Wrong Number

Avery.

It started with a dick pic. A cartoon GIF to be exact, which made things even more odd than if it had been real and walking around on its balls. As a general rule, obscene cartoons from random phone numbers weren’t the most welcome occurrence. And yet insomnia had me wide awake—and curious—because this unsolicited penis GIF made my sleepless night much more interesting.

I put down my phone and glanced around my sparse apartment living room, in need of a distraction. The beat-up wood floor had a polished shine to it, in contrast with the dirty and dinged boxes. They lined the far wall, balanced like the final Tetris round moments before the end. The opposite wall held the dismantled boxes, waiting for me to discover what, if any, recycling options this place had. But the thought of unpacking another one made me twitch. Insomnia would be so much better if it came with superhero cleaning skills. No, scratch that, superheroes made messes. Not once had I seen the Caped Crusaders replace broken glass and rebuild flattened skyscrapers.

I’d have to come up with another superpower to equate to my insomnia. A year of sleepless nights, and all I had to show for it were a few new recipes and a mourner’s heart.

I tapped my phone, my screen coming to life with the image of a fancy chocolate, caramel cupcake and the time: two a.m. I’d been at this for hours, anxiety having a few choice words about my move. I should be tired. I should tackle the next box. Or get my butt to bed.

My bottom lip found its way between my teeth, and it had nothing to do with the cupcake. It had to do with certain other things on my phone, inappropriate ones that looked a hell of a lot better than unpacking. You’re tired, whispered the angel on my shoulder. The most fun you’ve had in a year has been food related, screamed the devil.

Before the angel had a chance to protest, my thumbs had not only located the text but also started a response.

Me: Do you normally send dick GIFs to strangers?

Through my blinds, the streetlight created shadows on the neighboring building. No more trees and clear skies, not since I moved to Massachusetts from Upstate New York for a new job. The move was purely career-related, even if the last fun thing I’d done involved a Bar Mitzvah and a guy who was more of a dick than the anonymous texter. Career or not, perhaps a little fun would be a good thing. Only my phone stayed quiet. Damn, I scared him off. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The Tetris wall called my name. I could probably get the box closest to the window without causing a topple effect my downstairs neighbors would surely hate me for. As I set the phone on a box designated for the kitchen, it vibrated out of my hand, shifting on the cardboard, causing me to jump and clutch my racing heart.

I opened the text before I took my next breath.

Dick Guy: Holy shit! I’m so sorry. That was supposed to go to my buddy.

Me: Do you normally send dick GIFs to your friends?

Dick Guy: When they’re being dicks themselves? Yeah.

I laughed and shifted to the couch, snuggling into the corner to curl up with my phone and avoid the cookbooks stacked at the other end. Much better than unpacking.

Me: But only GIFs? Don’t guys always compare their manhood?

Dick Guy: Compare my manhood to a GIF?

Me: Well, I highly doubt your dick is going to get up and walk down the street.

Dick Guy: This has to be the strangest random conversation I’ve ever stumbled into, but my guy can hold his own.

Me: Oh really?

I bit my lip. I had no idea why I baited this stranger; blame the insomnia or the total lack of anything intriguing going on in my life. This conversation with a stranger was much better than having people constantly check on me, expecting me still to be dressed all in black.

Dick Guy: Are you asking for the real thing?

I squirmed into the couch, body waking up from a long-dormant slumber. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t this person. But this guy had no clue who or where I was, and I kinda liked that anonymous fun.

Me: Yes.

I had no clue who had taken over my texting thumbs, but she was a hell of a lot more bold than regular me.

Dick Guy: I’m not going to find this splattered all over the internet with comments about how the GIF was better?

Me: Is the GIF better?

Dick Guy: You tell me.

An image started to download on my phone, and I squealed and turned it over. Holy crap. He really sent it. I mean, it could have been another GIF, but even if it wasn’t, I asked for it. Not so unsolicited now.

My cheeks heated. It had been so long, since Erik passed away. Before, if I wanted to be honest, Erik wouldn’t have sent exposed private parts over the phone, ease of being hacked and all that. But Erik wasn’t here, not anymore. I was here. Alone.

I turned over my phone. Not a GIF. Not a bad-looking penis, either. Subdued, but I wondered what it would take to get it to a livelier state. Somehow, and I’d blame the late night in a heartbeat, it turned me on. I wanted to see him hard.

But I wasn’t about to let this sender know that.

