Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Separation from people hadn't cured her need to please. She longed to lift the hem of isolation, look into eyes full of acceptance, and see in them the reflection of a woman who didn't give a rat's ass.
Neither of them spoke as he laced his boots, each second straining longer than the last. Should she say something? Maybe compliment his performance?
He straightened and lingered in the doorway, deep lines etching his forehead. Stay trembled on her lips, but he didn't owe her anything. They didn't have dinner dates or interact beyond their routine. He always arrived at the scheduled time. She always left the front door unlocked and waited in the bedroom. No conversation. No deviation. No questions.
What did she have to offer him besides a scheduled orgasm? If he stayed, he might suggest they go out and do normal things. If he found out she hadn't ventured beyond her front door in two years, he'd never come back.
She cracked her knuckles. She needed to stop the unproductive waffling. Either she continued with him as a detached fuck buddy or she pursued the relationship with a deeper connection. She couldn't have both. The former worked. The latter would end swiftly and painfully.
Squaring her shoulders, she met his eyes. “See you Friday.”
A subtle inhale flared his nostrils. He studied her for a long moment, nodded his head, and left.
She curled her fists in the bedding, her muscles straining to run after him.
The slam of the front door knocked the wind from her lungs. Way to go, Amber. Might as well add a few dozen cats to the paranoid, anti-social routine and call it what it was.
She hung the dress in the closet, where it would stay until Friday, and put on yoga pants and a t-shirt. She vacuumed, ran four miles on the treadmill, and showered. A few hours later, she finished the filigree carving on a leathercraft order, ate a pancake, and showered again.
As the nightly news ended, she stood before the bathroom mirror and pinched the flab hugging her hips.
If you exercised more, maybe I wouldn't be thinking about your sister all the time.
She shouldn't have eaten that pancake. If she weren't ten years older than Tawny, maybe she would've held his attention. Her stomach clenched painfully, and she bent at the waist, gripping her knees.
Was he in bed with Tawny now? Kissing her sister the way he'd once kissed her? Of course, he was. They were married now.
She turned away from the mirror, squatted before the toilet, and gagged with the reflex of a practiced vomiter. Her eyes watered, and her throat contracted and burned. The partially-digested pancake splattered the bowl.
She didn't look in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Didn't glance at her midsection as she dressed and sat on the couch. She had zero resistance to self-deprecating thoughts, and the white envelope on the coffee table didn’t help.
The notice of default was proof of her worthlessness. She had ninety days to reinstate the mortgage or she'd lose the house, her safe place.
Her head hurt, and her chest felt hollow.
She would have to increase the sales on her leather goods, but it wouldn't be enough. She'd already cut all her expenses. All but one.
She popped her knuckles and dialed Dr. Michaels.
“Good evening, Amber.” Dr. Emery Michaels' warm greeting was always unassuming, despite the fact that her calls were sporadic and often panic-stricken. “How are you doing?”
Which problem should she tackle first? She blew out a breath. “He wanted the lights on.”
A pause. “The young man who delivers your supplies?”
Zach wasn't that young. Probably older than her thirty-four years. “Yeah.”
“Is this the man you want the lights on with?”
His tone wasn't judgmental, but her hackles flared. “He's the man I want to fuck, Dr. Michaels. Lights or no lights, you said my libido was a good thing.”
“Yes, as long as sex doesn't become an addiction.”
“I can live without it.” The thump in her chest disagreed.
“Has your relationship expanded beyond sex? Have you talked with him about your healing path?”
Secrecy and shame were interwoven with her condition, and she excelled at being a psychiatric textbook. “No and no.”
“Have you given more thought to attending a self-help group?”
Sweat trickled down her spine, and the muscles in her neck went taut. “I can't—”
“Agoraphobics Outbound meets bi-monthly at Austin State Hospital. It's a ten minute cab ride from your house.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek and imagined all those people staring at her, examining, criticizing. How would she escape? What if she got lost, stuck in a crowded place, or fainted?
Not only that, her mother was a patient in that hospital. Her breathing quickened. She couldn’t bear to be in the same building with a woman who wanted nothing to do with her.
“Amber, you need the solidarity of a support group.”