Page 4 of Almost Enough

This is exactly why I stopped having casual sex a while ago. It’s not the fumbling or the disappointment or even the minor trauma of being shushed mid-thrust. It’s the crushing awareness that comes immediately after. It’s the fact that I’m out here giving people access to my body like it’s a scratch-and-win ticket while hoping for a consolation prize in return.

I used to be good at this. At dating. At fun. At pretending I didn’t care when a connection fizzled out or never existed to begin with. But lately, everything feels like it costs too much. My time. My energy. My sanity. Somewhere between my last actual relationship and Mr. Hurricane here, I stopped being the girl who could laugh off bad sex and started being the woman who just wants more. More of what, I’m not even sure. Respect? Chemistry? Orgasms?

All of the above.

I grab my boots, jam my feet into them without bothering to untie the laces, and sling my bag over my shoulder. He’s already reaching for his phone, probably queuing up some post-coital playlist that includes remixes of nature sounds.

I’m halfway out the door when it hits me. This isn’t rock bottom, but it’s low enough that I can see it from here.

Tomorrow, I’m doing things differently.

No more men who name their moves.

No more men who shush me.

No more wasting my time on anything that doesn’t leave me better than it found me. Because if this is any indication of where I’m at in life, I have some serious recalibrating to do.

I’m almost to my car when I realize I’ve left my phone behind. The universe’s way of ensuring I never escape my own mistakes. When I head back inside, he’s sprawled across the bed, still naked, scrolling through his phone like nothing catastrophic has happened between these four walls.

“My phone,” I say, scanning the chaos for the telltale cracked lavender case. There it is, wedged under his discarded jeans.

He looks up, sheepish. “We could, uh…hang out next weekend?”

I retrieve my phone and stick on the world’s tightest smile. “I’m sure you’re booked up with disaster relief efforts.”

He laughs, not quite getting it. I give him two thumbs-up and say, “Good talk,” before exiting so fast I almost leave a Whitley-shaped hole in his door.

Outside, the air smells like wet pavement and regret. I sit in my car, keys clutched in hand, windshield freckled with dead bugs. My gas gauge hovers near empty. A fitting metaphor for my dating life.

My phone buzzes. A notification from my mother, who has apparently discovered emojis and now texts exclusively in hieroglyphics. Five red exclamation points, a heart, and a crying-laughing face, followed by the message:

Mom:

Dinner this weekend? Hope you’re not dead. Call me.

I ignore it, for now. There are indeed limits to my emotional stamina.

I take the scenic route home, up the winding streets that snake around the edge of Lily Ridge. This time of night, the whole town is asleep. Only the gas station and the taco place spill a little neon into the dark. I roll down my window and let the breeze mess up my hair, as if wind alone can dissolve a night like this.

At the next red light, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Mascara smudged in a way that says long night instead of sexy night. Copper hair tangled from the humidity and the hurricane. I stick my tongue out at myself. “You’re a disaster,” I say, then immediately throw in, “But at least you’re not boring.”

two

. . .

Whitley

The next morning I’m waltzing into my best friend Violet’s house for some wedding planning. Not my wedding, heavens no. Mr. Hurricane wasn’t that good.

Violet’s the reason I live in Lily Ridge. She was my roommate in college but calling her that always feels like such a small word for what she became. She was the person who sat with me through my worst days, who knew when I needed a distraction. So when we graduated and she told me she was moving back home to Lily Ridge, I followed. I figured I’d give it a year. Build my career. Figure out what came next.

Somehow, that year turned into a pretty great life.

Violet’s at her kitchen table, looking as if domestic bliss and post-orgasm glow had a baby. She’s surrounded by open binders and swatches.

I drop into the chair beside her and groan. “You’re absolutely insufferable. Do you just float around now? Is that a thing?”

She laughs, completely unbothered. That’s what being engaged to the man of your teenage dreams does to a girl.