OK … the Psych Myself Up To Tell My New Boyfriend About Sleeping With My Ex Party went well. By well, I mean that I downed half of a pizza and three beers, which, for me, put me solidly in the drunk category. Not the best place to be when trying to coherently confess your soul.
Also, it may have made me a teensy bit emotional. Or it may have been my upcoming period but whatever the reason, by the time Carter knocked on my door, I was half crying, half panicked.
I don't know why I was so freaked out about it. I think it was because Carter's been the first guy that I have really liked in a long time. And he's not damaged or an asshole, which is a new thing for me. Maybe a relationship between me and a guy like that won't work. Maybe I can't be with someone who's kind and respectful without ruining it. But I at least wanted to give it a chance, and I was really worried about how he would take it. Especially since, damn Vic to hell, that Maserati is still sitting across the street, taunting us.
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I opened the door and Carter swayed a little. Oh, wait. No. That was me. I swayed a little and my hand tightened on the door. "Are you OK?" His eyes concerned, his brow furrowed, he stepped forward and grabbed my arms, sort of holding me up.
"I'm fine." I giggled. I don't know why I giggled. I was so nervous and my stomach was in knots and a 15-year-old girl's giggle came out of me. He smiled a little and I wanted to kiss him for it.
"I take it we're not going to dinner." He was eyeing my pizza and the empty bottles of beer, which I swore I had thrown away but nope, they were sitting there, on my coffee table, giant aluminum pieces of evidence. And oh shit, he was right, we were supposed to go out for sushi. The pizza had been a frozen one that I had planned to heat up as just a snack. One piece, that was all I'd have, just something to tide me over until he came. The beer started the same way. One tiny piece of pizza and one beer, just to calm my nerves and pacify my stomach. Then … my eyes drifted over the train wreck on my coffee table. I guess I don't handle stress well.
I'd had an entire speech planned. I'd even practiced it, several times, in front of my mirror. I'd start off with a history of my relationship with Vic, its highs and its lows, the story delicately winding down to my recent lapse in sanity. But instead, with his hands holding me up by my biceps, I just blurted it out. No introduction, no warning.
"I slept with my ex. In Joey Plazen's trailer. The night before he gave me the car."
Then … and my memory is a little hazy on this one … I think I vomited.
Super classy. I know.
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