Chapter 3: Lisa and Winston’s day together.
Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, slicing across Winston’s face like a judgment. He groaned, burying his head under a pillow that smelled faintly of Lisa’s vanilla body spray—cheap, cloying, the kind of scent that clung to everything like guilt. Last night’s library rendezvous—or rather, his abrupt escape from it—replayed in his head like a broken record. Michelle’s fingers tracing his wrist, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered something filthy enough to make his pulse stutter. Then, like a coward, he’d bolted, muttering something about a forgotten assignment.
He rolled over, expecting to find the usual wasteland of empty pizza boxes and discarded clothes. Instead, Lisa was perched on the edge of his desk chair, meticulously applying mascara in a compact mirror, her legs crossed like she owned the place. "Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped, not bothering to look at him. "I made a schedule for today."
A schedule? Winston blinked, trying to focus through the fog of sleep deprivation and residual shame. "A schedule for what?"
Lisa sighed, capping the mascara with a sharp click. "For our day, obviously." She turned, handing him a neatly typed itinerary, the paper crisp between her manicured fingers. "I already made coffee. It’s probably cold now, but that’s what microwaves are for."
Winston took the paper, his stomach sinking. "Our Day," it read in bold, followed by a list of activities that sounded less like quality time and more like a hostage situation. "Lisa, I—"
She cut him off with a saccharine smile. "No buts. My mom wants to see us, Grandpa needs help with his garden, and I have laundry to fold." Her eyes shone with a manic energy that bordered on terrifying. "It’ll be fun."
Winston scanned the itinerary again. "Laundry? At your parents’ house?"
Lisa shrugged, grabbing her purse. "They have a better machine. Plus, Mom likes to fold my underwear." She smirked. "Says it’s therapeutic."
Winston’s face contorted. "That’s… weird."
Lisa’s smile vanished. "It’s not weird. It’s family." She grabbed his hand, her grip just shy of painful. "You wouldn’t understand."
Lisa’s parents’ house was a sterile monument to suburban conformity—beige walls, matching furniture, and framed photos of Lisa achieving various milestones. Her mom, Carol, greeted them with a hug that squeezed the air from Winston’s lungs. "Winston, darling, you’re looking thin," she clucked, pinching his cheek like he was a malnourished toddler. "Are you eating enough? Lisa tells me you’re always working." She shot Lisa a pointed look. "A man needs his strength."
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of forced smiles and strained conversation. Carol droned on about Lisa’s accomplishments, her upcoming promotion at the clinic, her uncanny ability to fold fitted sheets. Winston nodded, pretending to listen, while his mind drifted back to Michelle—her laugh, the way she’d leaned in last night, the explicit text messages she’d sent him afterward.
The visit to Lisa’s grandpa’s farmhouse was even more excruciating. The old man was a miserable, chain-smoking curmudgeon who spent the entire afternoon barking orders at Winston and complaining about the "damn millennials" ruining the country. "Back in my day," Grandpa grumbled, hacking into a handkerchief, "men didn’t need schedules to know how to be men."
As they drove back to Lisa’s parents’ house, the silence between them thick enough to choke on, Lisa finally broke. "You know," she said, her voice tight, "sometimes I wonder if you’re even attracted to me." Winston stiffened, gripping the wheel. "You never initiate anything. It’s like you’re just going through the motions." The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation.
Winston stared out the window, the guilt churning in his stomach.
"Maybe," Lisa continued, her voice barely a whisper, "maybe you’d be happier with someone… more like Michelle."
The words hung between them, sharp as shattered glass. Winston’s grip on the wheel tightened until his fingers ached.
The car swerved slightly as he turned to glare at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Lisa shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "You know exactly what it means."
Winston exhaled sharply through his nose. "No, Lisa. Enlighten me."
She finally met his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It means she’s everything I’m not. Wild. Unpredictable. Exciting." Her voice cracked. "And you can’t stop thinking about her."
The accusation landed like a punch to the gut. Winston’s mouth went dry. He wanted to deny it—should deny it—but the words stuck in his throat.
Lisa let out a bitter laugh. "See? You can’t even lie to me anymore."
Winston swallowed hard. "Lisa—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don’t bother. I’m not blind, Winston. I see the way your face lights up when she texts you. The way you laugh at her jokes like she’s the funniest person alive." She wiped angrily at her eyes. "You never laugh like that with me."
The truth of it burned. Winston stared straight ahead, the road blurring slightly.
Lisa sniffed, crossing her arms. "I bet she doesn’t make you fold her laundry either."
Winston choked out a laugh despite himself. "Jesus, Lisa."
She shot him a watery glare. "What? It’s true."
