Page 42 of Dash

When he finally has to leave, there’s reluctance in his eyes. He doesn’t want to go and I don’t want him to either.

He kisses me on the doorstep like he’s never going to get enough of me and then he leaves.

He’s been gone for an hour now, and I already miss him. Which is ridiculous, considering I’ve only known him less than a week. I pull on a pair of sleep shorts with his hoodie and snuggle into the fabric while a cheesy horror film plays in the background. I haven’t watched a second of it, just thinking about him, about everything he said and did while he was here.

My phone vibrates, and I throw out an arm, fumbling on the coffee table for it. It’s an incoming call from Katie. Of course, she wants an update.

Sitting up slowly, my belly full of leftovers and Dash, I swipe a finger over the screen, and before I can say a word, she ambushes me.

“Bitch, you left me hanging. Please tell me he came over yesterday.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear, leaning back against the cushions, avoiding the spring that always digs into my side. “Sorry, I was a little preoccupied getting my insides rearranged by a six-foot Adonis.”

Silence, then she squeals. “I knew it! I knew he fucking likes you. Men like him don’t just hand out their hoodies like Pokémon cards.”

I rest my head back against the couch, staring at the watermarked ceiling above me. “I’m not giving it back other than to top up his smell on the fabric. He smells really fucking good, Katie. He doesn’t have that horrible boy stench that most men have—you know the one?”

“The last time I was with a boy, I was twelve years old, and he kissed me with that much tongue, I thought I was going to drown.”

“A twelve-year-old boy’s kiss drove you to give up the peen for kitty?”

“No, I already fancied Charlotte Turner. Anyway, we’re not talking about me. I want to hear all about what happened with you.”

I grin, and I’m glad she can’t see it, because I’m certain I look unhinged. “Well, there’s not a lot to tell. He came over. I tried to give him back his hoodie. He told me I looked better in it and to keep it. Then he sat down on my couch like he owned it, found us a movie, and when I fell asleep, he ordered Chinese takeaway. Then he stayed the night. Made me breakfast. We hung out and we ate leftovers tonight before he had to take off.”

There’s a pause, then, “Holy shit. Please tell me you let that man ruin your vagina.”

“Obviously. Three times. Or was it four? I can’t remember.” It wasn’t sex, though. It was something more, something deeper that I didn’t know could exist between two people.

“You’re still cock drunk,” she accuses.

I’m drunk on everything about this man, but I don’t tell her that. I’m scared if I actually say it out loud, it’ll manifest the opposite. “What the hell is cock drunk?”

“Ensorcelled by his dick. High on his shaft. Dazed by his cum.”

I love how she matches my crazy with a brand of her own insanity. As much as I love Ivy, we’d never talk like this.

“Then yeah, I’m cock drunk.” I close my eyes. “I’m going to feel him for a while.”

She laughs. “Good. It would be a shame if he looked that good but didn’t know how to use the equipment.”

I snort, then say, “I like him.” My tone is serious. “And I think he likes me. And I don’t know how long that’s going to last, because the moment he realises I’m a fucking disaster, he’ll take off.”

I voice the fear that is sitting in my gut beneath the happy glow. What if he does walk away? How do I go back to normal after him?

“It’s okay to hope for good things to happen, Dayna. You’re not going to curse it by saying it.”

“I don’t need to say it. You know me, self-sabotage queen.”

It’s a little tongue-in-cheek, but there’s enough bitterness in my words that I cringe.

“Babe, wanting to be happy isn’t a crime. And he’s already seen you messy and misbehaving. He’s still here.”

“True. Maybe he’s crazy. It would be just like me to latch onto a psychopath.”

“Or maybe, and here is a radical thought. Maybe he just likes you, because you’re fun and interesting, and unapologetically you.”

My throat constricts, and I hate that it does. One small amount of praise and I’m folding like a cheap pack of cards. “Then he’s definitely crazy.”

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