Me: Are you looking for a rating? I can rate you, but I’m not so sure you’ll approve.

Dick Guy: I thought we were comparing it to the GIF?

Me: Less cartoony, so there’s a plus. But it’s not going to walk across the room, is it?

Dick Guy: You have me laughing at my own dick. Thanks.

Me: Then my job here is done. If it makes you feel any better, breasts can’t walk across the room either.

Dick Guy: You sure about that?

I laughed.

Me: I’d like to see you prove me wrong.

Dick Guy: Hang on.

My phone was silent, and I began to ponder how the hell I had ended up in this odd conversation, when it chimed again.

Dick Guy: Okay, no walking, just a lot of bouncing.

Me: They do bounce. That’s nature.

Dick Guy: Like this?

A GIF loaded, a cartoon character raising her shirt, bare breasts bouncing down, and my core clenched. It wasn’t goofy like that original GIF, and it made me want to be the one raising my shirt.

Me: Not quite like that.

Dick Guy: Oh really?

Dammit, he threw my words back at me. And they tempted. Something about the late night, the restlessness, the lack of easily meeting new people caused me to be bold. I raised my shirt and took a picture of one breast. The flash distorted the image, making it grainy and less real, which was the only reason I sent it.

And promptly had a mini panic attack. I sent a picture of my breast to an absolute stranger. This guy could work with my father for all I knew or be a teenager. Before the panic could explode in my veins, my phone chirped.

Dick Guy: Nice. Not bouncing and yet my night is now complete. This mistake might be the best one in my entire life.

Me: Because I sent you a pic of a breast?

Dick Guy: A beautiful, lick able breast.

I shuddered and pressed my thighs together, finding it nearly impossible that random texting guy managed to turn me on. I wondered if his dick was no longer limp and nearly asked for another view.

Me: Just think, I’ve got two of those.

Dick Guy: Believe me, I am.

Another shudder shocked through me, nerve endings sparking to life without a single touch. I missed this. This feeling, the excitement. This should have been creepy. Stalker going to break into the house creepy. But I felt the false sense of safety from interacting with a stranger. The thrill of it, and thrills had been seriously lacking in my life up until now. My focus for the last two years rarely strayed from my dreams—this move one giant leap closer. Though I couldn’t think of those plans, not now.

I wanted to know if he was hard.

Dick Guy: Thank you for turning my night around.

Me: Anytime.

Dick Guy: Careful, I might take you up on that.

I put my phone on my heart and breathed in deep. A silly smile had to be on my face, but no one would see it. No one I knew lived nearby. The sobering thought knocked the last energy from my system. I picked myself up and stepped over random boxes, making it to the bedroom. Somehow, I fell asleep, wondering what that lick able dick looked like at full mast.

Noise. Loud noise. Must stop noise. I pushed my head up from my pillow, my eyes crusty, hair plastered to my face, and felt around for my phone. My fingers connected with the cool metal and fumbled blindly until blessed silence enveloped me once again. I collapsed to my pillow, hugging it tight, the barest remnants of a dick-filled dream floating to mind.

My cheeks heated and I yanked the blanket over my head. Oh my. Hours before came back to me, and embarrassment dueled with a distinctive turned-on state.

State. The Move. Massachusetts.

The new job!

Shit!

I scrambled up, body tingling with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I had no clue if it had to do with my dreams, but I needed all the fuel I could get. I seriously needed to thank Dick Guy.

Thanking him could be a lot of fun.

No. No thoughts of text messages or dicks, not when I needed to be on my best for my first day. I loved my job. Being a baker had always been how I envisioned my future, if only sleep hadn’t become an issue. Plus, I needed this fresh start, away from the near-suffocating memories that plagued me back home. Maybe I’d save that for an after-work reward.

Yeah, right. Outgoing and me didn’t exactly mix. Cautiously reserved was more my speed, a few hours ago a mere fluke. A fun fluke, but a fluke nonetheless.

Still, thanking him wasn’t a bad idea.

My bedroom and bathroom were set up, and I easily made my way through my morning routine as if I’d done it here a thousand times before. I dressed in comfortable yet sophisticated clothes: a pair of khakis and a silky blue short-sleeved top. My shoulder-length brown hair had to be pulled back into a tail out of my face, and therefore out of the food. I grabbed my coat and my purse, stepped over a box marked “books” and another marked “pillows” even though they weighed the same, before remembering my hearing aids.

