Thirteen
SORA
The problem with sleeping with someone is that it clouds our judgment. According to actual science, the lateral orbitofrontal cortex is less active during sex. That’s the part of our minds responsible for reason, decision-making, and value judgments. In other words, our brain.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Everything is not okay. I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’ve just had the best sex of my life, during a month when I’m supposed to have no sex whatsoever. Because … the universe hates me. Because this is rotten timing. Because how can I keep having sex with Jack Mann and give Arial the articles she wants, not to mention keep on feeding the fans? Who are, by the way, filling up every available DM with their need for more and more and more.
My ex is pressuring me to get with her. Can I take one night off? What are the rules of #SoloFeb? asks one.
My mom just tried to set me up on a blind date, but he’s kind of cute. Can I really ask him to wait until March? Is that reasonable? asks another.
My best friend says casual sex is okay during #GoSolo because it’s about avoiding deep emotional commitments. True or false? asks a third.
Can you #GoSolo if you’re married? This reader got an equal amount of blasting and support, with people divided into two camps. So, now, it was up to me to issue an official ruling from on high.
It’s almost too much. People are really trying to navigate #GoSolo, and they’re treating me like the ultimate referee. I guess I did come up with it, but am I the Supreme Court on dating now? Seriously? Me?
This is all wrong.
Not to mention, with my own #GoSolo slipup, I’m increasingly feeling like a fraud, weighing in on arguments online, telling people they must stay strong when I didn’t.
Still, I’ve got just a little less than two weeks left until the end of February, I remind myself. I can just suck it up. Can’t I?
I say goodbye to Jack Mann, even as I worry someone might see him leave my apartment. But who? Arial? I made sure to watch her walk down the street all the way to the L stop. I don’t need her circling back and catching Jack Mann in his morning walk of shame. Pam might rat on me, too. That would be terrible. I remember her side-eying Jack in the hallway, and wonder if she’s planning to blow my cover.
I’m racked with guilt, and yet, I don’t really regret anything, because … I just had the best sex of my life. Maybe there’s some way to still go solo but not be Mann-free?
“Sounds like you’re trying to have it both ways,” says Stella. We’re grabbing a quick lunch nearby at a vegan diner. It’s kosher and healthy, which Stella loves, and I happen to love their sweet potato fries, so it all works out. Outside, a brutal February wind kicks down the street, knocking the snow off the tree branches, as passersby waddle by the window bundled in hearty woolen layers: ankle-length coats, thick scarves, ski caps, and striped mittens. Even the dogs on leashes have on their puffy coats today.
“Well, of course I’m trying to have it both ways. And Jack Mann? All ways.” I stretch out my ankle, which is much better. There’s still swelling and it’s a tad tender to walk on, but I ditched the crutches and can hobble most places without them. Jack’s tender loving care the night before must’ve sped up my recovery, because now I hardly even have a limp. Amazing what a half-dozen orgasms will do.
Stella pushes up the thick wool sleeves of her chunky sweater and squints at me. “You didn’t tell me you slept with him.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t sleep with him.” I may have only mentioned the kissing part. I didn’t mention the him-buck-naked-in-my-apartment-when-Arial-arrived part. Or the part about the many, many orgasms achieved in the wee hours of the night. “What! Me? No.” I study the menu as if it’s the fine print of a winning lottery ticket.
“You’re a terrible liar. Also, you have that ‘I spent the night making love to a gorgeous man’ vibe. You’re actually giggly.”
I giggle. “No, I’m not.” I giggle again.
“I rest my case.” She stares at me. “Also, you have stubble burn.”
“Where?” I reach up to feel my face. I thought it was windburn.
“Everywhere. Even your neck. And your arms. Did he lick you from head to toe?”
“Maybe.” I shiver, remembering. I’ll let him exfoliate my whole body with his beardstache any damn day of the week.
She shakes her head at me. “What happened to Solo February? To solidarity? I’ve kept the pledge!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Your readers will be disappointed if they find out.”
I sink my face into my palms. “I know,” I groan, thinking of the two dozen debates on #GoSolo that I weighed in on just this morning alone. “I can’t be trusted. I just can’t!”
The waiter drops off two glasses of water. “I’ll be right back to take your order!” he promises. There’s only one waiter for the whole diner, which is surprisingly busy at 11 A.M. on a weekday. But I’m in no rush to get back into the polar vortex outside, anyway.
