Page 145 of Unconditionally Yours

How is he real? How does a man get to be this obscenely good? Like, full spectrum. Gold-star lover and Disney-prince feelings factory.

He did that. He wrote that. While his cum was still drying on my thigh. Who is this man and what spell did I accidentally cast to summon him?

How can anyone be that sincerely sweet and still fuck like Benji fucks? He fucks like a lumberjack with a minor in tantric cuddling and a PhD in aftercare. It’s not fair. That shit should come with a warning label and a support group. It’s criminal. I’d testify against him and then blow him in the courthouse hallway.

I pluck the dandelion out of its vase and close my eyes. My heart is doing dangerous, fluttery things.

“I wish…”

What the fuck do I wish?

“I wish…”

Goddamn it, Benji. You’re giving me real fucking feelings.

“I wish I don’t screw this up. I wish Benji knows how much I love him. And I wish that doesn’t scare him off.”

And maybe. No. No maybe. I blow.

Because if I get that, that’s enough.

The seeds scatter like magic static in the air and one of them lands on my nipple. Which I take as a sign that the wish is granted.

That’s me now. The girlfriend making heartfelt magical wishes.

But next it’s to the pool. Because I’m still doing this whole growth and healing therapy thing. Gross. And also because being wet, mostly naked, and wrapped around Benji is the kind of Saturday that makes life worth all the dumb hard parts.

There’s a continental breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen like I’m in some softcore porno hosted by the Food Network. I stand there naked, eating it straight off the counter.

“Do you think any of this is real?” I ask Mr. Wriggles, who is perched nobly on the windowsill getting his daily dose of vitamin D. I’m a responsible worm mother.

He doesn’t answer. He never does. But he wiggles slightly to the left, which I’ve decided means yes or possibly you’re spiraling again, babe. Same difference.

“Benji told me Jett and Rhys are coming to the pool later. Just to hang. Bro out. Splash around. Compare abs. Whatever.” I chew as I talk, because worms don’t give a shit about manners and also I’m eating a very flaky pastry and it deserves to be multitasked.

“They’re all going to the gym tomorrow too,” I continue, as I brush the croissant crumbs from my cleavage. “Together. Like some kinda muscle-bound husbands’ club.”

I pour orange juice into a glass, because drinking from the carton is vile. No matter how sex-dumb I get over Benji, I still have standards.

“What if they become, like… besties?” I whisper at Mr. Wriggles. “Like… jerk-each-other-off-after-leg-day close. And then they realize they don’t need me at all. Just a trio of terrifyingly hot, emotionally complex men who see each other and go full bro-harem without me. I’ll be the weird little slutty gremlin who introduced them. Like some depraved fairy god-whore who wanders off into the woods after the dick princes find true friendship.”

Mr. Wriggles flops slightly.

“And I mean, Jett and Benji fuck like orgasms are on BOGO. And if Rhys fucks like he kisses, methodical and respectful but also like he’s two seconds from snapping and breaking the headboard with your pelvis, then we’re gonna have a serious problem on Tuesday because I have to walk out of that office, not be carried out on a stretcher.”

Mr. Wriggles burrows. I choose to interpret this as modest embarrassment. Or silent agreement.

“Anyway,” I say, downing the OJ, “I’m fine. I’m normal. Definitely not having a full-bodied panic orgasm while eating breakfast naked in my maybe-boyfriend’s kitchen while talking to a worm.”

Mr. Wriggles doesn’t respond. Because he knows. He always knows.

After a fast clean up I make my way to the pool.

It’s only been a week since Benji first slipped his giant arms around me in that chlorine-scented fuck palace he calls a pool,and somehow my entire life has melted and reformed around it like a cheap Barbie in a microwave.

I park in the same spot. Because I’m nostalgic. Or obsessive. Same thing. My fingers twitch toward the glove box where the binoculars live. Then pause.

I don’t need them anymore.