Crap. I was too used to my old job, where I needed the quiet to work and no one bothered talking to me anyways. Now, I needed to communicate. Back in my bedroom, I opened the small dehumidifier container and pulled out one behind the ear shell, popped in the battery, and let it whistle as I fit it to my ear. I grabbed the other only to have the shell hang loosely from the mold, before it disconnected and fell back to the cushion inside the humidifier.

What the hell?

In my hand, the ear mold and tubing remained attached to the barest sliver of the mechanical portion of the crescent shell; the rest lay by my fingertips, exposing the inner workings of the hearing aid.

I tried to push the two parts together, say a magical word, and, voila, enchant it back together again. Only it limped apart, a useless piece of garbage. I kicked my bedspread, swear words tumbling from my lips. Three hours, that was how far away home—and my audiologist—was. Meanwhile, I had a half hour before I started my new job, down a hearing aid.

I glanced to the heavens and pointed an accusatory finger. “Whatever I did, I don’t deserve this. Stop blaming me for whatever wretched excuse of a person I was in a past life.”

My life wasn’t that bad, but when shit like this happened, my defenses rose. I left the useless aid on my dresser and bundled up my coat.

“Fake it until you make it,” I told myself. Unfortunately, I’d never been too good at faking my hearing.

I drove to the bakery north of Boston as the sun peeked over the horizon, straining to top the buildings and trees. Cars joined me on the road, other tired and weary people out for the early-early shift of the day. Even in this crowded city, a peacefulness existed. I took in the many buildings. Buildings meant people. People meant customers. I expected to find a different, faster rhythm at the bakery, and a jolt of excitement waved through me. I’d gone from a small start-up to a well-established and sought-after location. People in my hometown knew of Nell’s Place, and not just the bakery snobs like me. This was a dream job for me. A chance to start over. An opportunity to learn and fulfill Erik’s dream. I went over my plan in my head as I waited at a red light: stay here for a year, two tops. Learn how to bake the most coveted rugelach in the area—no other place beat this version or variety of the sweet dessert. Then move back home, open my own shop, and live happily ever after. Mom would toss in meet a cute doctor and pop out a few grandchildren to that equation. I wasn’t going there. Not until I completed my promise to Erik.

Dick Guy rolled to mind, bringing on sharp emotional whiplash but the guilt not as strong as I would have expected, not anymore. The opposite, in fact. I wouldn’t mind getting to know that particular male appendage. But the guy probably lived off in the West Coast. It was for the best. Who knew what kind of trouble brewed with a guy willing to text a picture of his dick.

You texted a picture of your breast, a tiny voice answered. True, and I wanted to do it again. I was never that type of person, but a new city and insomnia had ways of getting to a person.

In an area filled with mostly street parking, the bakery had a tiny lot in back for employees and customers. I parked against the brick building and shook the jitters from my hands as I exited the car. I took a deep breath of the sweet fall air, mixed with whatever glorious baking went on inside—definitely some challah and muffins—and pushed the doors open.

Right into chaos.

Overhead lights bounced off chrome and ceramic. At least six bakers rushed around preparing for the day. Voices overlapped with a loud radio blasting. Down one hearing aid, I couldn’t follow the sounds or discern a damn thing. I stood there, like an idiot, two seconds away from tucking tail and crawling all the way back to my parents’ house, when I heard my name.

Or rather, I heard the three-beat musical equation of my name, but it could really be any three-beat word in the history of languages. I looked left, then right, then left again until I locked eyes on a woman in her fifties with a short crop of gray hair and a big smile. Nell Ruben, owner of Nell’s Place. My new boss.

I waved and prayed she’d take me someplace quiet to chat and get me started. No such luck. She started talking right away, her musical soprano voice blending in with the music on the radio, making it impossible to pinpoint a word. I had two choices: smile, nod, and fake it or reveal my hearing loss.

Option one would surely get me fired, but option two held risks as well. Nell stopped talking, still smiling, waiting for me to respond.

Time's up. Universe, try not to shit on me today, okay?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear a word you just said. I have a hearing loss and this room is very loud and one of my hearing aids broke before I got here so…” I stopped before I rambled myself right out of a job.

Nell’s eyes widened and I braced myself for the obvious. How do you think you can survive in a noisy environment like this? Instead of speaking, she glanced around and pulled us over to a corner, a thankfully quiet corner.

“Is this better?”

