Page 104 of Wide-Eyed
Mati was a superhero, and I wished I’d hired him months ago.
After spending two days mustering my courage, I called Human Resources at Bossi and put in a formal complaint about Paul. The HR person was, as expected, borderline hostile, but she documented it all nonetheless. I knew they wouldn’t do anything for me, but at least the next girl—and there would be a next girl, because there was always a next girl—would have someone backing her up and believing her. Me. From now on, there would always be a black mark over Paul’s name, visible to anyone who cared to look.
Another thing I did to improve my life was form a militant kind of reliance on setting timers. I’d always liked task timers but felt like it was cheating to use them too much. But that was a silly stubbornness that didn’t serve me. Once I linked the timers to the voice assistant on my phone, I became an unstoppable version of myself.
I continued to make content—I posted about fashion; I made chatty videos. I wore prom dresses in the bathtub. I had fun being online again.
I also masturbated. A lot. I loved masturbating! It was wonderful.
My experiences with Mike had unlocked the floodgate, so to speak. I found spicy online creators who made content I enjoyed and went to town on myself. When the charismatic man with a mustache on my laptop screen winked and asked if I wanted to be a dirty little slut, I came around my fingers. When the hefty guy with thighs I could viscerally imagine riding told the camera I was a very good girl, I ground so hard on my clit vibrator that chafing became a concern.
Part of me felt like finding my sexuality should have broadened my horizons. I should have been sharing orgasms with all and sundry as long as everyone’s parts were tested, the attraction was mutual, and the consent was enthusiastic. Instead, I experienced the unfortunate discovery that my sexuality had narrowed down—not to a particular gender or type, but to one guy.
One Mike.
Who was nine thousand miles away and not thinking of me at all.
CHAPTER 27
WOODVILLE, AOTEAROA NEW ZEALAND
MIKE
“Mike, this is a terrible idea.”
“Maybe.”
Tessa glared at me over the coffee machine, where I was making her coffee to match her spirit: dark and bitter.
The roar of the machine was almost loud enough to camouflage the rain, which had been pelting out of the sky for the better half of the week.
“Lyssa got on a plane and flew home to New York. She didn’t say, let’s do long distance or look me up if you’re ever in New York. She”—Tessa stretched over the machine and clapped in my face—“left”—another clap—“you. Honestly, Mike, it feels like you can’t take a hint.”
I let that roll off, because: “I can’t.”
“You need to accept that she doesn’t want you like you want her. It was a casual thing for her. A holiday fuck.” Tessa snorted at her own joke. “Literally.”
“I disagree.”
I’d been annoyed at Lyssa for acting the way she had on the drive to the airport, but once I cooled off, I understood that she did what she felt like she needed to so she could get on her plane. I didn’t like it, it was hurtful, but no one’s ideas were all winners when they were in distress.
I always took things at face value, reacting first and thinking second. But with Lyssa, it was easier to think things through. Because I liked thinking about her.
And when I did, it became obvious to me that she wasn’t being mean because she hated me or regretted anything. She was just hurt and trying to make that easier to bear. I couldn’t fault her for that.
“You can’t talk me out of it, Tess. I’ve already decided. I figured out how to renew my passport and everything. My flight to New York leaves on Sunday. I always try to be a good friend and a good son and a good stranger, Tessa. I’m here when someone needs me. But this? I need to do this for me. I’m going to be selfish now. I want Lyssa, so I’m going to go and get her. It’s as simple as that.”
Tessa rubbed her hand over her eyes. “There’s something very wrong with our gene pool.”
It didn’t matter that Tessa wasn’t on board with my plan or that she threatened to hide my car keys—she couldn’t follow through; she was going back to her apartment in the city tonight.
And I was going to New York. Sure, I would stick out like a sore thumb there, but sticking out didn’t unnerve me the way it used to. It didn’t really matter if I couldn’t charm a smooth path through life, because some things were more important than an easy life.
Like Lyssa.
It would take more than one disapproving cousin, three flights, fourteen thousand kilometers, and two TSA lines to stop me.
Caroline and Chase were back in New York, and when I told my sister my plan, she said she would meet me at LaGuardia. I planned to stay with her for a few days and reach out to Lyssa from there.
