Page 7 of Come Find Me Tonight

I didn’t know it, but it was a mistake to let him pick me up for our first date since it meant he’d drive me home, too. His cologne was so intense in the proximity of his truck’s cab that I nearly got a headache. In retrospect, it was very intentional on his part, and I was too naïve to know it. Something felt off, and I should have canceled. After the date, when he asked if he could come in, I shrugged, thinking it was fine.

Wrong. I was so damn wrong.

He forced himself on me the instant we got through my front door, his hands too rough on my hips. I actually believed he just wanted to hang out and watch a movie. He was nearly thirty—seven years older than me at the time, yet his actions felt like the dirtbags I went to college with.

Fortunately, I had pepper spray in the handbag on my arm, and I sprayed him and got myself, too, in the over-spray. But I threw him out and locked the door behind him. Avoiding being date-raped was worth the hours of the chemical sting in my throat and trying to air out my house.

I ran upstairs after locking him out, ugly crying and trying to catch my breath. I quietly shut my bedroom door behind me, as if any loud noise would bring him back, but I had turned the dial on the doorknob to be safe. I slid down the back of my bedroom door and watched the live feed from the garage camera on my phone as he stumbled to his truck and eventually drove away. But then, I turned to the comfort of Rook, whose virtual page always welcomed me back with safe, open arms.

He’d never force himself on me. He wouldn’t have to.

My eyes adjust as the driver says we’ve arrived at the restaurant. I thank him, grabbing my phone and wristlet from the backseat. The girls requested a table outside on the back patio, which backs up against the beach. Sand has migrated its way onto the driftwood flooring, and it tracks into my sandals, settling between my toes.

The girls are buzzing about their brand deals, trips, and boyfriends, but I stay quiet, sipping my salty margarita on the rocks. I’ve never enjoyed drinking much. An alcoholic dad and brothers will do that to a girl who grew up scared whenever Daddy drank too hard after work. It only doubled and tripled as my brothers got into high school and adulthood, but I wasn’t a bummer to hang out with. I’d order a couple of drinks but then not touch alcohol again for weeks.

My fidgety fingers hover over my phone resting on the table. It’s five on a weekday Rook usually posts on. I know in my gut he’s posted something new that’s probably to die for, and I’m missing it. I can almost feel my phone vibrating to alert me. The late spring sun glows over the horizon where it meets the deep blue ocean. I should be grateful for where I am, that I live the life I live, but my mind repeatedly reminds me of what I’m missing like a mosquito bite that just won’t stop itching.

Thank God these girls are so set in their own routines, which involve early bedtimes for most of them, so by the time I’m home, I’m only two hours late for his newest video. I toss my handbag onto the kitchen island, in its designated spot, and skip up the stairs.

The first thing I do is release my feet from their strappy cages and fling the sandals into my walk-in closet. I strip out of my carefully curated outfit I wore to our girls’ dinner and toss the clothes into my hamper. I don’t bother changing into pajamas. I settle right into bed, phone in hand. I throw the top sheet and duvet over my body with one hand and switch to my burner account with my other. His newest video is at the top of my feed as usual, patiently waiting for my eyes. My thumb, too eager as always, clicks on the video, making it full screen. The screen glows in my eyes in the dark bedroom.

Oh, my God, he’s in his gray sweatpants!

But what is he holding?

My eyes squint at the screen. Rook, facing the camera, face unilluminated as always, stretches the waistband of his sweatpants away from his body. He leaves himself covered but uses the modern Polaroid camera to take a photo, with flash, of what’s under his gray sweatpants with a loud click. Judging by the bulge accentuated by the light-colored fabric, I can make an educated guess of what he took a picture of.

He lets the waistband snap back into place as the little machine makes a crank sound against the faint music and spits out a black photo. Rook pulls it from the machine, shakes it between his fingers, but never shows the image. I realize that I’ve stopped breathing and inhale sharply. He knows his viewers would die to see the picture, and that’s the schtick.

Fucking engagement rate genius.

He slides the photo into the pocket in his sweatpants and walks off camera as the video goes black. That’s it. But it’s enough to leave me breathless, flustered, and tangled up in my sheets. I run my fingers through my curls and open the comments. My phone is slick from my sweaty palm as I read the top ones with the most likes.

I’d sell my soul and five of my ancestors for you to flip that photo over.

You and me both, sister. I have three brothers I’d sell.

He really said IYKYK and had the AUDACITY to leave.

Sir, this is a Wendy’s.

I cackle, the noise bouncing off my bedroom walls.

That Polaroid should be in the MoMA.

How do we nominate it, though?

I’ve never wanted to be a pair of joggers more.

I laugh again.

Girl, same.

I’m suing for emotional damages and loss of productivity.

Productivity? Please. I knew the moment I walked through my front door I’d be watching his newest video on loop until I passed out from exhaustion. Can anyone blame me?

Chapter Four