Noise still competed with words, but I angled my working aid toward her face, eyes locked on her lips, and was able to make her out.

“Yes, thank you.” I breathed the words out in relief, akin to a dog accepting a treat.

“Good.” Nell jumped right into her spiel, explaining how things worked with large, animated gestures, what she expected of her bakers, including me. She introduced everyone by pointing from our corner, but the names weren’t already in my data bank, and not clear enough for me to latch onto. As soon as I caught one, she’d already said the next three. I smiled and nodded, knowing I’d have to play catch up or beg for a nametag policy.

Nell handed me a pink apron—the only kind she used, her uniform of sorts—and led me to a station already set up with cupcake recipes. Not much of a surprise since I made those for my interview. Also explained my later starting time. My food wouldn’t need to be ready quite as early as the morning breads and pastries.

I got to work, settling into my own world, adjusting to the noise and chaos of my new environment. My station faced a wall, not ideal for someone with a hearing loss. New employee, low on the totem pole. I might not be able to communicate, but I wasn’t here to chat. I was here to bake. Maybe in the future things could be rearranged. For now, I’d make do with whatever Nell handed me.

The smells were better here than any other place I’d worked. Flour, yeast, and sweets all melded together. I didn’t need fancy cupcake-scented candles, just a satisfied oven. Food bustled from the kitchen out to the front to be sold as my coworkers hurried around me. With any luck, no one would try to get my attention and label the new girl as having an attitude problem.

I paused as I waited for another batch to bake, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, taking a moment to tune into the world around me, in case I missed something.

Turned out, I had. Or, at least, I had an audience. A pretty brunette with the most kick-ass angled, asymmetrical bob I’d seen in my life perched nearby, leaning her hip against a counter, one long strand pulled back behind her ear. Made me feel drab with my ponytail.

“I’m Hannah,” she said. Or, rather, she said the second time after I made an idiot of myself by using my top favorite word: what?

“Avery.” I accepted her outstretched hand and firm shake.

“I’m Nell’s daughter, and no, this is not an inquisition. I stole one of your cupcakes after you interviewed and all but begged Mom to hire you. Then my brother tried one and your employment was in the bag.”

I stifled a laugh. “Momma’s boy?”

Hannah held out a hand and rocked it back and forth. “Not in the usual sense. More that they’re both running on about twenty years of Jewish guilt and neither one knows how to break the cycle. My brother demanded more and now here you are.”

This time, I let the laugh out. “Ah, I know this guilt well. I’m never going to live down moving out here and still being single.”

Hannah checked over her shoulder, then leaned in. I prayed she didn’t drop her voice too low. “…you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” And prayed I hadn’t agreed to hand over my first born.

The rest of the day flew by. Before I left, Nell informed me that my cupcakes were already a hit and she was glad she hired me. Good, step one in my plan. I headed home and collapsed face-first on my couch. As always, when I closed my eyes, my mind raced, thinking about everything and anything: from how much coffee I’d consumed to stay awake on the job, to where Hannah got her haircut, to how much longer we truly had until the world exploded. Nothing ever worked to calm the thoughts and after weaning myself off sleeping meds, I refused to get addicted again.

Insomnia was better.

I pulled out my phone and flipped to the dick GIF. How had one wrong text become the highlight of my day? I didn’t know and didn’t care, but I wanted to do something to thank him. Or maybe my libido had taken over and wanted to let him know I dreamt of him, since I scrolled past the dick, to the other image he sent.

I switched to my photo app and added a top hat and tie. Then I texted the picture back to its owner with the caption, never go out naked.

Sincerely pleased with myself, I closed my eyes, hugging my phone. My brain finally quieted down. Instead of the million and one trains of thoughts running, this weird text exchange was the only thing on my mind.

Avery.

“We Are Family” blared from my phone, shaking me awake. I cursed my mother for making that her ringtone, and more so myself for not altering it to something more subdued, like the Jaws theme song. Or a lullaby I could sleep through.

I rubbed my ear, my finger hitting the silicone mold and tubing of my aid, shifting it until a high-pitched squeak occurred. Officially, the squeak was known as a feedback loop created by an ill-fitting mold. I referred to it as my battery checker. If the aid squeaked, that meant it worked and I could answer the phone.

“Hello?” Hearing aid check aside, I hadn’t managed to work myself awake enough to keep the sleep out of my voice.

“Avery, honey, did I wake you?”

