Light in Mourning

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I glanced at the screen of my phone before whipping it across the interior of the Jeep. I heard it land with a thud on the seat. Second time today the crazy bitch had called me and I was so over it. So fucking over it. Apparently, she didn’t understand what had happened between us was a one-night-only kinda deal. Don’t get me wrong, not that I wasn’t flattered that she wanted an encore, a repeat performance—that wasn’t even to say I wouldn’t have been interested in the past—but it was a different time. This was now, and I wasn’t interested.

I’d been back in North Carolina for three weeks. Three weeks of living on my boat. Sleeping on a lumpy bed and showering in a too-tiny boat shower. Three weeks since my closest friend Gavin had dropped me here with a pat on the shoulder and a despondent look on his face. I didn’t want his pity; I didn’t even want to see his face. There was only one face that played on repeat in my head; one beautiful smile, one pair of deep brown eyes that flashed when she laughed. In the past month, there was only one face I saw when I was buried deep inside someone.

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