Page 27 of Faking the Goal

The thought alone makes me feel like I'm entering my retirement era.

Celibate.

Me.

Taylor Lewis.

A woman whose libido regularly makes decisions before her brain even gets a vote.

This is terrible. This is catastrophic. This is a humanitarian crisis.

How long am I supposed to do this? A month? Two months? Six?

Jesus Christ.

I might actually qualify for sainthood by the end of it.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize I don't really have a choice. Because as much as it physically pains me to give Kentaro even one microscopic point in his favor, I need to be more careful.

Because right now, I have some anonymous asshole leaving flowers outside my apartment and writing notes about a connection I apparently shared with him, and I can't even figure out which man he's supposed to be.

Yeah.

That's... not great.

Maybe what I need isn't another distraction.

Maybe what I need is time.

Time to figure out who the hell I am when I'm not running from one party to the next. Time to find something safer to do with my weekends that doesn't involve alcohol, strangers, or waking up the next morning trying to remember where I left my bra.

What that something is, I have absolutely no fucking idea.

Book club?

Pottery?

Bird-watching?

Competitive knitting?

God, I sound ninety years old.

I slump farther into my chair and rub both hands over my exhausted face.

This sucks.

Being responsible sucks.

Personal growth sucks.

Kentaro Azuma sucks.

And if that smug bastard ever finds out I agreed with a single thing that came out of his mouth, I'll personally launch myself into the sun.

"So."

Poly's voice finally drags me out of my thoughts, and I blink several times before forcing my attention back to the front of the room.