Chapter 3: Breakaway: Chapter 3

I WORK the toy even deeper, my toes curling against the sheets as my knees fall open. I let out a little gasp as it hits the right angle. It might not be a warm cock, but it’s at least as thick, making it easier to coax along my fantasy. I drag it in and out, turning my head into my pillow as my mind fills with the right images. Strong, tattooed arms hooking my legs around his trim waist. Biting my neck before he turns me over, spanking my ass as he spreads my legs. His rough voice in my ear, whispering about how good I’m being, smelling like —

No. Not that. Anything but that.

I shake my head as the fantasy falters. I arch my back, searching for enough sensation to keep it going, but it’s useless. My eyes fly open, the fantasy fleeing as images—the bad kind—flood my mind. I dig down against my lip, panting. Half an hour spent working myself up, only to hit a wall again. I scrub my hand over my face.

Three times in a row now. I’ve worked hard for years to keep Preston—and any future Prestons—out of my life, but lately, he’s found a way into my fantasies. My happy place. There are two things he’s never been able to touch, my fantasies and the stories I scribble into my notebooks, but after this? It’s safe to say that the former just broke.

I used to be able to whip up a good fantasy scenario without a problem. Some girls don’t like to masturbate, but I’ve enjoyed it ever since I realized how good I could make myself feel. A couple minutes thinking about Matt Barzal or Tyler Seguin, or if I was in more of a supernatural mood, a sexy werewolf or orc, and I’d be ready to go. Lately? I get as far as my fantasy guy thrusting inside me, and no matter what I imagine, whether it be the position, the setting, or the specific type of boning we’re doing, my orgasm dissolves like a rock hitting the center of a lake, never to be recovered. The spicy romance novels haven’t helped. Neither have the hockey highlights. Not even revisiting the sexiest parts of my half-written novel has led anywhere. Something reminds me of that February night, of him, and a hint of panic poisons it all.

As I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease my racing heart, I swallow down that spoonful of poison, willing it to neutralize. I’ve worked with Dr. Faber for years on how to pull myself back from the edge before I spiral. It’s okay to be frustrated. I don’t have to let it control me.

Except three times now, it has.

Just like that, my arousal is gone completely, replaced by a dangerous, brief flicker of unease that makes my stomach roll. I swallow as I try to relax my tight shoulders. I stare down at the dildo in my hand and fight a wave of revulsion. “Fuck!”

I throw it across the room.

My roommate bursts in, wrapped in a towel, her dark hair hanging over one shoulder, eyes wild with panic. Is that a razor in her hand?

“What’s going on?” she demands—at the exact second my bright blue dildo hits her in the face.

You know when you see something horrible happen in real time, and it feels like slow-motion? Yeah. That’s my dildo hitting Mia like a freakin’ puck to the face guard. It smacks her cheek, the fake balls bouncing, before landing on the floor with a wet smack.

We stare at each other for a moment that stretches out for approximately a million years. Her grip tightens on the razor as she wipes at her cheek.

I remember something very terrifying. My best friend used to play softball, and she was a pitcher.

“Penny!” she shrieks, slicing through the air with the razor wildly. I duck, but it doesn’t leave her hand. “I thought you were dying or something! What was that?”

I throw the blanket over my head. The mortification of this moment hits me like an avalanche, and if I look at Mia for even half a second longer, I might throw up. My cheeks must be redder than my hair. “I’m so sorry!”

“Fucking Christ. You threw Igor at me? I’m going to murder you!”

This stops my would-be anxiety attack in its tracks. I make myself into a tiny ball, torn between screaming again in frustration and laughing. If I laugh, though, Mia might slice me open with that razor. She names all my sex toys, and I forgot the big blue dildo’s name until now. Igor.

She snatches the blanket off my head. I grab it back and use it to cover my boobs. Why did I have to get myself totally naked for this? The murderous expression should make me want to flee, but it bursts open the floodgates instead; I double over in laughter that feels dangerously close to tears. I feel her pull my hair, but I just snort.

“Igor,” I say in between wheezes. “He went flying.”

“And now I’m traumatized for life.” I peek at Mia; she’s wiping at her face again. I don’t blame her. I might not have gotten off, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t feeling it. I’ve held back her hair while she threw up in the gutter, but that doesn’t mean she wants my… stuff… all over her face.

“You should probably go back into the shower.”

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here.” She smirks, but then her expression softens. “You couldn’t do it? Still?”

“No. And now I can’t stop thinking about… him. Ugh.” I press the heels of my hands over my eyes as my amusement fades. “Fuck this. I’m so tired of being stuck.”

Mia sits on the edge of my bed, her hazel eyes big as she looks at me. She rubs her hand over my shin. “He’s just a memory.”

I take a deep breath and nod. She’s right. I haven’t seen Preston in years, and even if it means never setting foot in Arizona again, I never will. But this isn’t even about him. This is about me. I might be good with my fantasies and stories most of the time, but they can only get a girl so far. While everyone around me has been having the college experiences of their dreams, I’ve been stuck in neutral, unable to make my desires my reality. When getting off used to be easy, I could pretend I didn’t care, but now?

Now I think I’m going to scream if I don’t orgasm. Fuck Preston Biller. Fuck the love I thought we shared. I draw my legs up, hugging them to my chest through the blanket. “I hate being broken. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Don’t say that.” Mia takes my hand. Our manicures match. We went to the fancy nail salon at the Moorbridge mall yesterday. Hers are bright green with black tips and little ghost stickers, and mine are white with orange tips and pumpkin stickers. Perfect for October, which starts in a few days. She squeezes reassuringly. “Maybe you just need to spice it up a little.”