I pulled the phone back to check the time, ten p.m. “Why are you calling so late?”

“You don’t sleep much, darling, I figured I had a decent chance of not bothering you.”

Couldn’t argue with that. I stretched, resting one leg on the pile of books at the other end of the couch. “What’s up?”

“How did your first day go?”

I thought of the bakery, of the noise and the atmosphere and the few people I interacted with. “Not bad. Nice place and nice people. Though the kitchen is much louder and chaotic than I’m used to.”

“You sure about this? If the working environment isn’t a good match, maybe you should come home.” Mom’s voice filled with worry, the kind only a Jewish mother could pull off. It warmed me, like a comfortable blanket being draped over my shoulders.

“Mom, I won’t tuck tail and run home right away. I’m unpacking, they love my cupcakes, and I want to learn what I can. I’m not ready to head home anytime soon.” I wouldn’t let myself. Mom might have known Erik and I had planned on opening a bakery together one day, but she didn’t know this last step of the plan: gaining one final recipe to make our menu complete. Now I had to finish this, for him. “But I do need your help. My right hearing aid broke.”

Mom gasped. “Broke?”

I scratched the inside of my empty right ear. Damn ears were always itchy. “Yeah, the backing came off the shell. Can you call my audiologist, explain I’m out of state, and see what they suggest?”

I could call them myself, but I avoided phone calls whenever possible. Talk to my mom or someone whose voice I knew well? Sure. Other types of phone calls were hit or miss on if I could understand the speaker or not. Maybe that made me weak, having my mother call for me. It’s a system we established when I was young. If it worked, don’t fix it, right?

“Of course. I’ll send you a text tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I yawned.

“You sound tired. Get some sleep before you have to go into work.”

I nearly laughed. Yawning or not, there was no way in hell I’d manage sleep, not for a while, at least. Still, I hung up. When my phone returned to the home screen, I found a text message waiting for me. Dick Guy. My libido perked up and wiped away any tiredness with her greed, demanding I check the text. Now.

Dick Guy: You put a top hat on my shriveled dick?

My fingers tingled as though his words caressed me through the phone. I clutched a pillow to my chest, those tingles traveling, spurring naughty thoughts.

Me: Well, you haven’t given me another image to go by.

I tapped my phone, half fearful, half excited about whether or not he’d really do it. In the span of a day, I’d gone from polite dexter to soliciting an obscene picture from a stranger.

Dick Guy: Are you propositioning me?

Yes. I didn’t know where this side of me came from, but I liked it. A lot.

Me: Hey, I just moved to a new state, my pickings are slim right now. And you did text me first.

Dick Guy: No significant other, right? I don’t wanna be that guy.

Not since Erik collapsed and never moved again.

Me: Would I be interacting with you if I had a significant other?

Dick Guy: You never know.

Me: What about you? Should you be talking to someone you exposed yourself to if you have a girlfriend or boyfriend?

Dick Guy: None of either sort.

The fact that his response gave me a little thrill proved how delirious I’d become. They were just words. This guy could be absolutely anyone. He could be on the run from the law or in bed next to his wife and lying. But I couldn’t deny there was something about having an anonymous friend as I started this new chapter of my life.

Me: Good. Glad we settled that.

Dick Guy: You’re not really expecting another picture, are you? I’m pretty sure that moves from obscene to sexting.

Me: Or just friendly, yet inappropriate, banter.

I clutched the pillow tighter, pressing it to my chest in a wayward attempt to sooth my aching nipples. I had no clue why I baited him, or why I wanted another picture so badly, but I did.

You’re lonely. I hadn’t even been here a week, not long enough to feel lonely. And how many friends do you actually miss from back home? These weren’t the type of conversations to have with friends. That makes this even better.

Dick Guy: You’d have to warm me up to it.

Oh boy. I reached for the glass on the side table and gulped down some water.

Me: How?

Dick Guy: Ever text dirty?

I nearly choked. In a game of Never Have I Ever I’d be stone-cold sober with this question. But he didn’t know that. My virtual persona could be anyone and do anything. She’d relish some dirty flirting. My fingers itched to bring her out, to turn this yearning crawling up my spine into a full-blown heat wave. Only I hadn’t a clue how to begin.

Me: You’ve seen my dirtiest texts.

Something I hoped changed soon. I moved the pillow from my chest to in between my legs.