“This is not something out of your control, and I don’t think it’s lust that’s driving you.” She takes a thoughtful sip of her water. “I think it’s a desire for approval. It’s because inside, you don’t feel worthy of love.”
“I sound like the subject of an after-school special.”
“I’m serious,” Stella continues. “Your dad was short-tempered with you, and your mom is always trying to put you on a diet, so you look for men to tell you that you are good enough, and you seek that approval from men in bed—especially assholes.”
“Jack’s not an asshole.” I have her there. Jack’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Period. Full stop.
“Okay, okay.” Stella raises her hands in surrender. “Jack’s different. You’re right. He does seem like a mensch.” She studies me a minute. “But are you sure this is the right time for him?”
“No. It’s not. I’m supposed to go solo.”
“Right. Because you were going to do some soul-searching in February,” she reminds me. “And not just rush into your next relationship.”
“That, and because it was a catchy series title for Arial.” I sigh. “Also, it gets worse. I’m supposed to be on Let’s Talk! this week. Apparently, Solo February has so many followers that I’ve made the local news.”
“Seriously?” Stella looks both impressed and alarmed.
“What if everybody finds out I’m a fraud?”
“Hey,” Stella says, pushing her thick, black curls off her forehead, as she settles into what I call her therapist stance: shoulders squared, eyes locked on mine, palms flat on the table. She vibrates with sincerity. “You know you are enough. Just all on your own. You don’t need anybody or anything to save you. Jack sounds great, but if he’s as great as you say, he’ll wait. And getting into a bind where you’re lying to your boss and to the Let’s Talk! audience, that’s just not good. You’re only as sick as your secrets.”
“Then, if I just have one, doesn’t that make me not very sick?”
Stella sighs, shoulders slumping. “I think you’re missing the point.”
“Am I?” I know I am. Deliberately.
Stella sucks in a breath. “I’m sure Jack is great—he’s just not the answer to your problems. You are.”
“You know your therapist speak doesn’t work on me.” Though it does, kind of, and we both know it.
“Maybe you ought to do some self-care, be nicer to yourself. Give yourself a break. Also, you need to parent yourself a little more. Maybe make healthier food choices, like less bacon.”
“I know your feelings on bacon.”
“I just think you should make more healthy choices.”
“I feel…” I glance at the vegan menu, suddenly craving bacon with my sweet potato fries. “Like eating more bacon.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Stella shakes her head, but she’s grinning, so I know there’s no hard feelings. Also, she already knows I’d make the worst patient on earth. She’s already told me that.
“Hey, mind if I interview you really quick for the column? I like the idea of delving more into this self-care stuff. That’s perfect for Solo February.”
Stella shakes her head slowly. “Self-care isn’t just for February. You should do it all year round!”
“And that, my friend, is going to be the headline.”
When I head back to my place, I take it slow on the icy Chicago sidewalks, as I meander through my eclectic neighborhood: half new condos, half old brownstones, all Chicago. The wind dies down, and the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, and suddenly it’s warmer than the usual February afternoon. Just your typical temperature swing in the Midwest: one second, it’s Antarctica. The next? Florida. The sun melts a little of the snow from the sidewalk, making the street gleam wet as if it’s just rained, and a few brown puddles pool at the intersections. I leap over them, thankful my ankle is nearly back to normal.
My phone pings with a message from Jack.
Hey, gorgeous.
Seeing that makes me feel all warm inside.
Hey yourself, I text back. It’s been only a few hours since he’s left my bed and he’s already checking in? This seriously might be the man I marry.
Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.
I’m thinking about you, too. Naked in my bed.
I text it before I can stop myself.
Mmmmm. I like how you think.
Oh, boy, we’re on our way to a sexting session, and that’s not going to work for me here out on the sidewalk in Chicago. Abort!
Was just talking about you to my friend, Stella.
I hope good things?
ALL good things, I write and only feel slightly bad about the lie. Jack doesn’t need to know about Stella’s hesitations.
Maybe we could get together again?
I stop, dead still, and glare at my phone.
Also, I forgot to ask … today being THE holiday. Will you be my valentine?
I haven’t ever, in my entire life, had a man ask me to be his valentine. I don’t actually know what to say.
A car honks at me, and I jump, realizing that I’ve stopped in the middle of a crosswalk. I throw my hand up in an “I’m sorry” gesture and hurry across the street.
I’m not too far from Margo’s, I realize. What could it hurt if I just dropped by to say hi?