AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I know she’s not asking too much of me. Sharing parts of herself is easy for her. She does it all day, every day with millions of people. Of course she would expect the same thing of me—and of course I would fail her.
For the last two decades, I’ve had the privilege of avoiding this kind of thing. If a woman—or anybody—asked for more than I was willing to give, I moved on. There were always options. Women, investors, friends—whatever. I didn’t have to change for anybody until now.
And I can’t do it.
I pick up my phone and send her a text: Hope you’re safe wherever you are. As soon as I send the message, I realize how stupid it is. Julia has traveled the world; my hope isn’t going to do shit for her.
She doesn’t text back. I think about sending something better, something she can actually respond to, but I don’t. Maybe this is it. Maybe her silence is a signal for me to move on. I know better than to indulge in my obsession with a woman. I know better—oh, do I know better.
So maybe this is how it ends. If I can’t give her what she wants, I have to forget her.
And yet she makes her presence known anytime I allow my mind to rest. Blond hair, brown eyes, a flawless body, and her quick wit. All of it comes together in a mess of temptation and frustration that leaves me caught between loathing her request and wanting her so badly I don’t sleep at night.
I should know better.
A week passes. I think about her constantly. Constantly.
Another week.
Another.
Last time I felt like this, I stayed up for days obsessing over Constance, subsisting on coffee, bad cocaine, and ambition.
I don’t know how I can ever, ever tell Julia about Constance. About how low I went. About how pathetic I was. She would leave me if she knew. Hell, she already leaves me every time I see her, and it hurts more each time.
She didn’t want to leave. It was my fault.
I shove down my duvet, get out of bed, and head to my office. When I look out the window, London twinkles with the sparse signs of life lingering at three in the morning. It would be relaxing if I hadn’t looked at this same view with Julia once.
I do anything and everything to distract myself. I write for four hours straight, editing and deleting and shaking my head and crumpling up these post-it notes until there’s a small pile on the ground around my overflowing trash bin. The kicker?
I’m still thinking about Julia.
My phone sits at the edge of my desk, screen dark.
The astounding thing about this day and age—the really astounding thing—is that I can pick up my phone and force myself into Julia Ridgeway’s brain in seconds, no matter where she is. Then we could suffer together.
I should know better.
I should know better.
Fuck it.
Apparently, I don’t know better.
Me: Nice sunrise here in London today.
When she doesn’t respond right away, tightness forms in the pit of my stomach. Forget what I said—Cartagena can’t be it. The last time we were together can’t be a filthy threesome where I watched her deep throat her best friend. The last time I saw her can’t be the disappointed look on her face before she rolled over and turned off the lamp.
Our story is bigger than this. Our story is better than this.
Me: I’m sorry.
This time, she responds immediately: Prove it. My heart skips a beat before it begins racing furiously.
I stare at those two words, prove it, and I know I want to. I have to.
Baby steps.
