Page 28 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Tattered Cover Bookstore? What is he doing there? Does he go there often? Why?
Oh for fuck’s sake, I don’t care.You don’t care,I scold my unruly mind.
No more bubbles pop up, but I don’t need another text to add the “I’ll wait for you until then.” It’s implied. And if I don’t show up? Will he assume I’m not interested in ... whatever this is and stop contacting me? Will he go away?
Do you want him to go away?
Oh, shut up, and get some business.
That moment when you’re snapping on your own self and realize you may have crossed the city limits of Crazytown. I’m there.
I toss the phone to the bed and stare at the Thomas Kinkade painting on the far wall. I bet in that world with stone bridges and skaters skimming over ice-covered ponds and a quaint village in the background that people meet at church socials and after a few low-angst dates of picnics and Sunday dinners with the families, they marry and live happily ever after.
Those women never have to agonize over what lines, what boundaries they’re willing to cross just to ...
Hell, I don’t even want to touch on where that “to” leads. One, because I don’t know, and two, because I fear where it goes. How far it goes.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not leaving this house. I have work to do. New clients’ forms to go over. Ad to review. A couple of90 Day Fiancéepisodes to catch up on. My ass is staying right here.”
That’s right. And saying it aloud, hearing it, renews my resolve. Reminds me of my priorities ...
“Shit.”
I wheel around, snatch up the cell, and march from my bedroom and house. But not before I pause and changeUnknowntoMNBM.
My Next Big Mistake.
