Page 38 of Unconditionally Yours

I should not be allowed to feel this soft about a man with biceps the size of my entire thigh. I should not want to print our names on matching water bottles and start calling it “our spot” when we go back to that sports bar.

And yet. It’s ours now.

I try to distract myself by folding laundry but wind up daydreaming about Benji’s hands. His shoulders. His mouth. The sound of his voice when he said “you deserve nice things, Delilah.” And the way he looked at me like I was the nice thing.

Next thing I know, I’m on my bed, wet in a whole different way, biting my knuckle and moaning his name into my pillow.

It’s not even a filthy fantasy this time. Not really. It’s soft. Sweet. Him kneeling behind me in the water, lifting my hair off my neck, kissing me slow like it’s sacred. Him murmuring, “I’ve got you,” like a promise.

I come harder than I meant to. Too much feeling. Too much trust. I start laughing. Then crying. Then laughing again. It’s honestly disturbing.

10:48PM: Benji Texts

Benji: Just wanted to say goodnight. Today was really special. You’re really special. Sleep sweet, okay?

I drop my phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling.

Sleep sweet. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

He sends me a golden heart emoji and I’m ovulating straight through my birth control. I can feel my uterus trying to build him a crib out of devotion and Target coupons.

I’m going to have to fake my own death and marry him under a new identity.

Probably tomorrow.

Journal Entry #3

Saturday July 31st

(yes I know it’s Sunday shut up)

Therapy Journal

Dear Rhys,

WHO the actual fuck is Hank and why am I still journaling about him when I clearly have moved on to better, taller, living men who text back and feed me cheese???

Hank is the ghost of bad decisions past. And frankly? I’m done processing him. He’s been processed. Ground up like emotional meat and packed into a shrink-wrapped regret sausage.

So anyway! Expect a call Monday. Partly because I think this assignment is a hate crime and partly because I miss your voice and the way you say things like “deflection” and “emotional masking” like they’re not just hot synonyms for flirting.

Anyway. Swim lesson was today. I got in the water. I let a man touch me (Benji, not a stranger, I haven’t relapsed that hard) and I didn’t even cry or bite him. Progress. Chart that. Write it in sparkly ink.

Not that you care since you’re too busy obsessing over Hank the Conceptual Trauma Puppet.

But I also had a date. With a very tall, suspiciously sweet man. He asked me and everything. I didn’t stalk. I didn’t beg. I said yes and wore a dress that clung in all the right spots. And he held doors and didn’t mind when I ordered my pizza like a war crime.

And I didn’t even follow him home. Write that down. Put it in my file. Gold star me, Rhys.

Anyway, I’m writing this Sunday morning because I passed out in a post-orgasm haze last night. Solo show. No Hank involvement. Just me, my fingers, and the crippling realization that I may be developing feelings for someone who deserves so much better than my madness.

Anyway. That was my Saturday.

Hope you’re happy. I’m catching feelings and I blame you entirely.

PS:If you bring this up in session, I will throw your tasteful IKEA desk lamp out the fucking window.

Rhys Journal