Page 33 of Dating the DILF
I pause the screen, Aspen’s hard expression staring back at me.
My eyes are tired and sore from all of the crying, not to mention staring at my computer, watching hours upon hours of footage from the train wreck that isDating the DILF.
Nothing Aspen has said in the multitudes of interviews I have seen and read today rings true with the man I have been dating and I would have no problem disregarding everything she had said, if it wasn’t for the footage.
After my encounter with Tiff Klein last night, I begged off spending the night with Miles, using work as an excuse, and as soon as I got home, I hit up Google. Google had always been my friend. Until last night.
Last night Google crushed my hopes one page of results at a time. And there were a lot of pages.
After staying up most of the night, I headed in to work this morning, only to be sent home by Kendall, who took one look at me and assumed I was sick. Normally I would have argued, determined to work through anything in order to prove my dedication. Today I left without a fight.
Which is a slap-in-the-face reminder why I don’t do relationships. Because no matter how perfect you think someone is for you, you always end up here. Curled up on your sofa, cat asleep behind you, coffee table littered with empty ice cream containers—yes, plural, don’t judge me—your best boxed-wine, and used tissues, while you watch hours of footage of your boyfriend wooing other women before screwing them all over.
I mean the facts might change a little every time, but you get my gist.
I pull up a random episode of the show and press play. Miles and Karlie, the other last woman standing, are sitting in a lush garden filled with wildflowers and enjoying a picnic.
“Do you want more kids?” Karlie looks at him sweetly and takes a sip of champagne.
“Absolutely. I can’t imagine only having one.” He grins at her. “What about you? Are kids in your plan?”
Are kids in your plan?
No, kids were not in my plan and yet after only a few weeks of being charmed by a pretty face, I was considering a whole new future.
What is wrong with me?
“I want four,” Karlie answers confidently, making those stupid flirty eyes that women make when we want to make it obvious we’re interested in a guy.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Karlie.” I scoff at the screen. “Your future baby daddy is screwing the makeup lady behind your back.”
Although is it behind her back? I mean he’s running around kissing all the women on the show like his lips are about to fall off and he’s trying to get in as much action as he can before it happens. And they are all talking about it and comparing notes! I mean actually discussing the nuances of Miles’ technique. So, is fidelity really expected here? Is what he did with the makeup girl cheating, if there has been no clearly defined expectations between anyone?
Or am I just trying to make excuses and let him off the hook?
I slam my laptop down on the small table and grab my glass, taking a giant gulp of wine. This show hurts my head, how can anyone enjoy watching it?
Switching my wine for the ice cream, I have just shoved a huge spoonful in my mouth when my doorbell rings. I know it will be Adelaide. After texting Miles earlier, I sent her a message. Five words.You should have told me.I promptly turned my phone off, not wanting to hear from either of them. I should have known Addy wouldn’t let it slide.
I cram another spoonful of ice cream in, then I stand, pulling my blanket tighter around my shoulders. Mintie meows at the loss of my body heat and I throwhim—fuck Miles and his “She’s a girl” bullshit—an apologetic look, before schooling my features into something more outraged for Addy’s benefit.
I yank the door open. “What do you want?” I bark out before I look up and find myself face to face with a concerned-looking Miles.
There is a moment of silence before we both talk at the same time.
“You’re not Addy.”
“I was worried about you.”
He chuckles quietly. “No, I’m not. Are you expecting her?”
“No.” My grip on the door tightens and he looks anxious, standing on my porch waiting for me to invite him in.
“You said you weren’t feeling well, so I wanted to come over and see if you needed anything.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
“Right. Yeah, I’m not. Feeling good, I mean. You should probably go.” My voice is cold, and I wonder how we got here so quickly when less than twenty-four hours ago we were standing in exactly the same spot, but everything was different.
Hurt washes over his face and I avert my eyes to escape it.