“I’ve expanded my hot fantasy creature roster to include orcs,” I say helpfully.

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Maybe it’s time.”

A pit opens in my stomach and my heart jumps straight through. “I don’t know.”

“You’re at a huge university. Surely there’s someone here on campus who you’d like to hook up with.”

She’s not wrong; technically speaking, there are potential hookups everywhere. We go to McKee University, which has thousands of undergraduate students alone, and it’s not like guys haven’t tried to hook up with me. Usually, it’s some gross flirting that involves asking if my carpet matches the drapes, since I’m a ginger, but still. College guys don’t need a lot of encouragement with hookups; throw a wink their way and they’ll chase you all evening.

“You know it’s not about that.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But you can’t go on like this.”

She looks through my nightstand, pulling out my journal and waving it around.

“Hey,” I say, snatching it away from her. I hug the bright pink cover to my chest. “Treat her gently.”

When I first started going to Dr. Faber, she wanted me to keep a journal, and while I have three years of notebooks now, I always start it with the same list. It’s a list of everything I wish I could do with someone else in bed; everything I want—desperately—but haven’t had. Preston took away my biggest first and ruined it, so I wanted to reclaim whatever I could, to make it mine to control. Since I first wrote it, I’ve refined it, taken away some things and added others. When I started college last year, I updated The List and decided I was going to make it happen. I’d find a fuck buddy, or maybe a couple of guys, and go through The List item by item. But every time I got close, I just couldn’t pull the trigger. I retreated into my books and fantasies, no matter how hot the guy was or how nice he was acting. How could I trust a stranger? He might have been nice then, but who knows what he’d really be like, alone and in control of me.

Now, I’m well into the first semester of sophomore year, and I still have done nothing with The List. I look down at it now, running my finger over the page, full of items like oral sex, orgasm denial, and bondage. The last item on the list, vaginal sex, has always remained the same. If I do this, that’ll be the biggest hurdle. The biggest show of trust.

I glance at Mia. “What if things get fucked up all over again?”

Mia raises an eyebrow. “If you keep waiting, you’ll just make excuses.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.”

“Well, you must be okay, if you’re quoting When Harry Met Sally.”

We smile at each other. Mia would rather watch almost anything than a romcom, but she indulges me from time to time. Even she can’t deny Nora Ephron’s talent.

“And if you didn’t actually want to do it, I wouldn’t push.” She gets up, tightening the towel underneath her arms, and picks up her razor. “But I know you do, Pen. You deserve to have sex. Or a relationship. Or both. But it won’t happen if you keep hiding in your room with Igor. Use The List.”

“I guess I should give up thinking I’m going to get a Bella Swan situation, huh?” I try to joke.

Mia’s face stays stone-cold serious. She’s been my best friend ever since the school assigned us to be roommates last year. Dad was nervous about me being in the dorms, but I had a good feeling about it, and it has paid off in spades. Mia’s more of a friend than the people I knew in high school ever were, even before everything went down with Preston. While sometimes I resent her honesty, usually I admire it. She says what she’s thinking, regardless of who she’s talking to or where she is. If we switched places, she’d go to a party, find a guy, and cross number one off The List within an hour.

“You deserve this,” she says. “Don’t let him keep ruining your life. He’s not worth it.”

I take a deep breath.

I can go around and around in circles forever, or I can try to break the pattern. I can keep letting Preston into my life, or I can bury his memory with new experiences. I glance back down at The List. The first item, Oral Sex (Receiving), stands out in my neat handwriting.

I started it to give myself some sense of control. But what’s the use of control if I never do anything with it? What’s the use of desire if I don’t honor my own?

One item at a time. One experience at a time. I can do this.

I nod, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop the tears that are threatening to fall. “Okay.”

She lurches forward and hugs me. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I take in a big, gulping breath. My heart is racing, and my body feels all tingly, but I feel good. Steadier already. I never want to be that girl again, splayed out on the ice, caught like a butterfly pinned underneath glass. Beautiful and broken. Scrutinized by everyone I knew. My entire school and half the town saw the birthmark I have next to my bellybutton, and whenever I think about that for more than half a second, I need to work hard at staying in the moment.

I’m sick of it being the end of the story. I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m an adult, and I deserve to be in control. The fantasies I have and the stories I write only go so far. Mia’s right. If I’m going to have the future I want, I need to take the risk.

I pull away from her embrace and sit up straighter. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

Mia gives me her biggest, rarest smile as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re so badass. Think of it as research for your book.”

When she goes, shutting the door behind her, I dart off the bed and scoop Igor up. I don’t feel badass, but I definitely feel better, and that’s going to have to do for the moment. I need to clean him, and it’s not like I’m going to get off now, so I just shimmy into clothes and run a comb through my hair, then shove my laptop and chemistry notebook into my bag.

I check my phone for the time. I’d planned to go to The Purple Kettle early to write for a few minutes before Dad meets me for our weekly coffee date; since the semester kicked into gear, my half-written novel has been languishing on my laptop like a forgotten houseplant. Now, though, I’ll be lucky if I make it on time. Listening to him grouse about his hockey team will be a distraction, at least. I’m the reason he works here instead of Arizona State, and since going to the games gives me hives, this is the best I can do.