Dying to Forget by Trish Marie Dawson

hair, orthodontist-made teeth. I instantly hate her.
    “Nah. Just been busy, you know. Work.” Is he dodging her? Miss fake-boobs, perfect hair, ortho-teeth with the should be illegal sexy voice girl?
    “You don’t return my calls.” She sounds as if she’s fake pouting. Uhg.
    “Sorry,” he replies flatly, with no emotion.
    “Are you busy tonight, baby? Want some company?”
    “Umm.”
    What?! You can’t be considering this, Sloan…it’s almost one in the morning!
    “Sorry, Jess. It’s late and I work tomorrow…you know, first thing.”
    Phew. No doubt you dodged a nearly fatal bullet there.
    “You sure, baby?” She sounds ridiculous. What woman throws herself at a man in the middle of the night, when he’s clearly not interested? Is she drunk? She must be drunk.
    “Have you been drinking?” Sloan asks her.
    The silence on the other end is enough to make me want to giggle. She IS drunk and clearly embarrassed to be caught. I listen to their awkward goodbyes and urge Sloan to bed. He flips the TV off and grumbles the whole five feet into his room, but he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
    Oh, Sloan. We’ll work on your laundry list of problems in the morning. Until then, sleep well. I have work to do in here.

CHAPTER 10
     
     
     
    It’s dawn again and my gentle urges to wake him up aren’t working, so I belt out Katy Perry’s Part Of Me until I hear Sloan’s half-conscious voice mumbling in protest.
    “Oh my god, turn it down.”
    I sing louder until he opens his eyes. Yay – light! I stop singing but laugh when I hear Sloan humming the song on his way to the bathroom. For the whole ten minutes we are in there, I attempt to pump him up for a quick early morning run and he surprises me by not being mentally combative.
    We are back in the apartment half an hour later, sweat soaking through the front and back of Sloan’s shirt. He peels off his clothes as he walks across the living room and I sense he’s about to dump them onto the floor.
    HAMPER!
    He balls up his shorts and t-shirt and jumps high into the air to toss them into the packed hamper in the corner of his room as if they are a basketball.
    Hmm…tonight when you get off of work, we are going to do some laundry AND put the clothes back into your dresser.
    I’ve seen enough of his body by now to be comfortable with it in naked form from the chest down, but every time he’s facing the mirror I’m surprised with his looks. I don’t sense from him that he enjoys being attractive, or is even aware of it for that matter. In fact, his self-esteem is very low.
    One thing at a time, we can work on your feelings of self-loathing tomorrow.
     
    ***
     
    The brown-haired woman from Friday isn’t working today and I’m grateful for some reason. The day goes by quickly thanks to the busy Sunday crowd and the only part of the day I’ve had to yell at Sloan was on the bike rides to and from work. I appreciate each good decision he makes on his own and make a point to pump him full of praise when the moment calls for it. But back in the apartment, it’s just him alone with me…except he doesn’t know I’m here.
    What will you make for dinner?
    He searches through the groceries we purchased the day before but there aren’t too many options; it’s hard to ride a bike and carry bags at the same time, so he didn't buy much. He settles on grilled veggies with rice stuffed into some pita bread and a side of left-over fruit salad. I know he really likes the fruit concoction and it makes me deliriously happy.
    Just before he shoves the pita full of rice and veggies into his mouth I get an idea.
    How about some music, Sloan?
    His hand actually hovers in front of his mouth and for a brief moment I believe he’s heard me, but then the food goes in and he takes a massive bite, spilling grains of rice onto his plate. I would pout if physically possible but my suddenly dour mood is lifted when he pushes himself up from the couch,