Page 33 of The Right Woman

The words irritate me to the point of anger. He’s just like every other older man in the clubs I go to, the ones at the bar, every man ever who finds me and wants me to stroke his ego while he plays white knight.

When I stand, the chair knocks back with a rattle on the concrete floor. “You can’tfixme, Adon. I’m not aprojectfor your middle-aged ass to mend.”

His cheeks darken with fury, eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t say anything, only crosses his bulging arms.

I reach the door and fling it open, throwing over my shoulder, “Thanks for repairing my car. I’ll see you around.”

Storming to the edge of the shop, I book another ride to pick me up. This could get expensive, if I’m not careful.

Should I have become more compliant, given Daddy Don his compliments, let him fuck me more with his huge cock so that he could give me a new car? Maybe. Maybe I’m stupid for not playing along.

Guilt overtakes me thinking about using him that way. I don’t think Adon’s that simple. He’s not like the old guys at the sex clubs or the businessmen at the local dive bars. The man actually cares. I’ve seen how he operates with his brothers and me. His love for his children.

But he also wants me to bedifferent. When I’m with him, it feels like he needs someone older, more mature. Someone who is healthy and hasn’t been through what I have. He wants me to be likeher. His ex-wife. Probably still attached to her, too.

And maybe it’s good that the holidays are here, and I don’t have to buy him a gift or worry that he’s going to redecorate my apartment because he feels sorry for me, when really, he’s doing it because he doesn’t like the place.

By the time I feed Freckles and try to brush him as he slithers by me in erratic patterns, change the litter box, and stare at my empty cabinets, I’ve decided what I need is to get back to whoIam. Me, Piper Hendricks. Lover of smut books and wine. And fun parties.

It’s a shame Essa is too young for the clubs, because I’m getting the urge to head out to one. Be with people my own age. Instead, I pop open a new bottle of red and download a fresh taboo book. Curled up under my blanket with a nutritious dinner of crackers and cheese, Freckles suddenly becomes my best friend, swiping a paw at every bite I take.

Once I’ve finished all the wine, I pass out and stumble through the weekend, chasing the lull of deadened thoughts with another bottle. Well, two more. But my old therapist would be happy to know I didn’t cut. Not once.

Progress, not perfection. One day at a time. Baby steps. One percent better every day.

I’ve done the sticky notes on my mirror, the motivational affirmations every morning, prayer, meditation, Yoga, andPilates. I read self-help books and numbed myself with anything around me.

Basically, it’s so much easier to not feel when I’m alone. Because if I do, I go to the bad place. The one where I think maybe I did make up the incident in my head. That I’m so far gone, the pain and humiliation, guilt, and self-loathing was just a delusion I created.

For what purpose, though? Why would I do that to myself?

My sister thinks it’s for attention. They don’t understand that I hate the attention. It’s like a spotlight on the dirtiest parts of me, the ones that shouldn’t see the light or they’ll become morphed into melanomas.

I can’t be with Adon because he deserves someone pure, someone who hasn’t been tainted the way I have. I can’tbefixed. All I can be is me, a damaged product of no use to anyone.

So that’s when I wallow in a desperate pile under my blanket and call in sick three days in a row, don’t shower, eat a package of saltines, almost lose my job, and hope that the world stops existing by the time I grapple out of the mire.

It never does.

Thegoodnews is, this time I must have pushed Adon so far away that he hasn’t tried to call or text. My car may be ready, but I haven’t heard a word. I think I’ll just have to walk everywhere from now on. Maybe find a new person to drive me around town when I need it.

I’ve been trudging through the dumps enough to know how to mask the scent of garbage. So the week before Christmas, I’ve cleaned up, made amends with Shanna, and even got a doctor’s note to say how sick I was. While I was there, I grabbed a prescription for the dreaded birth control, was handed a benign bill of health, and a joyous negative pregnancy test.

Maeve

Dinner tonight with Dad. Be at The Vine at 6.

My eyes flutter with annoyance. Part of me wishes the bullet would have hit me, only so I could avoid this pre-Christmas meal. Christmas will be even worse.

Nevertheless, to avoid the incessant phone calls and the predictable visits if I were to no show, I’m at the restaurant at 6:30 p.m. sharp. Wearing a puffy-sleeved red satin gown from the 80s, that I picked up at one of the local secondhand shops, worn with the goal to piss off my sister.

Maeve scoffs when I take a seat, and my father pretends not to see my outfit. “’Bout time you showed up,” my sister grumbles.

“I thought you said six-thirty.”

Her green eyes narrow at me, letting me know she doesn’t accept my rebuttal.

A hand brushes against my exposed back, and I glance up. Adon looms over me with a serious look on his face, sending a riot of butterflies flapping wings in my belly. The sight of him soothes me, but also sets me on edge. He can’t be here with these people. If he sees my family, he’ll know for sure that I’m useless.

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