Unforeseen

5

After he left your room, you changed into your comfy lace bralette and satin underwear, and got into bed. You grabbed the book you brought from the night stand and opened the page where the bookmark was last placed. You've always loved to read, ever since you were a child. So far this year, now being april, you have read about 13 books, which is a pretty good amount for only being four months into the year. For this trip specifically, since you knew you wanted to enjoy every minute as much as possible with Dash, meeting his family, and appreciating the beautiful country you are in, you decided to pack a light read: Emily Dickenson's letters to Mary Bowles. Yes, love letters from a woman to another woman. Anyway, you placed the bookmark beside you to continue reading– the bookmark being a picture Dash took of you the time you took your first road trip together to the Hamptons, the trip where you first had sex–. It depicted you sitting down in the sand with only your bikini bottoms on, your topless torso taking in the ocean breeze, and your bare back, along with your beautiful birthmarks like a thousand constellations, facing the camera. To your left, were Dash's favorite hoodie, both of your shoes, and his beautiful leather camera bag with the stitched initials "DJU", which stand for Dashiell John Upton. To be honest, you've never been the kind of person to place pictures of yourself as your lock screen or in your room, your high school locker, etc., much less you naked from the waist up, exposed, vulnerable, but something about that picture captured your true essence, and it being taken by someone you loved, made it even more special; it made you feel special. Plus, nobody ever saw what kind of book you were reading, so it had always been and you hoped it would always, stay like a well kept secret between Dash, mother nature, and you.

As you continue reading through the old pages, your mind wanders off back to your first love, the love that changed your life, that changed everything, that changed you. How her perfect blonde hair and blue eyes felt like a dream and perfectly matched her soft lavender sheets. The million poems and songs you wrote for her replay in your head. You wipe a tear, and brush the thought off your mind, as you don't want the night to get any sadder. Despite your best efforts, an excerpt from one of the letters makes the tears resurface...

You never refused me - Mary - you cherished me - many times - but I thought it must seem so selfish - to ask the favor of Mr Bowles - just as he went from Home..."

Tell me - tonight - just a word - Mary - with your own hand - so I shall know I harassed none - and I will be so glad.

Don't love him so well - you know - as to forget us - We shall wish he wasn't there - if you do - I'm afraid - shant we?

I'll remember you - if you like me to - while Mr. Bowles is gone - and that will stop the lonely - some - but I cannot agree to stop - when he gets home from Washington.

Good night Mary .

Emily

You drop the book to your chest and put both of your hands on your face as your chest rises and you sob, unable to control your breathing. "Fuck", you say. Why am I still thinking about her? Am I even crying because I miss her and I'm not over her, or because the thought of someone holding you right now the way she once did could comfort you and send these feelings of sadness and tiredness away? Shit. Your mind is racing and you're not able to think straight. Should I reach out to her on Insta? No y/n why the fuck would you do that. I should call Dash, or text him. Wait, he's probably asleep by now. Should I go downstairs to have a cigarette outside? No, you dumb ass, if you find Cate it will just be awkward because of what happened, and the fact that you're crying is gonna make it more awkward. I guess I should just lay here until I stop crying and overthinking...

After a few more sobs, you rested your hands on your stomach and just stared at the ceiling blankly, unable to uncover the root of these feelings as the tears quietly kept spilling from your eyes. Everything had gone well today, except for what happened outside with Cate.

Suddenly you hear someone walking towards your room and knocking lightly on the door, clearly not wanting to wake anyone up but loud enough for you to hear. You don't respond because you're unsure if it's Cate or Dash, and you look a mess right now and don't have the energy to interact with someone; let alone answer the thousands of questions they'll probably ask. You don't have time either to turn off the lamp on the bedside table or put the book away, so you decide it's best to just close your eyes and hope that whoever's at the door will go away...

They don't.

Now with your breathing more controlled, you lay waiting for whatever has to happen to do so. You can hear the feathered steps on the wooden floor stop by the side of the bed and it's killing you not knowing who it is. They stand in front of the bedside table, and you can feel a pair of eyes looking at you. Suddenly the warmth of a hand reaches your face, then it shifts and brushes your skin, wiping away the tears you shed– you knowing they probably felt the water that was resting on your cheek inflaming your eyes and reddening your skin–. I hate the way I look when I cry. You worry for a second that the person might wake you up due to the undried tears, but they leave you be. Thank you whoever you are.

The book is now being taken away from your chest, and a worried feeling shadows over you, knowing that the person might not be Dash, and they might read the title of the book, finding out a secret only both of you inside this house were aware of. The feeling doesn't pass because you remember the kind of clothes that are barely covering your body: your breasts are probably bursting out of the lace fabric. God, please don't let it be Cate standing in front of me... She's gonna think I'm a slut or something. An arm now brushes against your shoulder, and you can hear the picture being grabbed and picked up from the bed. Now it's pure silence.

You can't help but wonder what the person's thinking. Could it be happiness from the memories of the lovely trip we took? or unfamiliarity?, but admiration for the wonderful picture in front of their eyes. You don't know. You hear them close the book, hoping they placed the bookmark on the page where the book was open, because honestly you don't know the page number, and it will be dreadful trying to find the page the next time you want to read it.

The piece of literature is finally placed on the bedside table and you feel the sheets and duvet slowly coming up to cover your chest. You find relief in knowing that you're no longer exposed. Thank God. Your eyes adjust to the dark as the person turns off the lamp, and you hear a sigh coming from them resembling pity, and they finally speak "oh angel, what's going on inside that beautiful mind of yours?".

It was her, it was Cate. How embarrassing yet comforting, you think. First the thing with her not finding Dash, then the thing with the coat and the R rated lingerie, and now, you with yet another piece of lingerie, less trashy thank god, but torn apart, defeated, fragile. What she must think of me...