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EMILY

Changing my flight date was the absolute best thing I could have done for myself.

I didn’t want to become that woman who’s so dependent on a man she changes everything about herself, including her career, the way she thinks, what she wears, any of it.

I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, if that’s what you want it’s just not for me.

So, instead of leaving two days from now, I left earlier today.

My suitcases were already out, I was putting clothes in there as I found an outfit that I wanted to wear, putting my travel toiletries in.

Forgetting something is the worst for me.

Even though there are stores down in Outer Banks, it’s not my own stuff, at least in the hair and skincare department.

It didn’t take much to convince Kelsey that I was leaving earlier.

It also didn’t stop her from making the comment that this is what I wanted.

I love and dislike my sister all in one go; she’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to hear that either.

Am I being childish for refusing to answer Tate’s calls and texts?

Yes. Do I care? Also yes. I’m not ready to admit that this isn’t working out.

Not with his work schedule or the way he’s been distant lately and then him snapping my head off when I wasn’t going to him and doing something for myself instead.

Which, really, it’s not entirely just for me either; it’s for Beach Babe, Kelsey, and myself.

We discussed it, seeing as how we could definitely set it up as a franchise.

We nixed that idea right off the bat. We’d have to give up more control than either of us wanted, and Beach Babe is our baby.

Since I’m staying here for a week, I go about putting my clothes away.

Dresses and jumpsuits in the closet, the rest of my folded items in the dresser, and then I deposit my toiletries in the bathroom.

I figured I’ll just take them out as I go along.

I opted for a small condo, smack dab on the beach.

This place isn’t the same as our touristy town back home.

That could be because for the most part, the beaches here are private, not full of hotels, and you certainly couldn’t drive on them like some of the beaches in Florida.

The first thing I did once I entered the code to the front door was beeline it to the back doors, opening them up as far as they would go, letting the ocean breeze billow through the small one-bedroom condo as I heard the waves crash against the sand.

I may live near a beach at home, but that doesn’t make it any less amazing when you go to a different location; it’s still just as invigorating.

“It was so much easier before I met Tate and his magical cock, unicorn fingers, and mythical tongue,” I say to the wide-open space.

I’m currently sitting on the small balcony that has enough space for two bar-style chairs with a table in the middle.

My now bare feet are on top of the railing, and I’m enjoying the view.

My phone is inside, still on silent. The only thing I did was text Kelsey and our parents; group chat for the win.

Seriously, it’s the lesser of two evils.

While yes, it can go off all the damn time, it’s easier to keep everything in one conversation rather than have three different ones.

We used to do that, all of us, until we got smart.

I’d text Mom thinking she’d relay the message to Dad, only to find out she didn’t.

Then I’d have to call, it would take twice as long, then we, Kels and I, chatted, figured out something had to resolve the issues we both kept having, and voilà, family group chat it was.

I’m still annoyed that this thing with Tate, un-labeled as it is, is taking up all of my brain power.

My mind’s preoccupied, and it’s affecting my abilities on so many things.

I tip my head back, letting the chair absorb my whole body.

Thankfully, these are those retro style seats from probably the eighties or nineties, with white PVC pipe connected together.

The cushions are almost a plastic material, with blue and white stripes, can get wet yet still maintain their shape along with the wear and tear of the salty air.

They may not look spectacular, but boy, are they comfortable.

Makes it better when my neck hits the back of the chair, letting out as much of the stress as possible, already knowing that once I get my shit together, I’m going to have to make some decisions, whether that be to keep Tate in my life or let him go.

Even if that does mean I’ll be broken once again in the orgasm department.

God, it’s hard being an independent woman who wants a man who will stand by her side, not be a total d-bag, and gives good head.

I’m about to sink further into my pity party of one when there’s a knock at the door, a knock that shouldn’t happen considering the only person who knows I’m here is my sister, and I swear if that woman shows up here, I’m going to jump for fucking joy.