The tension in the car was suffocating. Winston rolled down the window, letting the cool air slap him awake.
Lisa leaned back against the seat, her voice small. "Do you even want to be with me anymore?"
Winston hesitated a second too long.
Lisa’s breath hitched. "Wow. Okay."
"Lisa—"
"Just drive, Winston."
They rode the rest of the way in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them.
Lisa’s parents’ house loomed ahead, its perfectly manicured lawn a stark contrast to the mess inside Winston’s head.
As he pulled into the driveway, Lisa unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp click. "You know what’s funny?" she said, not looking at him. "I used to think you were just bad at relationships. Turns out you’re just bad at being with me."
She slammed the car door before he could respond.
Winston sat there, gripping the wheel, watching as Lisa marched up the walkway—back straight, head high—like she hadn’t just shattered them both.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Michelle: "Miss me yet?"
Winston shut his eyes.
The car door slammed. He exhaled through his nose, watching Lisa storm up the walkway—her ponytail bouncing with each furious step.
He scrambled out of the car, his sneakers crunching on the gravel driveway. "Lisa, wait." His voice cracked. She didn't turn around.
He caught up to her at the front door, grabbing her elbow gently. She whirled around, eyes blazing. "What?"
"Can we just...talk?" Winston swallowed. "For real this time?"
Lisa yanked her arm free. "What's the point? You've made your feelings pretty clear." She glanced toward the house where her mom's silhouette moved behind the curtains. "I need to go inside. Mom's probably already planning our wedding." She attempted a weak smile. "You know how she gets."
Winston dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on knots. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Lisa! Your mom, your grandpa, your fucking laundry—" He cut himself off, lowering his voice. "I would've initiated something if we had one goddamn second alone today."
Lisa's nostrils flared. "So this is my fault now?" Her voice rose an octave. "I'm trying to include you in my life, asshole."
"No, that's not—" Winston groaned. "These family things are fine sometimes. But they're not fun to do 100% of the relationship." He reached for her hand. "I need you. Just you."
Lisa stared at their intertwined fingers like they were evidence of a crime. "So what, you want to break up?" Her voice wobbled.
Winston flinched. "No! Jesus, no." He squeezed her hand too tight. "I need things to change. Us to change." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "Do you even like being with me anymore?"
Lisa ripped her hand away. "Of course I love you, you idiot." She blinked rapidly. "But I'm the only one trying here. The only one making plans, keeping us together—"
Winston cut her off, his voice cracking. "Lisa, stop. Just—stop." He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots. "Do you honestly think all of this—the schedules, the family visits, the fucking laundry—do you think it's helping? Do you think it's keeping us together?"
The words hung between them like a guillotine blade.
Lisa recoiled like he'd slapped her. "What else am I supposed to do, Winston?" Her voice climbed an octave. "Just let us drift apart? I'm trying! I'm the only one who is!"
A lawnmower roared to life next door, drowning out Winston's sigh.
“Lisa, I’m not sure forcing ourselves to spend every waking minute together without even enjoying each other is enough to keep us together let alone in a good place,” he said.
Lisa would have none of it. “Well not everyone can enjoy life like you want to!” She snapped back.
“Well then we have a major personality difference at our finger tips,” Winston said bluntly, despite his voice trembling. He was angry now. Lisa knew all too well what she was doing and had no intention to stop because it was convenient for her. Winston understood this too. He also understood that if the situation were reversed, Lisa would never let him get away with it. It was always Lisa’s way. Always her way or the highway.
Still, Lisa abruptly came back at him with “Winston - you’re not even my type okay? What do you expect? We can’t just magically have a ton in common.”
Winston recoiled like she’d slapped him. The words hit with the force of a sucker punch, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at her, mouth slightly open, the rhythmic drone of the lawnmower next door fading into white noise. His chest ached like she’d reached in and squeezed his heart with her bare hands.
“What the fuck did you just say?” His voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper.
Lisa wouldn’t meet his eyes, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “You heard me. I’m just being honest.” She shrugged, the movement casual, like she hadn’t just detonated their relationship. “You’re skinny, you play video games all day, and you wear the same three hoodies. I usually go for guys who are… different.”
Winston’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. “Different how, Lisa?” His voice dripped with venom. “More like your dad? More like your miserable fucking grandpa? Is that what gets you going?”
She rolled her eyes. “God, you’re so dramatic. I just mean someone who actually puts effort in. Someone who makes me feel wanted.”
The hypocrisy of that statement nearly made him laugh. Winston ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots. “So after two years, what, you’re just settling for me?” His voice cracked. “That’s fucking great, Lisa. Real romantic.”
