Collided: Chapter 2

PRESENT DAY

Not to be dramatic, but I just experienced the worst sex of my life.

No, I’m not joking, but I wish I was. It’s the whole reason I hide in my bathroom, whispering to myself while the object of my frustration lies on my dorm bed.

Andre Bianchi: math whiz, business fraternity vice president, and voted most likely to leave you unsatisfied two rounds in a row.

“I should have taken the flavored condoms as a warning sign. No self-respecting male who has an inkling of a woman’s body would have flavored condoms. Stupidest purchase ever. Also, who invented those because no woman in their right mind wants to lick a condom!” I whisper to myself, brushing down my barely ruffled blonde hair. It’s further evidence supporting my sucky sex life. My hair looks as good as it did this morning when I brushed it. My makeup is barely smeared, and there are zero signs of rosy cheeks or post-coital glow. Green eyes blink back at me, looking as lackluster as my sex life right about now.

My chest squeezes to the point of difficulty breathing, reminding me of my disappointment yet again.

Clearly, I’m getting more A’s than orgasms at my university. I don’t know why the thought bothers me, but it really does. I don’t sleep around, and I can count my sexual encounters on one hand. Worse, none of those include a happily ever after for me. I’m starting to consider myself broken because how can this keep happening to me? The guys get off fine while I blink up at the ceiling, wondering what I experienced.

No endorphins released. No post-sex bliss. Nothing. Niente. Nada.

This recent encounter hits me hard. What’s the point of attending university if I’m going to live in my dorm, barely associating with others, experiencing sex once a year with a fellow bumbling accounting major? It ends with me asking them to go with a smile, pretending they rocked my world when I really sucked their dick while mentally listing off my pending assignments.

“Oh God. I thought about my accounting professor while giving a blowjob. This is the lowest of lows,” I mumble to myself, barely withholding a groan.

I can’t allow this to happen to me anymore. My type A personality is biting me in the ass, and not exactly in the Hi, my name is Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey is my daddy kind of way.

“Sophie, you’re going to march out there and tell him to hit the road. It’s past your bedtime, and you need to sleep off this terrible mood.” I sigh as I gather the courage needed to face the poor guy outside.

Andre was nice and polite, even offering to pay for dinner before. I don’t mean to be rude, but I struggle to understand my feelings right now. To be honest, I feel more disappointed in myself for not letting go, both mentally and physically. It’s a genuine struggle between fighting for control while attempting to take a mental vacation from my brain.

I grip the handle of my bathroom door and whip it open. “Hi, sorry about that. I think it’s—”

I let out a breath of relief as I check out my empty bed. Maybe tonight isn’t a total bust after all. My eyes catch a piece of paper on top of my pillow.

Thanks for a good time. Let’s do this again next weekend? 

Nope. Absolutely not. I’d rather leave the country than see him again.

Wait. Now that’s an idea.

I grab a recently opened bottle of white wine from my mini fridge as I turn on my laptop. Forgoing the glass, I take a big swig straight from the bottle as I open up my dad’s Formula 1 calendar. He already booked next month’s flight to Melbourne.

I open up Pinterest, wondering how Melbourne looks. As I scroll through some posts while intermittently taking sips of wine, I click on one labeled Bucket List. 

I end up getting sucked further into the land of lost time and pins, scrolling through multiple travel bucket lists. Blame my burning sense of curiosity at what people come up with. I love a good list, but I’ve never considered half these crazy items. My head grows foggier as I continue sipping wine and searching.

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline as another Naughty Bucket List crosses my feed. Interest eats away at me as I open up the list. Naughty is a word I’ve never associated myself with. At least not since I was five and my dad threatened to tell Santa I deserved coal for Christmas after I spilled a milkshake all over the interior of his McCoy Illusion.

Holy shit. People are mighty creative. I spend too much time going through multiple naughty lists. I could be studying, or sleeping, or finding a new beau on a dating app. But no. Buzzed me enjoys pinning my favorite sexy items. Where was this nonchalance two hours ago?

I don’t know if it’s my lonely evening or the wine I’ve consumed that inspires me to open my expertly tabbed agenda to one of the extra hidden pages in the back.

I work on a list of items I’ve never done but have always wanted to try. An hour later, I somehow have the coordination to type up the entire thing and color-code it. Before I press the print button, a name for the list comes to mind, and I type the words Fuck It List at the top.

I stare at the piece of printed paper, wondering why the hell I created this. Can I really convince my dad to let me join his F1 schedule? Better yet, can I really go through doing half these items? Ignoring my doubts, I pull out my personal laminator because, yes, I’m one of those people. I get the paper to fold after a few failed origami attempts and growls of frustration.

The Fuck It List shines in all its laminated glory. I smile at the twenty items I boldly, yet semi drunkenly, chose.

