I’ve spent the past few days searching for the guilt inside of myself, and all I’ve found is an unsettling sense that I’ve done something that will ruin my perfect life. I’m not as sorry as I should be, and the more I think about it, the more I want it to happen again. So instead of searching my soul, I’ve resorted to searching through my lingerie drawer for something that will distract me while I readjust to him being back. I need to fuck this feeling away. And if Hunter’s done with me, I’ll need David to oblige. Freshly showered and shaved smooth, I stand wrapped in a towel, looking through rainbow layers of lace and silk, all white and violet and pink and blue. It’s a pale, pastel version of what I used to think was sexy. I’ve spent a small fortune on delicate, vulnerable giftwrapping for a body that I assumed was delicate and vulnerable, but I now know better. My tryst with Hunter confirmed what my body’s been telling me for the past year: that I’m anything but delicate.
