Author's Foreword: This series has themes of romance, sex, friendship, humor, safe and consensual BDSM, and above all, intimacy and the concept of memory. Any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental. I want you, reader, to come away with more empathy, appreciation, and joy for yourself and others than you began. As I did when writing this.
Note on Part 11:
***
***Early Summer***
My phone rang, and I glanced at it and sighed.
"What?" Erin asked, pausing the DVD and getting up to stretch. I couldn't help but stare at her. She was graceful and sexy whether still or in motion, but stretching was one of my favorites, showcasing her decades of flexibility training. It didn't matter what she wore, though her clinging pants and tight, plunge-neck top certainly worked for her. She liked showing off, and more importantly knew how to do it well.
"My, uh... my last ex, Natasha," I admitted.
"She still calls you?" she snorted, "And you both still have each other's numbers? I thought you said she broke up with you?"
"She did. But we may have hooked up a few times after we broke up. Kinda pathetic on both our parts." Erin patted my leg as if to say that everyone had done something like that.
"I'm getting more popcorn. Want some?" she asked, walking away towards the kitchen. It was a stormy day, and we'd decided to watch a movie for a bit at my place before going to a museum later.
"No thanks," I replied. She came back in, munching on another handful with a large bowl in reserve, and sat down. She had stolen my sweatshirt earlier as a blanket for her lap, and now she put it on her tiny, athletic frame like an oversized poncho. The same shirt had once made an excellent fit over Natasha's mouth-watering curves, the color of the fabric offsetting her lion's mane of auburn hair.
"Not enough salt," Erin observed as she resumed the movie. We were a few more minutes into the movie before my phone rang again. I muted it. When the phone started to buzz with successive texts, I groaned in exasperation while Erin laughed and threw popcorn at me.
"She's drunk and wants you to fondle her ego," she said confidently.
"She lives in another state, just like Andrew," I reminded her, "so why would she even bother? Besides, she's more than pretty and she basically jumped ship because she wanted to see what else was 'out there.' I'm sure her 'ego' is doing fine, and frankly I don't care. No idea why she's calling me." Erin made a sour little face when I mentioned her *actual* boyfriend's name. I was probably making a similar face talking about my old girlfriend.
"Yeah, yeah. But I know a thing or two," Erin insisted, "Besides, if I were her I'd be thinking about you, too. I know exactly what she's found 'out there,' and she has definitely been kicking herself." She reached over and squeezed me through my jeans.
"Thanks, but I'm calling bullshit."
"Wanna bet, Mister Self-Esteem?" She tossed more popcorn at me and smirked when I tried and failed to catch a piece in my mouth.
"Bet what?"
"That she's lonely and missin' that dick. And I'll double down and say she's drunk, too."
"You're wrong. What's your hypothetical wager, though?"
"You win, I give you your sweatshirt back. I win, it's mine. And to make it interesting, you gotta stay on the phone until I say to hang up." My eyes narrowed indignantly.
"What do you mean 'back?' That's my favorite sweatshirt. You borrowed it ten minutes ago because you were cold."
"And you wore it around some chick you're sleeping with? Ha! Dummy. But I'm sure you'll get it back soon," she grinned, "Not like you're going to lose the bet, right? Don't worry, you'll be happy either way. I promise."
I picked up the phone and scrolled down until I got to Natasha's name. At least I'd had enough self-respect to take her off my 'favorites' list. I felt some trepidation and bitterness. I may have actually loved her for the year and a half we'd been together, and it hadn't been all that long since she'd dumped me.
Since I'm writing this from the perspective of middle age, however, I have to be honest and admit that it might equally have been a naive young man's notion of "love," with nothing but excitement and sex and ultimately shallow understanding of another person. Then again, it certainly hurt like love. And occasional thoughts of her are even now equally angry, sad, and disappointed - with myself. So maybe I really did.
Natasha, if you're out there: You had such a wonderful smile. I'm glad we found each other when we were both fairly new and needing tenderness. I'm glad we could give that to each other, and I'm sorry that it didn't work out. I certainly had some growing up to do. We both did, and we may have been too young to do it together. Perhaps you understood that fundamental shortcoming in some way, and that's why you decided it had to end. I genuinely hope you're doing well and that life has been kind to you. And I like to imagine you live somewhere with a wonderful book store you can walk to. I forgive you for the hurt you caused me, and I am sincerely sorry for any hurt that I caused you.
That said, you might want to skip this next part. Let's just say we're square for that one stunt you pulled.
As I called Natasha back, in the corner of my eye I saw Erin deliberately set the popcorn aside, wipe her hands and face, and reapply her luridly-colored lipstick. The phone rang for a few seconds before an intimately familiar voice answered.
"Luke?! Oh my God, hiiiii!" Natasha was always loud and excitable, but this was an extra level. And a bit slurred. I winced because Erin definitely heard it. She held up two fingers, then put one down: she'd been right about the drunk bit, now it was just the other part.
"Hey, 'Tasha," I said, feeling a familiar, broken clench in my stomach, "Everything okay? I saw you called a few times."
