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My head swivels all around as I try to catch up to Jordan’s bike, that’s nowhere in sight.
Shit, shit, shit!
The sleeping town is too quiet, the road too empty, making me feel even more when alone. I push my legs to run faster than Iever have before, twice as hard as the leisurely jogs on the beach with Jordan.
Every time I glance over my shoulder, I know I lose momentum, but I can’tnotlook, certain that I’m being watched, followed,chased.
God, I wish I carried my father’s gun instead of keeping it stowed away in the closet.
Cell service is shitty out here, even if Jordan wasn’t on his motorcycle, so I don’t even bother trying to retrieve my phone from my purse to call him. I just keep running until my legs ache and my lungs burn.
As soon as the green and white Fulton Automotive Shop sign appears over the tops of the trees, I let out a sob.
Close. I’m so close. I make my legs churn faster.
Jordan Robertson
I’m a shitty husband.
I have the most amazing, perfect, gorgeous wife in the world, and sometimes, when I’m dreaming, or even when I’m buried inside of her, I’m thinking of someone else.
Not anyone in particular or anything, just theideaof someone else.
My head got fucked up by my mom’s old husband when I was eighteen, and it hasn’t been right since.
And I can’t tell Maddie because, well, she’s perfect.
My wife is perfect, and I’m all fucked up.
Is this just how it will always feel because I’m a closeted bisexual who has never willingly been with a man of mychoosing? Like carrying around a fifty-thousand-ton gorilla on my back?
It’s a good thing I know someone else who used to only date women and is now married to a man. I’ve wanted to ask him for months, but never had the guts to do it. This morning, since we’re both still half-asleep, maybe he won’t even remember it in a few hours.
“Hey, RJ?”
“Morning,” my boss and former club prospecting sponsor says while kneeling on the garage floor in his blue coveralls, putting air in Mrs. Wilson’s Buick. He usually beats me here in the mornings, even when I come in an hour early.
“Could I ask you sort of a personal question?”
“I guess,” he says without looking up at me. “Well, yeah, sure, you can ask me a personal question, but I’m not promising you that I’ll answer it.”
“Fair enough,” I agree with a grin. “So, um, you and Thane have been together for several years now, right?”
“Yeah. But you already knew that.”
“Right. I did.” Scratching the back of my neck, I force myself to keep pushing on. “I was just wondering, since you slept with women before you met Thane, do you ever...miss them?”
“Miss what?” he asks as he stands up to move to the front left tire and I follow him.
“Do you miss women?”
“Nah. I never really liked any of them all that much or took time to get to know them.”
“Okay, so I don’t mean any women personally. What I meant to say is, do you ever miss the female anatomy?”
“Female anatomy?” he repeats, his brow furrowed. It’s as if he's having a hard time recalling the parts of the body the people have that he used to solely have sex with for years before he met his husband.
Trying to help him out, I go on to tell him, “I mean, since Thane is obviously male, and he doesn’t have certain body parts like breasts or, you know, pussy, do you miss those things?”
