Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
This is awkward because I just left your office, and now I’m writing about you like you didn’t spend the last hour gazing into my soul with those intense “I could fix her or fuck her” eyes. You can’t fix me. But the second option is still up for discussion.
Anyway. Benji helped me pick out this journal. Which is dangerously intimate, I know. But we’re basically married now. He knows about you and Jett, and he didn’t even flinch. That makes him either my soulmate or wildly unhinged. I love that for us.
I almost texted you after we picnicked by the lake and made out so hard I forgot my name. He bought me a worm. A literal worm. We would have banged against a tree like horny Disney forest creatures, but his ex showed up with the energy of a raccoon demanding visitation rights.
I didn’t see Jett today, time constraints, not self-restraint, don’t get cocky. I went home with Benji. We had sex. And then ordered pizza because we were too fucked out to make anything that required effort. That’s two pizza dates.
As requested, I have journaled about “the three men in my life.” I’ll be keeping my X-rated Rhys feelings in the private journal you don’t get to read. Boundaries, remember? I’m respecting yours. You can suffer not knowing. Consider it your emotional growth homework.
Rhys Journal
Dear Rhys,
You gave me your candy preferences and your cell number. What were you thinking? I’m going to abuse both. Not today, because I’ve been otherwise occupied. But soon.
I’m feral with anticipation for Friday. The art center hasn’t called me back yet, but if they don’t tomorrow, I’m going to smile sweetly and suggest Kira climb into a woodchipper. With love.
I still haven’t decided whether you get a thank-you gift or a challenge coin for enduring my brand of emotional terrorism. Stay tuned.
Benji Journal
Oh, Benji. I can’t.
You bought me snacks. You kissed me like I was both breakable and built to be broken. You took me home and fucked like it was a religion. And cuddle and fed me afterward. Who raised you? Was it Jesus?
While you were sleeping, I wrote “I love you” on your mirror in lipstick and packed your lunch, leftover pizza and a toffee bar, like I was auditioning for wifehood.
You let me care for you. No resistance. Just that sleepy smile like you liked it. Like I wasn’t too much. It made me want to go feral. To over-care. To build you a shrine out of those crinkly granola bar wrappers you like.
Did I mention you fuck like you’re reading from the secret hymnal of horny angels? Because, baby, I’m still sore.
Jett Journal
So… you fingered me like a man on a mission. I left you a thank-you care package in your saddlebags. Did I get a message? A grunted “sup”? A single emoji? No.
You also haven’t said a word about what I did to Chad’s car. I’m going with you don’t know yet. That wasn’t just revenge forhim calling me a tramp, it was solidarity. Vengeful girlfriend energy. You should’ve sent flowers. Or a photo of your dick. I’m not picky.
I miss your rage. It’s sexy. I’m wearing your glove the next time I masturbate. Actually, I’m wearing it to group therapy, too. I hope you notice. I hope it burns.
Say thank you next time, Jett. Or I’ll steal your other glove and wear it as a hat.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jett
Walter, my lawyer, adjusts his cuffs, trying to stay professional, but the way he’s looking at me, says he thinks I’ve done something.
“Where were you Monday?” he asks.
“Where the fuck was I Monday?” I repeat the question. “I worked most of the day.” I rub the back of my neck. “Chad came by the gym. Harassed me. Harassed a client.”
I leave out the part where I had two fingers inside said client. That I spent the night replaying it, sucking the memory off my knuckles like it might tell me who the fuck I am now. Not relevant. Not legally. Emotionally? I’m so fucked I don’t know which way’s north anymore.
“I didn’t lay hands on the bastard,” I add.
