See, Hank? Some men appreciate aggressive love languages. Some men get it. Some men are built for the emotional equivalent of being mauled by a raccoon in a negligee.
My heart does this weird thing. Not the usual feral-thump of lust or that cackling shriek I hear when I’m about to commit arson. No. This is soft. Weird. Vulnerable.
Am I being emotionally waterboarded by kindness?
Oh god. Is this… no. No no no. Is this love?
Love love? Like, not court-ordered, not filed-under-evidence, not documented-by-security-camera love?
Is that allowed?
I stand frozen beside my car, swaying like a bitch in a Jane Austen adaptation. The feelings hit like a glitter-covered semi hauling feral swans and scented candles.
I text back before I can think:
Me: I took your shirt. It smells like you.
Send.
Send? What the fuck was that, me?
Who am I? A girlfriend? A real person? We had sex and he didn’t ghost me. I broke in and he felt seen? This is either love or a psychotic break.
Maybe both.
I feel itchy all over. My feelings are moshing in my ribs like feral Girl Scouts hopped up on frosting and lies.
This has all the hallmarks of normal human relationship dynamics, and I’m dangerously underqualified.
I need to talk to Rhys. Immediately. Because if Benji’s being sweet on purpose, and not out of trauma or confusion or low blood sugar, then I am in over my head and possibly about to ruin everything.
Of course Office Bitch won’t give Rhys my message or forward me to his personal line. I ask for his cell. She gives me attitude.
“If it’s an emergency, go to the ER. If not, you have an appointment tomorrow.”
I hang up mid-eyeroll.
Yeah, okay, Susan-with-the-bland-personality. We all know why you’re gatekeeping the good doctor. You want to have Rhys’s ethically-bound babies and name them something like Valor or Aspen. Not happening. Your brows look like they were drawn on by someone actively being tased.
I need an outlet. A healthy one, like knitting. Or crime.
So I drive to Chad’s.
I park a block from his overpriced apartment. No cameras. No witnesses. Just me, my rage, and a hot pink balaclava I bought on Etsy from someone named “GagMeSoftly.” It’s bedazzled. There’s a rhinestone heart over one eyebrow. I pull it on like war paint and step into the night with all the elegance of a raccoon who knows her rights.
The street is quiet. Blessed. I stalk across the pavement like I’m walking a Victoria’s Secret runway made of unresolved trauma and suppressed rage.
Chad’s car squats under a flickering streetlight like a smug little shrine to my cockblocked second orgasm. That unbirthed climax I’ll mourn forever.
I do a quick sweep, then drop my tote bag of bitchcraft and retribution, unzip it like a surgeon prepping for surgery, and draw the pink baseball bat with reverence.
“One side mirror for Jett,” I say, then swing.
Off it goes, clattering to the pavement like a decapitated limb.
The second mirror mocks me. I swing. It stays. I swing again. Nothing.
“Okay,” I huff, adjusting my stance. “That’s fair. I didn’t stretch.”
