Page 23 of Wasted Lust

Inside is a red cocktail gown with a low-cut front and two slits that ride so high up on my thighs, my underwear might show if I take long steps.

Jesus Christ. This is what I’ve been reduced to? Playing dress-up fantasy girl to an FBI agent just to satisfy my twisted curiosity for a man who rejected me a decade ago?

I plop down into the hard wooden chair in front of my makeup vanity. When I moved in here I furnished this upstairs bedroom the way I had always imagined as a child. A four-poster bed made out of dark hardwood. A gauzy white netting draped over each post to create an intimate experience. The linens are top quality—Egyptian cotton sheets and a white cotton duvet filled with a plush down comforter. More pillows than one person has a right to own propped up against the headboard. The vanity table is also dark wood, with a matching chair. And the mirror is lit from a dramatic chandelier from above and small side lamps on either side.

Too bad I’ve had zero occasions to use it. I have not been out on any dates since I moved in and I can’t fall asleep up here without tossing and turning all night worried about the escape route.

But that dream—the one where I fit in, where I was normal and had lots of chatty girlfriends and more men interested in me than I had days in the week… yeah. That never happened.

My closets are filled with dresses and shoes so high I would fall and break my ankle if I ever wore them. The en suite bathroom is like a spa. Completely remodeled, like the kitchen downstairs. I imagined dinner parties with dozens of guests and stimulating conversation about my interests.

How delusional was I?

I look at myself in the mirror and take it all in. I am not ugly. I’ve always been on the cute side, even as a gangly kid with braces. My eyes are a pretty blue and my hair is still dark blonde. I don’t even have to dye it to keep that color. It has strands of light blonde that mimic an expensive trip to the salon.

But the hanging strands along the side of my face are the perfect frame for what I see in the mirror. Sadness.

“God, you are so dramatic, Sasha.”

My hair is still slightly wet and has a bit of a wave that will certainly frizz if I don’t dry it right now. I open a drawer in the vanity and take out the hairdryer and turn it on. The heat feels good now that it’s night and a chill has taken over my house.

How did my reality get so far away from the fantasy I had imagined? Maybe a night out with a handsome man would do me good? Even if I’m not gonna fall for his charm, he could be fun. I mean, I realize he only wants to use me to get at Nick. But if I want to use him to get a chance at Nick too, then where’s the harm of enjoying myself tonight?

I could do worse than Jax. Have done worse, in fact. I’ve dated mostly studious men. Men who mimic my ambitions. Men who like to talk instead of act. Men who are boring.

And I guess I’m boring too. I haven’t put on makeup in months. Not since a small dinner party my mentor put on to welcome a new student to her lab last August. And I haven’t made any attempts to find new friends. I had friends at my undergrad school. Not close friends. Not friends I’d ever tell the Story of Sasha to. But they were fun—in a serious sort of way. The School of Mines is for serious people. But I’m a serious person too. Right?

I sigh and turn off the blow dryer. Hair that was flying in all directions settles next to my face and falls flat again.

I need a change. I need more out of this life than what I’ve been settling for and the only way to get more is to put myself out there.

So Jax.

Maybe he’s the first step?

I don’t have to like him to use him for practice. Won’t, in fact, like him. Ever. He’s not my type at all. Because behind that badge that screams up-and-up there’s a rule-breaker. I just know it. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid men like him. I’m a by-the-book kind of girl and he looks like a throw-the-book-away kind of guy.

Not my kind of guy.

Not after what happened two years ago.

But I don’t want to think about that right now. I can’t go back to that night when I was taken and held hostage. That experience changed me. Being held against my will was something I never want to repeat. Ever. And even though it could’ve been a whole lot worse than it was, even though I could’ve been raped instead of almost raped, and even though the only person who died in that event was the bad guy who deserved it—I still feel like Garrett is coming back. Like I’m waiting for him. Like he might be reanimated from the dead for the sole purpose of hurting me and the people I love.

I have issues, I admit, taking my makeup out of the drawer and laying it down on the table top before me, lining it up in order of use. I have trust issues. Love issues. Reality issues.

“Well, Sasha,” I say out loud. “This is your reality. You have no present and no future because you live in the past. And if you ruin your life because you’re stuck in the past, it’s your own damn fault for giving up.”

Those words startle me.

Have I given up? Is that why Professor Brown accused me of not being invested in the program?

Am I invested in the program?

I certainly don’t want to be an anthropologist. I guess she can see that I lack the enthusiasm for her field of study. And why should she keep me on if I’m not invested? I’m her legacy. All her grad students are her legacy. If I won’t go on to make a name for myself in her field, why should she invest in me now?

She was right to ask me to think about leaving. And maybe one day I’ll figure all this out. Maybe one day I’ll know what I want and how to get there without pretending to be someone I’m not. And maybe I will return to this university and finish what I started.

But I don’t think so.