Where Nerves End

the kiss and pulled back. “Wait. Stop.” I gently freed myself from his embrace and sidestepped out from between him and the counter. “I cant do this.”
He stared at me, hands still hovering in midair between us, and I couldnt tell if he didnt believe me, or if he wasnt sure hed heard me right.
“Im sorry. I…I cant.” I took a step back, putting up my hands to keep him from closing the distance Id created. “I know you want to protect Dylan. I know youre concerned about the whole doctorpatient thing. And I get it. We cant have a relationship. One thats a hundred percent sexual or…or isnt. We cant. I get it.” Hands still up, I took another step away. “But I cant have you for one night, and then pretend I dont want you every night after that.”
Before he could give me a reason to stay, I turned and walked out of the kitchen.
* * *
    Things only got worse. One step forward, ten steps back. We gave in one damned time and crossed a line, and the second we separated, we were farther apart. The houses walls closed in tighter and tighter the more Michael and I tried to avoid each other.
    Every minute in that house threatened to kill me, so whenever I had the chance, I got the hell out of there. I spent hours at the club. Hung out with Seth whenever I could. Anything and everything that didnt put Michael and me in each others crosshairs.
    Tonight, when I left, I didnt have a conscious destination in mind, but when I got there, I wasnt surprised. After all, in spite of my hurry to vacate the house, Id taken the time to grab a shower, make myself presentable, and double check my reflection in the rearview before Id pulled out of the driveway. I had on a little bit of cologne, and my lucky silver chain rested across my collarbones. Where else could I have had in mind except here?
    I locked my car and wal ked into Jacks.
The guys were hot, just like they always were, and more than a few had stripped down enough to show off the beginnings of their bronze pre-summer tans. Tight leather, tight denim, tight shirts. Grins and winks, suggestive looks, pickup lines— his next drink is on me . Summer wasnt quite upon us, but it was sure as hell hunting season in here tonight.
Now that I was here, perusing the faces and butts to see if anyone looked attractively distracting or distractingly attractive, it occurred to me that this might not be the best approach to getting Michael off my mind. It was one thing to use sex to ignore my financial issues or whatever other drama had parked itself in my reality. It was an entirely different one to use sex I sort of wanted as a diversion from sex I really wanted. Kind of like killing a craving for expensive wine with that boxed crap they sell at the grocery store. It sort of scratches the itch, but really just makes you hyperaware of what youre not getting.
It worked once, though. Well, sort of. I couldnt say Id gotten Michael out of my mind that night, but at least Id gotten laid. An orgasm was nothing if not a momentary distraction. A very momentary distraction. At this point, Id take what I could get, so I kept looking.
Icouldnt even tell the attractive men from the unattractive ones. They all blended together, everything from the superhighlighted hair to the flashy shirts to the skintight pants, blurred into one colorless, featureless scene devoid of what I was really looking for. There were no forty-somethings, no cowboy wannabes, no twinks, no my type or Seths type. Just a gray sea of drinking, undulating, dart-throwing not Michael .
Sighing, I turned back toward the bar. Who the hell was I kidding? Whether Michael returned the sentiment or not, I wanted him, and not in the same way I could make myself want any man in here. This wasnt a night when just any warm body would take the edge off. It was Michael, or no one.
No one it is.
I pushed away my barely-touched drink, dropped a five next to it for the bartender, and left, but I didnt go straight home. With the window down and the radio blasting, I drove around town. To the Light District. Up north by Tucker U. Down to the south end by East Centennial State University. East Cent, as it was called. I went by a few clubs that looked promising, if only for an evening of some smooth jazz and cold beer.
No, too restless. Too wound up. Jazz could usually relax me— and there was plenty of it in this town—but tonight, I was sure it would just remind me of how much I couldn’t relax.
I had to go home eventually, so around ten