Page 2 of Resist
She crouches so she’s face-to-vag with my lady bits, grabbing my hips for added effect. “When was the last time you got some good D?” She turns her ear to my body like she’s waiting for my pussy to answer her.
She looks up at me with sadness in her eyes. “Just what I thought. Too fucking long.” She stands and holds me by the shoulders. “Coco.” She heaves out a sigh. “I’m not trying to rush your grief journey. But I’m concerned about your clit. She’s on life support. She needs a good...” She makes a buzzing sound like she’s defibrillating my clitoris.
I can’t help the giggle that slips through my lips. She’s not wrong. But I get all the orgasms I need from my army of battery powered boyfriends. They’re all fully charged, take orders, don’t answer me back, and are good to go at whatever time of day or night I need them.
They don’t have fragile egos or get too attached, either.
Win. Win.
“I’m also worried about your mental health.” She studies my face with narrowed eyes, the flash of gold metallic eye shadow across her lids catching the light in my living room. “Please?” She squeezes my shoulders. “I’m concerned. I’m your friend, I care, and I know you’re not okay even if you pretend you are behind that boss-bitch armor...”
I nibble my lower lip, afraid to speak the words that are collecting in my throat. It’s true, even before Dad died I was isolating myself. Partly on purpose, partly by accident.
How does that even work? I guess Dad’s whole “you don’t need anyone to succeed, you can do it by yourself,” teaching really sunk in.
Either way, the list of contacts on my phone is embarrassing. And far from extensive. Those I could call in a life-or-death, ride-or-die emergency are limited to Phoenix and Madeline, my two best friends.
First week of college, more than a few years ago now, I joined a hot yoga class. I guess I wanted to betrendy. But about ten minutes into the class I realized I’d made a truly terrifying mistake. Sweat was trickling into places sweat should never be, and my muscles were begging for mercy.
Somehow, I made it through, and at the end of the class I spied two women who, like me, were being propped up by the walls of the still-steamy room. We had smoothies together, bitched about fitness classes, societal expectations of women, trashed the patriarchy—and smoothies—and brought our luminous green, healthy-as-fuck drinks with us to the local pizza place.
Maddie and Phoenix are the only reason I stuck it out at hot yoga, and we’ve been together as a sass-filled trio ever since. They’re all I’ve got.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Having two people I can call in the middle of the night with a crisis—or even just because I’m lonely—iswaymore than some people have, but I get her point. I’ve been somewhat... absent. From everything. I never felt like I was missing out on anything. Not to mention, if Dad could do it unaided, so could I.
“Don’t make me invoke the rules,” she cautions.
“Fuck. Is it really that bad?” I already know the answer before she speaks.
Her eyes soften as she nods her head. “When was the last time you came out with me and Maddie? Evenjust for a coffee?”
My stomach dips like I’m approaching the crest of a roller coaster. Surely it hasn’t been that long. A long pause and a frantic brain search coupled with the knowing look on her face tells me it has been precisely that long. Maybe even longer. Shit.
“When was the last time you went on a date? Or had a non-mechanical orgasm?” She purses her lips.
“When was the last time you went to the spa, or the hairdresser, or created something?” She gestures at some of my pieces gathering dust on the shelf.
Each question seems like another arrow to the heart. And while I know she’s not being unkind, it feels like an attack. I don’t even know where my pottery wheel is, or the last time I used it. I guess depression—the word sticks in the back of my throat—robbed me of my creativity without me having noticed.
I may be coming back to myself, but I still don’t feel that itch to craft, to express myself. At least not yet. I’m hopeful it’ll return. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s noticed.
“I’ve... I’ve been... busy.” My pathetic excuses die at the back of my mouth as I look one of my favorite people in the eye. Why can’t I just tell her straight? It’s not like she doesn’t know. And I don’t lie. It’s something Dad taught me when I was young, and it stuck with me ever since.
Being raised by a single dad wasn’t always easy, but he imparted wisdom on me throughout the years that I’ve tucked away in my mind and my heart for safe keeping.
Never lie, Corabelle. Especially to those you love.
Dad’s wisdom even found its way into the first rule of friendship within our trio.
Rule #1: Always be honest, even if it means admitting you ate the last slice of pizza.
“Depressed. It’s okay to say it out loud, you know. It’s not something to fear or be ashamed of.” She waits like I’m goingto repeat it, but for some reason, I still can’t bring myself to say it out loud, it’s like I should be above falling victim to something like depression, you know? I’ve always been strong, capable, and this...thingfeels like it’s robbed me of pieces of myself without me even noticing it was taking up residence inside my body.
“It comes for everyone at some point, Coco. But it’s time. We’ve given you space to process, you’re on meds now... it’s time.”
I tilt my head to the side. Just how bad has it gotten? I thought I was functioning... surviving? Either way, other than not being my occasionally social self, I didn’t think it had gottenthatin the weeds.
She sighs. “If it wasn’t so dire would I have left Protocol on a Friday night to come here and drag you out kicking and screaming?” She holds my stare, concern etched into the lines across her forehead and the way her mouth is pursed. “You know I love my Friday Floggings.” Her smile is forced, but her eyes are sad. She’s really anxious. Because of me.