Chapter 8 Eight

The guest house was a house. Complete, with everything. Bigger than anywhere I had ever lived. It intimidated me a little. And what had made it difficult for me to leave Andrea's house was not that I didn't want to leave, but because I had gotten myself into a situation that made no sense. "Do you do drugs with the musicians?" That was her response when I told her he was giving me a place to stay.

"What? No!"

"Then what?"

"Then what? I need a place to live, he has an empty house. It's a done deal."

"No, it's not a done deal," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her bag. Her belly was huge. "This is ridiculous. Is this how you want to get back at Zachary?"

"It has nothing to do with Zachary. I can't live with you forever. You're going to be a mother soon. If you want to have sex with your husband, I'm in the next room. It's not right."

"It's perfect, not right. You're my best friend, even though you're crazy, and I love you."

It killed me when she got like that, so sensitive.

"And I love you too," I said, sitting down next to her. "But you have to realize that I can't get between you and your husband. You have to realize that your baby is about to be born, that you don't need any more worries."

She took my hand, and I thought she was going to start crying. But Andrea wasn't like that. She looked at me as if she were going to say something even nicer.

"You're going to live with him because you liked the guy and you want to fuck him," she blurted out.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I stood up and she started laughing.

"What? What's wrong? It's great, Sabrina! It's healthy, it's normal. You got out of a shitty relationship with a manipulative asshole who-she opened her arms-was sleeping with another woman. I don't see why you can't like another man.

"Because that's twisted, Andrea."

"So what? You're making excuses. You liked the guy, it's obvious. You hesitate, you think about it 800 times, but you liked him. That's all."

"You just called me crazy!"

"Because I thought what you wanted was for that piece of shit to know you were giving him a taste of his own medicine. But that's not it..." She leaned toward me. "It's something else."

"You're the one who's crazy, your hormones are all over the place."

She planted her feet more firmly on the floor and leaned back on the bed.

"I stalked him on social media. He's hot, he's cute," she raised an eyebrow.

"He's like 40 years old."

"So?"

So nothing, it was true. He was more than hot. He was built like a real man, not like some excuse or imitation. He stood confidently, spoke confidently, looked at you and said things with his eyes. He had turned me on in that coffee shop, I had gotten wet looking at the veins in his hands. Fuck me!

He looked like one of those guys who manipulate you however they want and fuck you without waiting, without asking permission, touching you all over, kissing you all over. Who make you feel like a woman with their overwhelming desire to penetrate you.

"Well, yes, he's heart-stopping," I admitted, sitting back down on the bed. And that's why I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

"Maybe he liked you too. You never know."

"I felt something... I don't know. I think it's more like he feels responsible. The look on his face when I told him I had nowhere to live."

"Yes, you have somewhere to live, stupid!" She hit me on the arm.

"I know, but it's not the same."

Andrea settled back on the bed and looked at me with that "don't give me any of that crap" look on her face.

"I'll tell you one thing. I haven't seen you like this in days. I haven't seen you interested in anything in days. Ever since you broke up with Zachary, you've been walking around like a zombie. And now this guy shows up and your eyes light up."

I hadn't realized it, but she was right.

"Besides," she continued, "after what that jerk did to you, you deserve to sleep with whoever you want. And if he's hot, even better."

"It's not all about sex, Andrea."

"No, but it helps," she laughed. "Look, do what you want. But don't play the saint. You like the guy, okay. And it's perfectly fine to like him."

That was true too, I liked him. Spencer was a man who effortlessly fit into what I considered "ideal." He wasn't someone you had to listen to complaining about life, who wasn't going to kill himself because things weren't going his way. On the contrary, if I closed my eyes, I could see him with his fist clenched around my neck, pulling my head back and thrusting into me relentlessly.

No acting, no "performance," no having to look in the bedroom mirror to feel like a porn star.

I had imagined all that and more. She noticed right away.

"From the look on your face, you've already fucked him in your head," she said.

"Shut up."

"It's true. I know you, Sabrina. When you really like someone, you get like this. Like you're gone."

I had spent the entire conversation in the café thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of me. How it would feel.

"Okay, yes. I like him," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean anything's going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a mess. Because I just got out of a shitty relationship. Because I don't even know where I stand."

"That's exactly why," she said. "Because you need something good. Something that makes you feel alive again. Besides, he didn't offer you the house just to be nice. I know it, you know it, we all know it."

Well, yes. But no. Men like Spencer didn't go around giving houses to strangers. But I didn't want to get my hopes up either.

"Maybe he feels sorry for me."

"Sorry!" she laughed. "Sabrina, please. From what you told me, the guy wants to eat you alive."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not exaggerating at all. You yourself described to me how he talked to you, how he offered you the house. And how you felt with him there."

"It still doesn't mean anything," I said. "Maybe he's one of those guys who flirts with anyone."

"See? There you go again with the excuses. Give yourself a chance, stupid. Give yourself the chance to have a good time for once."

I gave myself the chance. And now there we were, standing in his guest house, not knowing what to do, uncomfortable, indecisive, I don't know. Like a bad soap opera at five o'clock. Looking for something in his face that would tell me what to do: throw myself at him or pretend to be sane and behave like a normal woman.