Page 293 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Like it was old hat, I went straight to Harlow’s column on the Gossip site with a click of my favorite bookmarks menu. I knew she’d published a new one today since that was the excuse she’d used when leaving my apartment right after pancakes yesterday morning.

It was all still a little weird to me, the fact that I’d cooked the pancakes in the first place, followed by her being the one to decide to leave. Normally, I was all for the escape act—actually, I was usually the one executing it—but the sex was never that good.

I wanted another round. Or twenty.

Still, I reminded myself. There’s time for that.

I was so used to cramming all of the sex I wanted into one day to avoid a commitment. But Harlow seemed even less eager to settle down than I was, so in this case, I could probably keep the fling going longer.

I waited with a smile on my face while the page finished loading, only to have it melt off nearly instantly.

Ryan Reynolds Sets More than Blake on Fire

Well, shit. I’d have thought this one would be about me for sure. I had her fucking claw marks on my back as evidence that I set her on fire.

Did I not do a good enough job? Were her hickeys already fading?

I hope not.

I didn’t really understand what had drawn me to mark her so thoroughly, but whatever it was, the urge wasn’t waning. If anything, the thought of them fading into oblivion made my collar feel tight and my chest feel heavy.

All of my unsubstantiated, unexpected frustration was cut short with a ping of my phone.

I pulled it out of my pocket, figuring it was a page from the floor, waiting for me to stop reading gossip articles and come to fucking work. But it wasn’t.

It was a text message from Pamela Lockhead—a woman I’d had sex with, sure, but not the one I’d been thinking about.

God, you really are a manwhore, my mind taunted as I tucked my iPad back inside my locker and focused on my phone.

Pamela: I got a meeting with the mayor for you.

My eyebrows shot nearly to my hairline with both surprise and excitement.

Me: Holy hell! Seriously? I think I might be in love with you.

I winced when I hit send before thinking through my words carefully. Jesus Christ, Scott. I might be in love with you? That’s the worst fucking thing you could say to this woman. She hadn’t seemed clingy when I’d taken her home that night, but immediately after being intimate, she’d flipped the switch. I was still angry with myself for taking everything that far. On some deep, internal level, I’d known Pamela Lockhead wouldn’t be happy with fucking once and moving on.

Pamela: It’s in two weeks. I just emailed you all the details.

This time, I made sure my response didn’t make me want to punch myself in the nuts quite so much.

Me: Thank you.

Pamela: We should get together between now and then. Have some fun.

See, Scott? Do you fucking see what you’ve done? She had clinginess written all over her. The more I would fuck her or consider fucking her, the more complicated my life was going to be. It was better to cut and run after the one time.

Not to mention, the thought of fucking Pam after fucking Harlow felt ruthlessly lackluster. And, surprisingly, made me feel oddly nauseous at the very thought.

Me: Sorry. I’m slammed with work the next two weeks.

Fucking hell, that was an awful cop-out. But I couldn’t exactly tell her to fuck off given the fact that she’d just secured a meeting I’d spent months unsuccessfully attempting to land on my own.

Pamela: Maybe after then. ;)

Ah Christ.

Me: Yeah, we’ll see.