Chapter 4 Addison

Addison

“You just need a fresh start. A do-over,” my best friend, Lara, said as she flopped onto the couch I’d been crashing on for the past week. She wrestled my blanket away from me before tossing a white paper bag from the drugstore into my lap.

“What’s all this?” I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“The start of your new and improved life.”

I rifled inside the bag and pulled out a box of purple hair dye, a bottle of bright pink nail polish, and about a dozen fashion magazines—all with headlines screaming things like the number of ways I could “Get Him to Beg for More.”

As if.

I held up the box of hair dye and raised my eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Sometimes new starts are drastic. I figured it was worth a try,” she said with a wink.

“And that if I didn’t want to dye my hair, this color would look cute mixed in with your newly blond locks?” I smirked.

It was the truth. With her blunt platinum bob and her bright gray eyes, Lara would look seriously fierce with some purple streaks. My regular old brown hair, on the other hand? Not so much.

“You know me too well.” She grabbed one of the magazines from my lap and flipped open the front cover. “I thought we might just look at these to get some fresh ideas. Think outside the box and focus on something other than, you know.” She flipped another page, aggressively avoiding eye contact with me. “The incident.”

Right.

The incident.

That was the gentle way we’d begun referring to the complete and utter collapse of my personal life. Of course, I tended to opt mentally for the more fitting title of Addison’s Personal Apocalypse, but that was a little too wordy.

Not that I had anyone to blame for the destruction of my life other than myself since it all started when I turned my boyfriend gay.

I know what you’re thinking—that’s not possible. But let me assure you, it most certainly is.

I am living proof.

I wanted to ask if Lara had partially gotten these magazines in the hope that, if I learned how to make a man beg for more in ten easy steps, my next boyfriend wouldn’t fall victim to my personal doom.

Instead, I opted to ignore the magazines altogether.

“I’m keeping the nail polish.”

She nodded. “Thought it was your style. Now, come on, flip open a magazine and get to studying. We’re fixing your life, and it starts today.”

I let out a little snort. “Do you have a time machine?”

“Stop it.” Lara waved a page with a quiz at me. “How about we figure out your best colors. You hold swatches up to your skin to see if you’re an autumn or a spring or—”

I flopped back on the couch. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You’re already being too nice by letting me stay here.”

Lara rolled her eyes like she always did when I mentioned it. “It’s no problem. I know you would have done the same if something like that had happened to me.”

“Except it wouldn’t.” I punched the pillow behind my head and turned to face her. “You play it smart. Stay single, stay away from guys—”

“As if that’s a choice,” Lara said with an eye roll.

“It’s a good one. Then you don’t end up here, on your best friend’s couch with no apartment, no job, and no mojo.” I blew a strand of dull brown hair away from my face, and Lara gripped my wrist.

“It’s not your fault. You just didn’t know.”

Didn’t know was an understatement.

I was shocked. Floored. Frigging destroyed.

Of course, in hindsight, there were little things. Like, for example, he’d wanted to try a few things that were . . . less than usual for me in the bedroom, but I’d chalked that up to my relative inexperience. Half the stuff he asked for I’d never even heard of, and even though I did my best to please him, I was considerably less than masterful with the strap-on he’d gotten me as a birthday gift. It felt like every time I tried to step outside my carefully constructed sexual comfort zone, he walked away frustrated, and I walked away feeling a little less like a woman, a little less like a person, really, because I couldn’t seem to give him what he needed.

Maybe if I’d had these magazines then, I would have been able to make things turn out differently.

Maybe. But maybe not.

Holding my breath, I thought back to the night I’d woken to find an empty space in the bed beside me. I heard the low hum of the television and the telltale creaking of our ancient hand-me-down couch. Anxious to see if my boyfriend was all right, I’d crept into the living room only to find him sitting in the middle of the sofa with his hand stuffed down the front of his sweatpants, gay porn playing at low volume on the TV.

“What the hell?” I’d asked.

“What the hell with you?” he’d said, somewhat nonsensically. He ripped his hand away from his crotch like someone had electrocuted him, his eyes wide.

“Is that . . . is this what you’re into? Are you—” I’d sputtered, confused and hurt but hoping there was an explanation.