“Oh.”
I took the bag and Kev went back to work with a wave.
My good mood lasted all afternoon. It even withstood when I went into the first antique shop and the person behind the counter and the two customers stopped talking and stared at me. The same thing happened in both cheesecake shops. And the grocery store. Every time I entered a business, lively conversations ground to a halt.
At first, I thought it was because they’d all watched the livestream where I confronted Paul. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be recognized by a follower in public, although in New York, people were often too cool to say anything in the moment—they’d send a message afterward with unnervingly accurate details of what I’d been doing or saying. It wasn’t a normal way to live, but I was used to it.
Once the panic stopped flooding my body and I was able to reassure myself that none of these Woodville people were the ones sending me horrible DMs from fake accounts, I realized they were just staring because I was new and this was a small town. Clearly, Woodville didn’t get a lot of overnight guests, and it was unusual to make impromptu trips across continents to come here. A few people asked why I didn’t visit one of the cities instead. I smiled and told them I wanted to stay with my friends. Calling Mike a friend wasn’t exactly accurate, but I didn’t have a better word.
Each conversation at each shop followed the same pattern. I smiled and tried to be interesting, but not too interesting, and vibrant but not blindingly so. I memorized an interesting fact about the local train service and rambled it whenever I got a chance, and people kept refusing my tips, which was bizarre. Like, I knew New Zealand didn’t really tip, but people were acting like it was a crime to take my money. The lady from the bakery actually chased me down the street to give my tip back when I got some pastries.
I’d been so caught up planning my redemption arc that I hadn’t considered what it would be like to vacation in such a small place. People here might not know me now, but once they knew I was an influencer, most of them would look me up and the news would spread.
By the time I stuck my head into Woodville’s tapered candle shop, the vendors were pretty much expecting me. No one said as much, but I knew they were waiting for me, and they knew that I knew.
Still, I smiled, I waved. I didn’t film anything, but I scouted the locations. Later, I’d come back and pretend I was walking into all of these places for the first time so I could ensure the best order of shots and outfits.
By midmorning, my camera roll was full of test shots. For the first time in ages, I was excited about making content.
After lunch, I drove out past Cilla’s construction site to the picnic area by the river. I sat for a while and finished reading my road code, then shot some pretty b-roll of water running over the river rocks and wind stirring the trees. It was very different from my usual content. Afterward I wandered down the marked forest path and gawped at a massive tree, which the sign on the trail said was one of the oldest in New Zealand. Back at the river, I impulsively stripped to my underwear and waded in. I should have set up my tripod first, but I’d left it in the car. Plus, this setting really needed a white slip dress, not the Velma Dinkley fit I’d left in a heap on the rocks.
It was amazing to be in nature like this and not be at risk of an encounter with an animal that could unalive you. There were no bears in New Zealand. No snakes. Also—I learned when I went to the convenience store, which they called a dairy—no applicators with their tampons, which was truly unhinged. Women here were apparently just stuffing tampons inside themselves with their bare hands? I was both awed and freaked out by that. Or maybe New Zealand women didn’t use tampons. Maybe the menstrual cups here didn’t feel like aliens sucking out your cervix.
Honestly? I was procrastinating calling Caroline.
I could pretend that this was because I was waiting until three a.m. to catch them both so I only had to tell my sorry tale once, but really, I just didn’t want to do it.
I sat down on the stones in the river. The temperate water rose to my ribs, a slow, but steady flow, and I slapped the current with my hands like a child. I could have waded toward the bank on the other side where it looked deeper, but swimming into the depths by myself felt like a bad idea. My parents didn’t even know I’d left New York—how awkward would it be if someone had to tell them I’d drowned in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand? They’d never believe it wasn’t on purpose—which had more to do with how much they loved “The Lady of Shalott” than with me.
The text launched into my head like a T-shirt out of a cannon at a concert.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
The Lady was cursed to stay in her tower, making art about life instead of being part of it. When she sees Lancelot and gets all horny over him, it ruins her life, so she floats down the river to her death. The obvious message was that dying a sad, lonely, horny virgin was pitiable in any century.
I couldn’t help but take that personally.
Not that I was a virgin—and virginity was a flawed concept anyway. When most people talked about virginity, they meant penetrative heterosexual stuff. But as Caroline was fond of lecturing people, sex was far more than that. I’d done a lot of the things on her list, so by any metric you cared to use, I wasn’t a virgin.
But I’d never had an orgasm.
I sat in the river, thinking about this. My unfulfilled state wasn’t because I was sexually disinclined or not trying. I’d tried lots of things, but nothing worked. At first, I thought it was just a matter of not finding the right Lancelot to lust over. When I met Paul at work, I was a goo for him. But fooling around with him still hadn’t led to any kind of climax. In hindsight, this might not have been my shortcoming—Paul was one of those men who was hotter in theory than in reality. In the office, his aloof and critical demeanor was sexy. In bed, (or crammed in one of the fashion closets), it was selfish and uninspiring. But I didn’t care about Paul anymore.
I cared that the trolls who were still pestering me had hit upon a raw nerve, a truth that I had never discussed with anyone but worried that it was plain to see: I was simply not a sexy or alluring person. My lack of sexual allure was the reason Paul could so easily cast me aside and why everyone quickly believed we had never been a thing in the first place—this never would have happened if I’d had obvious sex rizz. If I was the kind of woman who people lusted after, none of this would have happened.
Unbidden, I thought about Mike.
According to reputation, he’d had a lot of sex—by any definition you cared to use. Caroline hadn’t given me details about Mike’s sex life (Eww Lyssa), but she’d described him as a moving target, from which I inferred that he must be well acquainted with the elusive art of the orgasm if he kept getting more invites. And looking like a lusty lumberjack probably helped his cause too.
Obviously, Mike was the answer to my sex problems.
He had the experience to help me figure out what I was missing. Okay, yes, there was the small problem that he’d turned me down last night, but my offer had been vague and poorly timed. I could do better than that.
