What Lovers Do
Jewel E. Ann
CHAPTER ONE
SOPHIE
The neighbors called 9-1-1. They thought my dad whacked off my finger with the weed eater because of my blood-curdling scream coupled with the dripping crimson from my hand. Minutes later, an officer arrived at our house only to discover an injured garter snake. I called him Hercules—the snake, not the officer. We kept him in a plastic container with newspapers on the bottom, small holes in the lid, a dish of water, and a steady diet of guppies and earthworms.
He recovered weeks later, and we released him back into the wild. Dad promised to be more careful when using the mower and weed eater.
Hercules wasn’t the first snake I rescued, but to this day, I believe he was the most grateful one.
“I’m running down to CVS to get some condoms.” Jimmy shoves his bare feet into his grungy white high-tops while rifling through my handbag.
His shoes should be burned. When he removes them, the repulsive blackened insoles exude an odor akin to meat that’s been left on the counter for three days. He lost his job two months ago, and now he showers every three to four days.
“For what?” I ask, my last nerve frayed and inflamed. At this point, he could sneeze and I’d likely stab him fifty times with the butcher knife he got me for my birthday. I can already hear the prosecution making their case and including that little nugget of information.
“Wow, Sophie. You’ve forgotten what condoms are used for. Understandable, since we haven’t had sex in over a month.”
He’s right. We had sex a month ago, on his birthday. And I know what condoms are for—they’re for people who want to have sex with each other and don’t want to get pregnant.
I don’t want to have sex with Jimmy. And … I’m already pregnant. It’s not his baby. It’s not mine either.
“You can’t afford condoms.” I inspect the last clean plate that he partially dried while making a cringe-worthy attempt at seducing me. His tongue was doing some serpent-like thing while he waggled his brows at me, which has me reminiscing with a certain amount of fondness about Hercules the garter snake.
“Funny, babe.” He clicks his tongue like he’s on a horse and ready to go. “Good thing you have a job.”
“I’m not paying for sex anymore.” I finish drying the plate and slide it into the vertical slat above the sink.
Jimmy cackles as any carefree, unemployed twenty-nine-year-old would do and runs his hand through his long, greasy hair. It used to be blond, but now it’s just nasty. Nasty: the official color of my biggest mistakes.
“You don’t have to pay me for sex, just the condoms … unless you’re thinking we should make a baby. I’d crush the stay-at-home-dad gig, don’t ya think?”
I bite my lips together until it hurts while padding my bare feet toward him, my hand clenching the invisible knife. “Jimmy …” I snag my handbag before he manages to rob money from my wallet. “This isn’t working for me anymore. I feel like an enabler, not your girlfriend.” If I were completely honest with him, I haven’t been his girlfriend in over two months—despite the pity sex … I mean birthday sex. What were the chances that he’d lose his job on the very day I planned on breaking up with him?
100%.
I couldn’t do it. I told myself I’d wait until he found a new job, assuming it would take maybe a week or two. I was wrong. So very wrong.
He parks a hand on his hip. “I’m not following.”
Jimmy was smarter when I met him. Quicker to the draw.
Wasn’t he?
Was I that blind? Is a guy with a job and routine hygiene the definition of sexy? I think it might be.
In Jimmy’s case, it’s one hundred percent true. I think I knew he wasn’t going to keep his job for long. He’s … complicated.
His mother has health issues, and he was previously living with her, helping take care of her. That Jimmy was easy to love. Jimmy went to college for two years, but he hasn’t been able decide on a true direction. When he could no longer take care of his mom, he put her into assisted living and had to sell the house to pay for it. I offered to let him live with me because we were together, and it seemed like the right thing to do in the moment. I thought he’d rebound and find his own place.
He didn’t. Instead, he seemed to spiral downward into a mess of resentment toward his dad for leaving them while grappling with feeling like he failed his mom.
“I think it’s time for you to move out, Jimmy. I’m sorry. It’s just over.” What am I apologizing for? Being nice? Too generous? I should be apologizing for having the spine of a gummy bear and letting yet another man step all over me and my generosity.
“Sophie, it’s time to let Hercules free. Little button noses like you don’t need to live with snakes.”
I’m a magnet for charming men who just … flip. Unravel. Lose their way. I honestly don’t know what to call it. I’ve been burned, taken to the cleaners, hoodwinked, duped … more times than I care to admit.
I’m in love with the idea of love.
After my last boyfriend stole my purse and my car, I promised my family and friends that I would be more discerning. I would not rush into my next relationship. I would not open my door to the next sexy guy who needed to “crash at my place for a few nights.”