CHAPTER TWO ╱ Diary Of A Woman

            Men had always been an afterthought for me, yet somehow always at the forefront of my mind at the same exact time. My therapist always references my daddy issues. I always, and as kindly as I can manage, tell her: Fuck off, Janice every single time. I have some work to do, I am aware of that. So is Janice. That's why she sends me a lovely bill every month.

            Silence always stretches between us after that, with Janice's knowing eyes studying me and my avoidant ones eschewing them. We both know the phrase in and of itself has everything to do with my father. Every facet of my life does, rather I'd like it to or not.

            It's hard being a woman whose never felt the hold of her father, a woman who was once a girl who'd watch other little girls her age swirl around the dance floor at the Daddy Daughter Ball while she was left to cling to her mama's soft hands. I was the girl who watched her mama come home, wrinkled from work with tired eyes just to switch outfits and head out again with hopes to stifle enough funds to make it through the next week. To feed the mouth my father would never hear so much as a word from if I could help it.

It's not only my father who seemed to have failed me.

            I was ten when Uncle Buck first cheated on Aunt Priscilla. I went to live with them after Mama passed. Drunk driver. I remember so vividly, not because of the murmured yelling coming from their room the night my aunt found out, but because of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she made my cousin, Smith, and I for two weeks straight. She was too forlorn to make us much else, and Uncle Buck didn't come home for those two weeks. I didn't think he ever would.

He cheated twice more before he realized Aunt Priscilla wasn't going anywhere. I used to admire my Uncle Buck. He was the father I never knew. But when he proved all Daddies disappoint, I learned to expect it out of all men too. My brain couldn't discern between the two, heart either.

Smith doesn't understand, not because he's a misogynist or anything—he's everything but. He was just a Daddy's boy. It's hard to break free of those restraints, awake to the reality of who the person you modeled your life after truly was. We don't talk about it, not then and not now. Especially not now, because Uncle Buck's gone. Pancreatic cancer.

I miss him regardless of it all. And he didn't deserve to leave this Earth so painfully. (I'm an empath, sue me.) (It's okay. No one said anything.)

You're probably wondering why I'm divulging all of this to you anyhow. Well, it's simple. I'd eat forty more of those PB&J's if it means I'll never have to see Travis Brady again.

Not only was the guy a nauseating narcissist, but he also expected a happy ending to our lackluster date. Fuck my theory, I had just wanted to go home by the end of it. But guys like Travis Brady are assertive. Slimy. Sinister. Strong. Tough fucking chance.

His hands hadn't grazed me all night, yet now that there were only two sets of eyes baring witness, they were everywhere. Out of nowhere. All at once. I clamp down on the hand he'd used to cover my mouth. Hard. I kneed him in the balls at the same time. It wasn't entirely effective.

Men in this state were purely primitive.

I grip the back of his sweaty neck and ram into his head like a bull to drive the message home. A headache would suffice. What he'd leave in his midst otherwise would linger forever. Like a scar.

"Shit!" he curses. I watch as he retracts. Shockingly. A stunned look washes over his face, "What the fuck, Lucy?! I thought you wanted this?!"

            I distance myself from him in the off chance I have to make a quick dash, "What the hell made you think I wanted anything from you?" I spit, cheeks flushed and blood racing through my veins. "Was my squirming not enough of a dead giveaway? And why the fuck did you cover my mouth?! If you hadn't, me screaming no would've been your first fucking clue, Travis!"

            He scrapes his fingers along his scalp before idling his hands on either of his hips. He stutters through his next sentence, still recovering from the blow to his balls, "A-a few guys said y-you were into it. ASM or whatever."

            A scoff departs from my lips. Abandoning my guard, I eye him speculatively, "You asked around? And it's BDSM. For fuck's sakes! Yeah, sue me, but I didn't follow you out here for that. I followed you out here to say goodbye!"

            His facade fades with a mere flash. One that crosses his features and pierces me straight through the bone. I prepare for whatever words are going to tumble from his lips, "So much for being the town slut, huh? If I knew you were this much of a prude, I'd have never agreed to going out with you."

            You just can't win for losing.

I step toward him, keeping my eyes trained on his with every last movement I make. When I am toe to toe with him, I rear back and sting the both of us. His face. My palm.

For good measure, I slam the blunt edge of my heel against the top of his sneaker. I pray I lacerated his skin. Even better if his toe is broken.

I didn't wait for him to come to, he'd only be angrier. I dig through my purse to retrieve my keys. I felt the ridges between my fingers as I angled the tip of them outward in case he recovered quicker than I assumed and decided to retaliate.

I make it to the car. Igniting the engine, I speed off, leaving a seething Travis in my midst.

It wasn't until I was miles down the road that I let the tears flow. Swiping them away, I crank the radio so loudly that it succeeds in drowning out my thoughts with a croon from Mazzy Star.

This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

"God fucking damnit!" I shout while simultaneously slamming the lower half of my palm against my steering wheel.

As I wheel into my driveway, I slump forward. At some point I'd shut the radio off, so now all I could hear was the constant hum of the engine. I sat there for thirty minutes. I knew that because when I finally made it inside of my miniature farmhouse, the clock read: 1:27 AM.

It was the same time in Ottawa, where August had landed for the night.

Everything blurred together. I showered, I sipped on a glass of water, I drained a glass of bourbon dry when the water didn't satiate the ache in my chest, topped it off with my birth control pill, and cozied into bed. By the time I was beneath the duvets, it was 2:30 AM.

I press Gust's contact and sent a quick message for him to wake up to, choosing to quell the part where Travis decided to slut shame me.

ME:
Home. Travis Brady is a piece of shit.
Theory wasn't worth it.

I began to plug in my phone to allow it to charge for the night, but it buzzes in my hand before I can manage. August is awake. I was both shocked and concerned. We go back and forth for a while.

GUST:
I'm really sorry, Luce.

ME:
Trust me. I'm not. What're
you still doing up?

GUST:
Couldn't sleep. You going to bed soon?

ME:
Dunno. Need to. You?

GUST:
Don't know. Need to.
Wish you were here. I'd sleep
like a baby.

ME:
You wouldn't. I kick in my sleep
and I sleep talk. Bad combo.

GUST:
You're a chatterbox even when you're
unconscious. Go figure! (thinking emoji)

ME:
Fuck. You. (middle finger emoji)

GUST:
You wouldn't want that. I finish fast
and I have a tendency to cry. Bad combo.

ME:
I miss you, Driscoll.

GUST:
Miss you too, Evans. Get some
sleep. LY. (heart emoji)

ME:
You too, Captain. Spell it out
next time, you asshole. (eye roll emoji)

GUST:
I love you. Sorry, didn't know we'd
advanced to that level, pretty girl.
GUST:
Oh, and Luce?

ME:
Yes, Captain?

GUST:
Travis Brady is a piece of shit.

ME:
Love you too, Augs. Goodnight (heart emoji)

I blacken my phone screen and roll over, tucking my hands beneath my pillow for comfort. There's no better feeling than a cold pillow. The cicadas chirp loudly, surrounding my abode with their incessant croons. It lulls me to sleep. With a lasting thought, a smile coasts along the outer edges of my lips.

Travis Brady is a piece of shit.

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