Chapter 9

I wakeup in bed alone to the sound of a door closing.

I lay there in bed for a bit, luxuriating in Martin's high thread-count sheets and enormous bed, before it occurs to me to wonder where he went.

The alarm clock beside his bed tells me it's not long after nine. Not horribly early.

As a chicken owner, I'm usually an early riser myself, since I need to let them out of their coop and feed them first thing. This morning however—between the coziness of Martin's closet and the blackout curtains he drew closed in the night—my birds must think it's the dead of winter and that the sun isn't up yet. I haven't heard so much as a peep from them.

Seriously. Who has blackout curtains at home?

And an alarm clock beside his bed?

Gah. Martin is a proper adult. I bet he has an accountant. Maybe even a laundry service.

Am I really prepared to be with a man who is … such a man?

Um … if how wet I got just thinking about him is any indication, then yes. I definitely am.

Gawd. Last night was … Mind blowing.

I didn't know …

I mean, sure, I've read my share of smutty romance novels, mostly when I was younger and my time wasn't monopolized by stodgy academic papers with titles like, "Depression, the autonomic nervous system, and the effects of PTSD."

But here's the thing: when you're twenty, reading about a guy who knows how to find your clit and hit your g-spot, that all seems just as much a fantasy as that shapeshifting dragon and the seven-foot alien who can somehow sleep with a woman without her needing an episiotomy. It might be hot, but is it believable?

No. Not when you're messing around with over-eager twenty-year-olds. Or maybe I was just with the wrong guys?

Who knows. My point is this: being with Martin last night was a revelation.

Clearly there are untold benefits to being with a man who is a proper adult.

I stretch, and sit up, suddenly eager to hunt down said man and figure out what else I didn't know about how great sex could be.

I check in on my hens to verify they're still sleeping—they are. A quick survey of the condo reveals a guest bedroom and an office, but no Martin. Though, seriously? A single income household and he can afford a three-bedroom condo with a view of the lake? Is he also Batman?

Maybe he went out for coffee? Seems unlikely since the scent of freshly brewed coffee hangs in the air. So what are the chances he's familiar with my favorite French bakery that's only a few blocks from here and he's going to bring me croissants?

I think my uterus just spasmed at the thought.

Or … oh, god … maybe he went out for a run or something horrible? He's fit and clearly has a healthier relationship with carbs than I do, given that I ate all the fries yesterday. He could be a runner. Shudder> I will endeavor to survive being with a man who is a runner. Surely I can make that sacrifice.

There's a fantasy already playing in my head of him driving us around with one of those obnoxious 26.2 stickers on our car when I head to the kitchen in search of the origin of the coffee fumes. That's when I see it.

A note propped up on the kitchen counter.

Trinity-

I had to go into the office for a work emergency.

Text me when you're up and I'll send an Uber to take you home.

-Martin

His phone number is written in the same neat script beneath his signature.

I read the note several times, my heart rate ticking up with each pass.

A work emergency?

Before nine on a Sunday?

He's an intellectual property lawyer. What kind of work emergency could he have on a Sunday?

Did the patent office burn down? I don't think so.

And he's offering to send me an Uber?

No mention of calling him. Nothing about last night at all. Just, I'll send you an Uber.

Still clutching the note, I sink down onto one of the bar stools at the counter.

How unbelievably, naively stupid could I be?

Also … can we just acknowledge … flocking lawyers!

I had to go into the office for a work emergency, is clearly lawyer for, I didn't want to deal with you this morning.

And Text me when you're up and I'll send an Uber to take you home, clearly means I expect you to be gone when I get back. But also, See how gentlemanly I am for paying for your Uber?

Clucking, manwhore pretentious lawyers who feed a woman, treat her like a damn queen (and pamper her hens!), only to turn out to be just as douchey as normal, run of the mill manwhores?

That is un-clucking-acceptable!

I want to scream and punch things.

Even more, I want to cry.

And God damn it! What is it about Martin clucking Harris that always has me so close to tears?

You know, I used to be someone who was in control of her emotions!

Then he walks into my life and I'm a wreck!

And having crazy fantasies about bumper stickers and blackout curtains and men who buy croissants and have magic-g-spot-finding dicks.

Well, not men, plural. Man.

One man.

One man who has potentially ruined me for all other men.

Except … flock that shit.

I refuse to let Martin get in my head like that. I've been through worse things in my life.

Far worse. Having an emotionally unavailable, borderline narcissistic father who ignored me while lavishing attention on my siblings? Yep, that was worse.

Twisting myself into knots trying to please him only to be ignored? Yep. Developing anxiety as a teenager only to have my parents both dismiss it as attention-seeking? Worse.

I spent years getting over all that shit. Patiently unraveling all the knots that made me the person I am today. Do I still have work to do? Hell, yeah.

Like nearly everyone in my cohort at UT, I have a running list of issues I'm working on.

And I have no intention of adding Obsessing Over Unattainable Men to that list.

So this ends now.

Right, clucking now! Hear that, uterus?

We are walking out of here and leaving our unrealistic fantasies behind.

It takes me twenty minutes to change back into my own clothes and pack up the hens. I even make his bed while I'm waiting for the Uber that I order for myself.

I absolutely do not linger longer than necessary. I do not indulge in the hope that he'll show up, explain that it was all a misunderstanding, and take me back to bed to fuck my brains out.

On the off, minuscule chance that I've misinterpreted his note, well … He knows where to find me.

You know what I really, really don't do?

Shed another tear for Martin flocking Harris.

Because it turns out that competent adult men who can make a woman come and have the emotional maturity to stick around are as fantastical as seven-foot aliens.