Page 122 of Surprisingly Us

The memory of Lettie spread out on my bed, her pussy wet and needy. The taste of her on my lips, the pulse of her climax when she came all over my face, are now core memories that my subconscious has been using to torture me.

The torture isn’t the sex dream and waking up to know it wasn’t real. I would gladly have that dream about Lettie every day.

No, it’s when dream Lettie thanks me for fucking her and then leaves.

Sure, there are variations.

“Thanks for practicing with me, Rhys.”

“That was fun. I knew you’d be a good time.”

I never respond. I just watch her pull on her clothes and leave.

The worst one is when I ask her to stay. She laughs and pats me on the cheek.“You thought this meant something? Oh, that’s sweet.”

What kind of fucked up shit is that?

It’s messing with my head and I want it to stop.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t heard anything from Lettie all week. I’ve sent her a few text messages but she hasn’t responded.

Mo pushes through the bathroom door and hops up on the counter.

“Hey, buddy.” I stroke his back before picking him up and carrying him out to the kitchen.

I reach for my pack of cigarettes and pull one out. Holding it between my index finger and thumb, I roll it like I always do. It’s my morning ritual after all. A ritual that I haven’t been able to enjoy since my visit to the children’s hospital last weekend. I’ve tried like hell to light up and not picture those kids’ smiling faces, their heads covered in peach fuzz, some covered in hats, others adorned with headbands. Their slender arms hooked up to machines as they received their treatments.

I lift the cigarette to my mouth, lighter in the other hand, hoping today will be different. But it’s no use. The memory floods my vision.

They’d been so fucking happy to see Lettie, hell, to see me, even after they found out I wasn’t a dancer. Meeting Lettie and receiving a tutu from her was a dream come true.

And fuck, if she hadn’t looked perfect in that pink dress. Sweet and innocent, yet spirited and determined. It’s the last time I saw her.

My hand drops the lighter. I place the cigarette back in the pack, then pitch it in the trash can.

Fuck.

I want to be angry that she’s ruined another guilty pleasure. That she’s seeping into my every waking thought, but I can’t because I fucking ruined everything when I ambushed her with that proposal.

To everyone else, we’re happy and engaged, but the reality is I’m miserable and alone.

Don’t text her again.

I reach for my phone anyway. Find another funny cat meme and send it.

I watch the screen, waiting to see if she responds. Nothing.

“Why isn’t she responding, Mo?” I ask, because talking to my cat is all I have now.

Then, my phone starts buzzing with an incoming call.

Holy shit.

It’sher.

“Hey, Lettie,” I answer casually.

“You know you don’t have to send me a cat meme if you want to talk. You can just call me.”

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