like this, where I lost all sense and let myself imagine the worst, most inappropriate things. But it wasn’t a new problem, and it most certainly wasn’t one I could afford to indulge right now.

When my phone buzzed, I startled so hard I nearly bumped my head on the headboard.

Jules:Now that you’ve rubbed one out, are you going to send the message?

I slapped a hand over my eyes and made a sound that was half laugh, half scream.

Me:Fuck you.

Jules:Accurate but not an answer.

Me:You’re a menace.

Jules:And yet, correct.

Me:Fine.

I stared at the text after I sent it. It sat there in the little blue bubble, smug and irrevocable. Such a small word for such a large trap. I waited for immediate regret to rescue me, for my nervous system to flood with common sense. Instead, something stranger happened. I felt tired, but not sleepy, exactly, just tired deep in my bones. Tired of tailoring my failures into charming anecdotes. Tired of pretending every bad thing that happened to me was secretly an opportunity. Tired of being so afraidof looking pathetic that I had accidentally become pathetic in private instead.

So I got out of bed.

My laptop was on the tiny desk by the window, half-buried under unpaid bills, a mug with two pens in it, and a stack of books. I turned on the lamp. In the yellow light, my apartment looked even smaller than usual, but also less tragic. It was just a room filled with my things.

I opened my laptop, then my email and typed his name before I could change my mind. Callum Rowe appeared immediately, because my contacts were apparently more optimistic than I was.

For a long moment, I did nothing. My hands rested on the keyboard. Rain whispered along the glass. Somewhere upstairs, my neighbor dropped something heavy and cursed with enthusiasm. I imagined Callum asleep in some enormous quiet house, his phone on a nightstand, his shirt folded over a chair, his life ordered and successful and completely free of me. Then I imagined his assistant reading the email first. The assistant was probably terrifying. Men like Callum did not have cheerful assistants named Misty who wore costume jewelry. They had gatekeepers. They had people trained to smell weakness through any barrier.

I almost closed the laptop, but then Jules sent one more text.

Jules:Pussy.

I gasped. “Oh, you bitch.”

My fingers started moving.

Subject lines were impossible. ‘Job inquiry’ sounded like spam. ‘Checking in’ sounded like I had a casserole. ‘A favor’ sounded too honest, which meant I hated it most, which meant it was probably the right one.

Subject:A favor

Dear Callum,

I hope you’re well.

I stopped there because it was awful. He was not a dentist. He was not the registrar’s office. He was Callum. He had known me when I ate pancakes with chocolate chips and refused to wear shoes on my parents’ back patio.

I deleted it.

Callum,

That was worse. Too intimate. Too ‘I fantasized about you in my bed with my hand between my thighs less than a half hour ago’ intimate.

I stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink like a pulse.

Then I wrote:

Callum,

I’m sorry to email so late, and I’m sorry that this is awkward. I have rewritten the first sentence of this message about twelve times, which is probably evidence that I should stop trying to make it graceful and just be honest.