♫ Even though I'd die to see you
I don't trust myself to meet you'
Cause we both know ♪
(Bebe Rexha—Gateway Drug)

"I'm still sore," said Coralie, adding an orange peel to her second attempt at a cosmopolitan, that she slipped over to Delilah. "I mean, can you be sore after," she leaned in close and cupped a hand over her mouth, "masturbating?"

Delilah sipped from the carnelian-colored drink. "Um, this is perfect. And honey, you don't need to whisper; everyone masturbates."

Coralie's eyes widened as she peered around, worried the patrons had heard Delilah shouting out the m word. But to her surprise, no one seemed to care. A few girls were giggling over cocktails at one end of the bar, a group of bros were high-fiving as they clinked their beer glasses, and a couple was making out on one of the couches near the empty DJ booth.

It was a slow Sunday, which Coralie appreciated—it gave her time to practice her drink-crafting.

"And yes, you can be sore if you're really going at it." Delilah smacked her lips and winked, her fake eyelashes so voluminous they made Coralie dizzy. "Which, I imagine, you were, while watching that gorgeous man play with that enormous chunk of—"

"—Delilah!" Coralie slapped Delilah's wrist, almost knocking over her beverage. "Not here!"

She wasn't a prude, but didn't appreciate her roommate blasting penis-talk at her place of work.

"What?" Delilah twirled her silky hair around one finger and adjusted her bubblegum pink halter top. "For real, I wish you had snapped a screenshot, so I could admire it too. Something like that needs to be memorialized."

"Uh," Coralie snorted, "I was a little too busy to snap a picture, dude." She whirled around to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks.

Was it okay to talk about such private things in public? Sure, she agreed with Delilah, everyone did it; but did everyone detail it? And did everyone do it during a video-chat in front of someone who was married but that they'd been in love with for twelve years?

She'd known Delilah for a while, and had no trouble confessing her online mischief to her. But she didn't want every customer—and her boss, who hovered nearby—to know what she'd done. How she'd played and panted and posed for Ryan, how she'd sucked her finger and circled it around her tongue to show him how much she craved him—

Stop! Stop it!

She fidgeted left and right in front of the sink. The muscles in her lower abdomen tightened, as they always did whenever she reminisced over her session with Ryan. And she reminisced about it... a lot. About his smile, his flexed arms as he drove to work, his flashy t-shirts with silly sayings, and the way he'd touched himself to please her—

I said stop!

She did have a tendency to become obsessed with attractive men, but it wasn't like her to struggle with such intense sexual tension, not anymore. Even before she came up with her celibacy decision, she'd approached sex with extreme caution.

She'd spent her early twenties partying, but those nights ceased when, at twenty-three and in a phase of hardcore dancing and drinking, she'd ended up in a hotel room with a guy she didn't remember meeting. She'd lounged on a scratchy bed as he stood naked in front of her, rolling a condom onto his penis, and muttering who-knew-what as he slid her legs apart. Her pants were off, she was dizzy, and a toxic taste numbed her tongue.

She didn't know him, and hadn't agreed to this.

Somehow she'd found the strength to kick him off, and though he'd protested that she had consented, she slapped him, shrugged her clothes back on, and stomped out.

It took several years before she could drink again, and much therapy before she could fathom the idea of being intimate with someone. Then she'd met Jayden, and the imbibing resumed, as did her urge for physical contact. But their love-making had been so passionate and inebriated, it exhausted her, drained her, almost hurt her. His demands grew, and her sex-drive diminished once more.

And now, thanks to RyRy, it's back, and I don't know how to handle it.

As she worked on refilling a pitcher of beer for the college boys, she recalled the last message Ryan had sent her.

"I don't have a lot of time, since my wife and girls have come home. I can't be on my phone as much. But I'm still thinking of you a thousand times a day, and will chat when I can."

It had been a week since then; the longest time they'd gone without talking since their initial reconnection. She knew it would happen, that they'd have to slow down their calls, their activities... but it hurt, anyway.

