Dirty Filthy Fix: A Fixed Trilogy Novella (Fixed #5.5)(31)

His lack of understanding riled me up further. I swiveled to face him head on. “I’m not your responsibility, Nate. Don’t you get it?”

“I didn’t think you were. I just didn’t like the way he was coming on to you. I was protecting you.”

There was the protection angle. It was one of my least favorite parts of society’s favorite traditional lifestyle. Men always thought that they knew what a woman needed. Men always thought that a woman needed them. That all women required a chaperone.

Well, we didn’t.

I didn’t.

“I’m not your girlfriend,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and measured in the same eerie way my boss spoke when he was displeased and didn’t want anyone to know. “I had fun with you. And I don’t mind going someplace to fuck, or attending these things together sometimes, but we aren’t a couple. I hate that tonight you had the expectation that we were going to leave together. Or go home together. There are no expectations between us, remember?”

Now he turned to face me, his body as far from mine as it could be in the small backseat of the car. “You wanted to go home with someone else?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying, and not even the point.” I twisted my head away in a frustrated huff. “I should never have brought you home.”

“You didn’t bring me home. I brought you home.”

“And I should never have gone,” I retorted. “Because this always happens. There always comes a point where men, and clearly you are included here, start to think possessively. That you have some type of ownership over me. That was why I set up those rules in the first place. I want to be able to go to these things and not worry about anyone but myself. I don’t want to have to think about who might be getting hurt or jealous, or worry about who expects what from me when it’s done.” My eyes burned.

“I wasn’t jealous or hurt, and I didn’t expect anything. I loved watching you play tonight,” Nate said sincerely. He stretched his hand across the distance to lay it just above my knee. “If you don’t want to go home with me, Trish, then just say so.”

“I want to go home alone.” It felt like a lie for some reason, even though I meant it.

“Fine with me.” His tone was short, but I could tell he was more frustrated than angry.

And to be honest, I was frustrated too. Because I didn’t understand myself. I did want to be with Nate. I really did. But I still didn’t want to compromise the life I’d built for myself. I wanted the rush of the fix without the commitment of the addiction.

Why couldn’t I just have everything?

When the cab driver dropped me off at my house, I muttered a quiet goodnight, which Nate returned, and I couldn’t help wishing it were more. Couldn’t help wishing it were a kiss, couldn’t help wishing that he would at least walk me to my door, or say something that would break this terrible tension between us.

But he didn’t, and I watched the car drive away from the lobby of my apartment building, wondering if I’d fucked up everything. Which was stupid, since there wasn’t supposed to be anything to fuck up in the first place. Maybe I was the one that was fucked up. That would make the most sense.

With my head hung, I rode the elevator to my floor.

Once I was in my apartment and dressed in an old ribbed tank top and cotton panties, I tried to settle myself down. This was my life. My home. My stuff. I was happy, damn it! He couldn’t understand that?

I took a picture of my favorite armchair and texted it to him with a message. Alone means I don’t have to fight anyone for this.

A few minutes later I had a response. And I don’t have to fight anyone over this. Attached was the image of a bottle of bourbon.

Admittedly, it made me chuckle. I wouldn’t have fought him over that anyway.

My amusement didn’t last long. I was glad to be in my home, alone, amongst my things, in my own space, but I was still agitated. I wasn’t sure if my frustration was aimed at Nate or myself, but it vibrated through me, as alive as the sensations of passion I’d felt earlier in the night.

I turned on Hulu and searched for something to redirect my attention. When I found an episode of Harlots that I hadn’t watched yet, I pushed play.

That was something else I could do because I lived alone.

I took a picture of the screen and sent that to Nate. And I can watch whatever I want without anyone arguing over the remote.

He didn’t respond to that. Which was fine. It was weak anyway since these days a pair of headphones and a laptop could settle most viewing disagreements.

But I sent him another text. And I can sleep in my bed, without worrying about anyone hogging the covers. I took a picture of my bed in case he’d forgotten what that looked like.

Petty? Maybe. But it did make me feel a little better. Even though he hadn’t texted back.

Inspired, I got up and ran to the bathroom and snapped a picture of my makeup spread all over the place and the clean white sink. No one yells about me taking all the counter space.

And I don’t have to worry about finding whiskers in my sink.

Still no response.

I took a picture of my shoes that were still on the floor where I’d shucked them off. No one nags me to put my things away.

Then I took a picture of the outfit I was wearing. I don’t have to worry about looking good for anyone. I can sit around in my ugly old pajamas.