Communicating Vessels [COMPLETED]

Chapter 41

Three months later, I still hadn't heard from Arthur. He had not tried to reach me even once since he had dropped me off in the parking lot of my building, right after the disaster of the VDO's gala. He had, however, dropped off the telescope he had gifted me for Christmas. One day, after coming back from work, I found it right in front of my door, in its original packaging. I hadn't kept it in my apartment because a telescope was no use there. My windows were tiny, my view obstructed by surrounding buildings, and the light pollution made any observation impossible anyway.

Seeing the telescope being returned to me without even the slightest effort to see me in person, to maybe have a civil conversation, had switched something in me. Just like that, I had decided that I was over him, and that I would no longer hope for him to contact me. Arthur wasn't for me, had never been.

After that, I snapped back to my normal self in record time. In those three months post-gala, I slept with sixteen men and five women, some of them I had met on Tinder, some at frat parties – with all the new members added to my tally, I had now officially slept with all the Sigma members, minus Jeremy – some in bars and nightclubs. I had even met one woman at the store. She was looking for a nice lingerie ensemble for her date and, well, she never made it to the date. The store, though. The fucking store. Its name was the blatant proof of the connection between Arthur and his wife. Eleanart's. 'Art' like Arthur, not like art. How could I have not connected the dots earlier? I had known since day one that they had history together.

All in all, my sex life was now greater than it had ever been and I no longer had the desire to rehash the whys and the hows of that failed attempt at a relationship. Josh would forever remain the only boyfriend I'd ever had, and I was fine with that. In fact, I loved the idea.

I was about to meet number twenty-two PA. Post Arthur. I had swiped right on him a couple days prior, and we had planned a date almost right away. Well, not a date per se. He was coming over and we would have sex. Nice and easy.

I had chosen to wear a skin-tight, long-sleeved, backless black dress with my dearest pair of red Louboutin that I had gotten from that one shift as a waitress for a gala. I usually didn't do black, nor very sexy outfits. However, if I had learned something from meeting people on Tinder, it's that men tended to take it to the bedroom faster if I dressed like a hooker – women, on the other hand, were classier than that. And since I had no intention of having my partners over for longer than necessary, I had adapted to the situation. Bear Grylls would be proud of me.

I had curled my now teal hair – I had dyed it a month before – and let it loose. Men liked long, loose hair. Ugh, how had I become such a man-pleasing creature? I guess the prospect of sex would make me do anything. I was applying a thick layer of red lipstick to match my shoes when my date loudly knocked on my door, startling me.

We're off to a good start, don't you know how to use a doorbell?

I took my time to get to the door, my petty way of expressing my irritation, and opened it to my one-night stand.

Except it wasn't my one-night stand, whatever his name was, behind that door.

My jaw dropped when I met the golden-brown eyes of my visitor. It was Arthur, in flesh and bones, after three months of radio silence. His hands hung limply on either side of his body, the perfect depiction of doubt and insecurity, but his gaze was arrogantly locked on me. For a few seconds, which felt like minutes, none of us seemed to be able to break the silence; we were too busy examining each other. He hadn't changed much, his hair was slightly longer, maybe, but he was pretty much unchanged physically. What did I expect? For him to starve himself because he was too depressed over our breakup to eat?

"You changed your hair," he noted, pointing at my blue-green curls.

Noticing the hair change but not complimenting it, that was the painful reminder that Arthur did not like my style, be it clothes, hair, makeup, or even personality. I didn't bother replying.