Her every waking thought was of him, and she'd stare at the other side of her bed as if he were there, as if he could be there. She'd imagine him enjoying coffee with her, making breakfast with her, carrying her back to bed to have his way with her. She'd picture him as she wrote songs—ones now filled with lust and luscious words that often caused her to stop and get some air—and as she commuted to work.

And as she served patrons and endured their drunken demeanors and took their wads of cash and half-bent credit cards, she envisioned Ryan sitting at the bar, dressed in a pressed navy suit, sipping on a glass of fine red wine and ogling her as he licked his soft lips.

"Shit!" She hissed as the pitcher overflowed and foam slithered down to coat her hands in stickiness. "Shit." She grabbed a clean rag and wiped everything off, shaking her head, angry at her distraction. She then rushed over to the bro table and set the pitcher down, and scurried off before any of them could attempt to hit on her.

Later that night, after sanitizing and counting cash and locking doors, Coralie headed home, her mind a blur. All manners of negative ideas prodded at her, breaking her recently renewed positivity.

No one ever kept their promises, not with her; so why would Ryan be any different? Why would he take such risks to see her, to reconnect with her? Why would he sacrifice what he had for her? And why did he even need to talk to her so much?

"He's happy," she said to herself, as she climbed the stairs leading to the first-floor corridor. The lights flickered and her heeled boots dug into the cream carpeting lining the way to her door. "He's married, Cora, dammit."

In her shower, she scrubbed her skin extra hard—as if remembering her actions with him had added a layer of grime over her limbs. As if the mere act of seeing him naked was a terrible sin. She wasn't religious, and yet she feared Karma would destroy her for imagining herself with him.

But as she slipped into bed and plugged in her phone, she couldn't help but glare at the screen, wishing for that ping. Wishing for his name to pop up, for him to send her a kissy-face emoji like he used to, for him to tell her how many times he'd thought of her that day.

The longer she stared, the fuzzier her vision became, but she couldn't stop. She stalked his page, checking when he'd last been online, examining any articles or videos he'd posted that day, and wondering how he'd had time to do that, but no time to talk to her.

"Jeez," she huffed, "I'm an idiot. I'm a smitten teenager all over again." She locked her phone, setting it on her bedside table. "Enough, Cora. Go to bed."

She lulled herself into slumber by picturing a meet-up with Ryan in a swanky hotel in Paris. And despite her worries that he'd change his mind, that he'd take back his promise... she fell asleep with a smile.

***

Mondays were for meal-prepping her lunches for the week, and Coralie usually did a bit of cleaning at the same time, while Delilah ran errands and picked up groceries. They had a system that had worked for years, and both were comfortable with it.

So while busying about in the kitchen the next day, she decided to keep her phone out of reach so she'd stop picking it up and being disappointed that Ryan hadn't messaged her.

As the song "Gateway Drug" by Bebe Rexha came on, Coralie heard a familiar ping coming from her room, where she'd left her cell.

"Shit." She stopped halfway through emptying the dishwasher, peeking towards her bedroom door and quirking a brow. "Should I...?" She set down the stack of plates she'd been about to put away and jammed her fists onto her hips. "But is it him? Because if it is... argh, he can wait."

If Delilah had been there, she would have congratulated her restraint—then yelled at her for caving, because she would have; she always did.

Sure enough, five minutes later, as the dishwasher was empty and she had some time before her oven-baked chicken would be ready, she glowered at her room again. The itch to see if Ryan had finally given her a sign of life wouldn't leave her alone, and after counting to three and breathing in and out, she threw her arms up and shuffled over to her bedside table.

Gulping, she unlocked her phone, and stilled.

Michael Mills: Cora, how are you?

Though her heart pinched a little at not seeing Ryan's name, she was happy to hear from Michael. They'd chatted now and then since they'd bumped into each other at the bar, but he'd never indicated if he was interested in her, never made a move to clarify his intentions—if he had any. She had thought of him from time to time, but her fantasies about Ryan kept her occupied.

Pleased to have a reason to not overthink about her situation with Ryan, she plopped onto her bed and tapped into the reply area.

Coralie Amber Watson: Hey Michael, I'm good! How are you?