Lisa at least had the decency to look guilty. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah? Then how exactly did you mean it?” Winston’s vision blurred at the edges. He blinked rapidly, willing the tears back. He would not cry in front of her. Not now.
Lisa opened her mouth, then closed it again. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Winston swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Well,” he said, his voice trembling, “maybe I should go find out if I’m someone else’s type.”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “Winston—”
But he was already turning away, his hands shaking so badly he could barely get his keys out of his pocket. The world narrowed to the crunch of gravel under his shoes, the metallic taste of blood where he’d bitten his cheek.
He yanked the car door open, collapsing into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever Lisa was shouting after him. He didn’t look back as he peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching.
The road ahead blurred. Winston swiped angrily at his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had no idea where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stay there one more second.
His phone buzzed in the cupholder. Michelle’s name flashed on the screen.
Winston let out a broken laugh.
Perfect fucking timing.
Winston's hands shook as he gripped the phone, the notification glaring up at him like Lisa's final middle finger. "It's complicated" - Facebook's polite way of saying "we're circling the drain but not ready to pull the plug." He let out a strangled laugh. "She changed our status. Without even telling me."
Michelle's grin could've powered the entire café. "Ooooh, that's cold." She snatched his phone, scrolling with the enthusiasm of a detective finding a murder weapon. "And she didn't even tag you in the post? Rude." She tossed the phone back. "Guess you're single-ish now, Casanova."
Winston's stomach lurched. Single. The word tasted foreign, dangerous. He stared at his coffee, watching the oily swirls form and dissolve. "I should call her."
Michelle's boot connected with his shin under the table. "Ow! What the—"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Michelle hissed, leaning so close he could count her freckles. "She just told you you're not her type and changed your relationship status without consulting you. What exactly is there to discuss?" Her eyes burned with something between amusement and pity. "Unless you're into humiliation kink now?"
Winston rubbed his throbbing shin. "It's not that simple, Michelle. We've been together two years. You don't just—"
"Ghost someone via Facebook?" Michelle arched an eyebrow. "Because that's exactly what she did." She took a dramatic sip of her latte, leaving a faint lipstick smudge on the rim. "So. What are you gonna do?"
The café's overhead lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the table. Winston's phone buzzed again—Lisa's name flashing on the screen. His thumb hovered over the decline button. Michelle watched, her smirk widening as he sent the call to voicemail.
"Atta boy," she purred, kicking her feet up on the empty chair beside her. The barista shot her a dirty look. She didn't care. "So. Wanna get drunk and key her car?"
Winston choked on his coffee. "Jesus, Michelle."
"What? Too subtle for you?" She winked. "I know a guy who can get us fireworks. We could spell out 'FUCK YOU LISA' in her parents' backyard."
Despite himself, Winston laughed—a real, genuine laugh that startled them both. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "You're terrifying."
Michelle's grin turned feral. "You have no idea." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Seriously though. You okay?"
The question caught him off guard. Winston opened his mouth, then closed it. His throat tightened unexpectedly. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I thought we were happy. Or at least...content."
Michelle's expression softened. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. "Hey. Her loss, okay?" Her thumb traced slow circles on his pulse point. "Any girl would be lucky to have you."
Winston's breath hitched. Michelle's touch burned through him, erasing Lisa's words if only for a moment. The café noises faded—the clinking cups, the murmured conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine—until all he could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
Michelle withdrew her hand abruptly, clearing her throat. "So. Wanna get out of here?" She nodded toward the door where rain had started sheeting down in silver curtains. "My place is closer. We can drown your sorrows in cheap wine and bad horror movies."
Winston hesitated. Going to Michelle's apartment felt like crossing a line—one he'd been toeing for weeks. The memory of last night in the library flashed through his mind—her lips brushing his ear, her whispered confession about what she wanted to do to him. His face heated.
Michelle arched an eyebrow. "Relax, Romeo. I promise to keep my hands to myself." She paused, her smirk returning. "Unless you ask nicely."
Winston groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're impossible."
"And you're adorable when you're flustered." She tossed a five on the table and stood, stretching like a cat. The hem of her shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of pale stomach. Winston looked away. "Coming?" she asked, already heading for the door.
Winston stared at his half-finished coffee, then at Michelle's retreating form. The rain pounded harder against the windows. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lisa's voice nagged at him—about responsibility, about commitment, about folding laundry. He stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the tile.
"Fuck it," he muttered, following Michelle into the storm.
The rain hit like icy needles, soaking through his hoodie in seconds. Michelle whooped, splashing through a puddle that drenched them both up to the knees. "Race you to the car!" she yelled, already sprinting ahead, her laughter swallowed by the downpour. Winston hesitated—Lisa would've bitched about ruining her shoes—then took off after her, the weight in his chest lifting with each reckless step.