He sent me back a large grin and warmth spread through me. I nearly asked to see what that grin really looked like but felt that would be odd after asking him to drop his pants.

This was beyond ridiculous. The rational chickenshit side of me took control.

Me: You ever get even with your buddy who you were trying to send that pic to?

Dick Guy: Not yet. Since texting backfired, I’m waiting until I see him.

Me: I’m a backfire?

Dick Guy: Didn’t say I was complaining.

Avery, stop smiling at your cell phone.

Dick Guy: Not exactly dirty texts.

I blew out a breath and debated how I wanted to respond.

Me: Maybe I need warming up before I warm you up?

And that sounded a lot dirtier than I intended.

Dick Guy: Oh really? What are you wearing?

My cheeks flushed as I looked down at my flour-spattered khakis and top with smudges of chocolate and food coloring. Damn, better put the pillow in the laundry hamper.

Me: If I’m honest, I’ll destroy the mood beyond repair.

Dick Guy: Granny panties and an old pair of stain-covered sweats, not bad.

I laughed.

Me: Hey, never underestimate the power of granny panties! No sweats, but stained clothes, yes. No granny panties.

Dick Guy: Commando?

I had to unbutton my pants. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I grabbed nearly twenty hours ago.

Me: Pink. Lace. Low rise.

Dick Guy: And you said you didn’t know how to text dirty.

My fingers played at the edge of the lace, running over my heated skin.

Me: Your turn.

Dick Guy: I thought you were trying to get what was IN the underwear.

Yes, please with a cherry on top.

Me: Hey, I sent you a boob pic. That makes us even.

Dick Guy: Only if you share what bra you’re wearing.

A thrill raced through me at his bossy behavior. Perhaps more so because of the bossiness. I pulled at my shirt collar and, what do you know, I managed to coordinate today.

Me: Matching.

Dick Guy: Damn.

Me: Hey, your turn now!

Dick Guy: I could’ve sent you the pic you request but…commando.

I tugged at my shirt, fingers brushing my cleavage. Was it warm in here? It was definitely warm in here. I had the sudden urge to strip.

Me: Do you usually go commando?

Dick Guy: Let me put it this way. I haven’t bought a pair of underwear since my mother stopped buying them for me.

Me: That tells me nothing. Some mothers buy their son’s underwear until one of them dies.

Dick Guy: I cut her off when I was 15.

Me: So your underwear is old, tattered, with stains and tears?

Dick Guy: The drawer is empty.

My skin turned itchy, yearning for something it couldn’t have.

Dick Guy: Do you ever sleep, dirty girl?

Me: Dirty girl?

Dick Guy: Teasing.

Tease me more.

Me: Honestly? Not much.

Dick Guy: Well, as much as I’d love to keep you entertained, I need some sleep. I enjoyed chatting with you.

Me: Hey, I never got that picture!

He sent me another smiling emoji.

Dick Guy: Then maybe we’ll have to chat more tomorrow.

Me: It IS tomorrow.

Dick Guy: Later. Try and get some sleep.

Me: You too.

I squeezed my thighs around the pillow, hoping to relieve the throbbing between my legs. No luck and yet it felt good. I felt good; this odd exchange, the highlight of my day.

Fewer boxes needed to hug the wall, but I no longer had any energy or desire to tackle them. I stripped off my clothes on the way to my bedroom. Once there, I climbed into bed, wearing only my panties, the cool sheet welcome against my sensitized skin. My legs shifted and I rubbed my breasts against the mattress. The thought of touching myself—a little self-serve—rolled to mind. I hesitated. In the past, it never did much for me. Much better to attempt sleep riled up than in disappointment. I closed my eyes, evened my breathing, and tried to let my mind wander. It stayed focused on Dick Guy and the ache between my legs. For a half hour, I willed sleep to come, only to have my body betray me, yet again.

Screw it. I let my hands run over my still-sensitized skin, dipping into my panties. My wet folds begged for release, but nothing I touched gave me any pleasure. A small thrill, sure, but not enough to ease the desire.

I threw the covers off and stared at the ceiling—my tired body no match for my wide-awake mind. My fingers itched to collect the sleeping beds I was put on after Erik died and I stopped sleeping altogether, but that was the reason I had weaned off. I had to learn how to fall asleep without medication.

Tonight wasn’t that night. Waving the white flag of defeat, I pulled on some clothes and headed out to the living room. If touching myself didn’t help me get sleep, perhaps a few boxes would.