She crossed her legs and settled against the wall, peeping out her window at the busy street below. The usual Monday hustle and bustle used to disturb her, which was why she preferred being in the kitchen, organizing her week. But lately her moods were different. She wasn't as grouchy, wasn't as annoyed by the honking, wasn't as upset that it was Monday.

Michael Mills: I'm good. I wanted to apologize for taking so long to do this... but are you available sometime this week? I'd like to take you to dinner, or something else if you'd prefer.

"What?" Coralie tossed her phone across the room. It landed with a thud on the carpeted floor, and she groaned as she fell against her pillows. "Seriously? Three weeks later, you react when I'm all hooked up on someone else? Are you fucking kidding me?"

The front door slammed, and Delilah came running in, breathless, carrying several bags of produce and bathroom supplies.

"What is it? Are you okay?" Her hair was up in a chunky bun, tugging at her chestnut eyes, and her cropped top showed a bit too much of her perfectly flat belly for a simple grocery-shopping trip; yet she looked fabulous, as always.

"Ugh," Coralie shoved a cushion over her face, "Michael messaged me."

Delilah let out a sigh of relief. "Don't freak me out like that. What did he want? Have you heard from RyRy yet?" She meandered into the kitchen, her flip-flops clack-clacking on the tile as she hastened about putting everything away.

Eventually, Coralie retrieved her phone and joined her. "Michael asked me out to dinner."

Delilah pivoted and her eyebrows shot up. "He what? Fuck, took him long enough."

"And no, no sign of Ryan." Coralie flicked through her recent history and pulled up his page. "But he was online an hour ago."

"Girl!" Delilah snapped as she shoved the grocery bags into their assigned drawers. "Forget about him for a second. You were all hot and bothered when Michael showed up at the bar, and you like him, right?"

"Right." Coralie lowered onto one of the mismatched barstools on the other side of the counter. "I did. I do like him."

"Then just go out with him, okay? He's here, Ryan isn't. Hot and fucking delicious as he is, Ryan is taken." Delilah poured herself a glass of orange juice and leaned over the counter to tap Coralie's cheek affectionately. "And as much as the concept of an affair with this hunk is thrilling, you need to ground yourself, babe. Be realistic. Michael is within reach, so grab him."

As Delilah chugged down her drink, Coralie blew out a breath and opened up the chat.

Coralie Amber Watson: I am free, but I am heading to London in a week, so time might be limited. But I'm definitely interested in going out to eat with you!

"Okay, I did it. I accepted," she said, fluttering over to the oven to check on her chicken.

Delilah whipped past her, smelling of cotton candy and flowers. "Good girl. Get under him to get over RyRy."

"Hey!" She reached out to smack Delilah's arm, but the latter was too quick, and skidded out of the kitchen with a giggle.

The thought of getting under anyone repulsed Coralie—except for Ryan. She hadn't had a real sex-drive in years, thanks to Jayden's pressing nature and moodiness when he didn't get what he wanted. In fact, when they broke up she'd concluded she'd probably never have sex again, and it didn't bother her in the least.

But when Ryan manifested his perfect self and unveiled layer after layer—literally—of his soul, sensations she'd repressed came back to life. Flutters in her belly and tingles in her lower areas reanimated when she saw him, when he spoke to her, when he bit his lip and muttered his delicious desires to her.

Would Michael be able to do the same with time?

Her phone pinged.

Michael Mills: Well shit, I'd better take you out before you find some hot stud in London! Are you free tonight? Or tomorrow?

Despite her brain hesitating, and her heart screaming at her to never stop loving Ryan, her gut wanted her to take the opportunity. Michael was a good, decent man with proper manners, a proper big-boy job, ideals and morals. And he was handsome and charming and easy to talk to.

Ryan would ghost her in London, anyway. He wouldn't be able to get away, wouldn't have the courage to come meet with her to reunite after twelve years.

He won't keep his promise, because he's no different than any other guy who has made promises to me, right?

She glimpsed Michael's message, shifted to and fro in front of the oven, tipped her head side to side—and typed.

Coralie Amber Watson: Tonight is perfect.♥♥♥