Michelle's Honda smelled like wet dog and regret, the passenger seat permanently reclined at a 45-degree angle. "Don't mind the Cheetos," she said, brushing orange dust off the dashboard with her sleeve. The engine coughed to life, the radio blasting angsty 90s alt-rock at full volume. Winston's wet jeans suctioned to the cracked leather as Michelle peeled out of the parking lot, hydroplaning through a red light. "Relax," she grinned, "I only hit, like, two pedestrians last week."
Rain blurred the windshield, turning streetlights into smeared halos. Winston's thigh burned where it pressed against Michelle's gearshift hand. He should've been replaying Lisa's brutal honesty—you're not my type—but all he could focus on was the way Michelle's soaked t-shirt clung to every curve. The car hit a pothole, jostling them together. Michelle's knee brushed his, lingered. "Oops," she said, not moving it.
The apartment building's flickering neon sign buzzed like a dying insect. They sprinted up three flights of stairs that reeked of weed and stale Chinese takeout, Michelle's keys jangling like wind chimes. "Home sweet shithole," she announced, kicking open the door to reveal a living room that looked like a thrift store explosion. A lava lamp gurgled next to a half-eaten burrito on the coffee table. Winston's fingers itched to straighten the crooked Nirvana poster hanging by one corner. Michelle flopped onto a couch that groaned in protest. "Wine?" she asked, already uncorking a bottle with her teeth.
Winston hovered near a bookshelf crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and suspiciously shaped bongs. Lisa's voice nagged in his head—you're just bad at being with me—but it was drowned out by Michelle's off-key humming from the kitchenette. She returned with two jelly jars full of red wine, sloshing merlot onto her threadbare rug. "To fresh starts," she toasted, clinking her glass against his hard enough to chip the rim. The wine tasted like vinegar and poor decisions. Perfect.
Michelle's knee bumped his again as she curled into the couch's sagging cushions. "So," she drawled, swirling her wine, "you gonna mope all night or are we finally gonna talk about the elephant in the room?" She licked a drop of wine off her bottom lip. Winston's throat went dry. "What elephant?" he croaked, knowing damn well. Michelle's grin turned wolfish. "Oh you know," she purred, "the one where we've been eye-fucking each other for months."
The wine soured in Winston's stomach. He should've denied it, should've defended whatever was left of his relationship. Instead, he blurted, "Lisa said I'm not her type." Michelle's laughter rang out, sharp and delighted. "No shit, Sherlock. You've got the bone structure of a Victorian ghost and the muscle tone of cooked spaghetti." She poked his bicep. "Luckily, I've got a thing for tragic poets and underfed bass players."
Rain drummed against the windows as Michelle refilled their glasses. Winston's pulse pounded in his ears. "What are we doing, Michelle?" The question hung between them, raw and trembling. Michelle set down her wine, her fingers trailing up his arm. "Talking," she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. "Unless you'd rather do something else."
The air thickened, charged with every unspoken fantasy from their library confessions. Winston's hands shook. He wanted to—Christ, how he wanted to—but the ghost of Lisa's disappointed sigh echoed in his skull. Michelle leaned back, studying his face. "Hey," she said softly, "if you want to talk about sex again, that's totally fine." Her thumb brushed his knuckles. "Ask me anything."
Relief flooded Winston's veins. "What's it really like?" he whispered. "The good stuff." Michelle's eyes darkened. "Like your nerves are live wires," she breathed. "Like your brain short-circuits and your body takes over." She described her first orgasm—sneaking her mom's vibrator at 15, the shock of pleasure so intense she'd bitten through her pillowcase. Winston's jeans grew uncomfortably tight.
"Your turn," Michelle demanded, her bare foot nudging his thigh. Winston flushed, then confessed about the jacuzzi jets at 13, the way the pulsing water had made his toes curl. Michelle's lips parted. "Fuck, that's hot," she murmured, squirming slightly. "I've never tried that." The image of Michelle writhing under those jets seared itself into Winston's brain.
Their voices dropped lower, trading secrets like schoolkids—positions they wanted to try, places they'd gotten caught touching themselves, the time Michelle came just from grinding on a washing machine. The wine bottle emptied. Michelle's fingers traced idle patterns on Winston's wrist as she whispered, "I want to know what sex feels like, Winston. For real." Her teeth scraped her bottom lip. "It'll be an experience."
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, counting down the seconds until Winston snapped. Michelle's knee pressed between his thighs now, her pupils blown wide. "Whenever you're ready," she murmured, her hand sliding up his chest, "I'll be waiting."