Now I only need to do one last thing, probably one of the hardest tasks before I can start crossing items off my list.

Convince my dad to let me join him. 

“I have a few rules before you join the tour. If you break them, I’ll book you a seat on the next flight back to Italy.” My dad taps away on his iPad, taking up his usual spot on our living room couch.

“I know you’re a celebrity with the engineers, but when you call it a tour, you make it seem like you’re a rock star.”

“Famous among the nerds, I love it.” He does a rock symbol with his hands that should never be reproduced again. “Anyway, the first rule is that I want you to try your best to stay away from the racers. I mean it, because they tend to have questionable intentions. Two: you need to check in with me daily so I can be sure you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. And last but not least, stay out of trouble. Say them back to me.”

“You’re getting old, needing all this repetition.”

“Just because I have gray hair doesn’t mean I’m old.” He runs a hand through his thick strands.

My dad can be described as anything but old and frumpy, unfortunately for me because he’s single, and the ladies do sure try to mingle. Women flock toward him like his aura says money and good times.

“No, but the fact that you have more rules than a private school handbook kills your young silver fox vibe.”

“Please follow the rules. That’s all I ask of you this summer.”

My dad loves rules because he fears I’ll end up like my mom. We don’t talk about her much since she left us soon after she had me, deciding she wanted to save under-developed countries. The idea of diapers and baby bottles weighed her down and cramped the carefree lifestyle she loves. Nowadays, my mom lives her best life in Africa with her new boyfriend, who is five years older than me.

I’d say my dad has undisclosed abandonment issues. Every time I talk to my mom—a rare occasion as it is—he checks that I don’t want to book my next flight away from him.

“If I weren’t about to turn 22 this year, you’d probably make me wear one of those leash backpacks to keep me within a five-foot radius.”

He looks up at the ceiling. “Don’t tempt me because that idea sounds pretty good right now.”

His vigilance worsened once I started college, with him being unable to control the desires of horny boys and F1 racers alike. The situation got to the point where he conveniently paid for me to go away every single summer—all coinciding with his F1 traveling.

I shoot him a glare that could melt steel. “Can you please relax? You’re not going to be able to protect me from every male who crosses my path.”

“I can sure try.” My dad’s teeth run against his lower lip as he goes through our itinerary. He can’t suck the fun out of this summer. I want to meet new people, explore different cities, and make a few mistakes because Lord knows I need to. People underestimate how tough it is to be the perfect daughter for my dad, always striving for greatness to appease him. I’m talking straight A’s, honor societies, and the equestrian club—all very uppity of me.

“Remember you need to finish the semester with all A’s for me to fulfill my end of the bargain. I’ll be checking your GPA before you get on the plane.”

“Would you also like me to sync my study calendar to your phone? That way you can log all my hours?”

He fights a smile. “I don’t know why I raised you to be such a smartass, but it comes out at the most inconvenient times. I only want to make sure you’ll graduate on time.”

I have one year before I walk across the big stage with an accounting degree in hand and a fake smile plastered across my face. My dad claims numbers are safe. They scream independent financial stability, except the only one genuinely screaming is me. But I chose the degree for my dad’s peace of mind because he’s endlessly supported me through the years. He sacrificed part of himself to be everything I needed and more, never adding a new woman to our duo.

“But I’ve always dreamed of being like other F1 principal’s daughters with a limitless credit card and more Chanel purses than Coco herself.” I bat my lashes at him.

“I better lock up my wallet at night.”

“Oh, Dad. Everything’s digital nowadays, so I already have your Amex added to my Apple Wallet.”

He fake shudders. “Hopefully you don’t run up my bill with all that European shopping.”

“I hope you know I have other plans besides shopping.”

“I can’t wait to hear about them.”

I recoil at the thought of my dad getting a hold of my list. My Fuck It list is sexy, daring, and risky for a rule-follower like me, with some items that would make the nuns in the local convent blush. They’d probably throw a bottle of holy water at my head, hoping it knocks me out and saves me from a life of impurity and eternal damnation.

He shoots me a soft smile. “You know why I do this all, right? The rules and stuff?”

“Because you enjoy less messy versions of torture?” I drop onto a chair.

My dad offers a dramatic eye roll, similar to my own. “No. Because you don’t understand the F1 world. You’re pure-hearted while others aren’t. I raised you away from it all, and sometimes I worry that I protected you too much, hoping to save you from being hurt.”

The sincerity of his words hits me in the chest like a one-two punch. It’ll be a disappointing day for my dad when he realizes his baby girl is not exactly a baby anymore. Honestly, it won’t hit him until I have a baby of my own because women crush their parents’ abstinence dreams once they give birth.

“I’m not going to get eaten alive out in the real world. You raised me better than that. If I survived an all-girls school and three years at uni, I think I can make it out there. Honestly, we’re lucky the plaid skirts and mean girls didn’t cause any psychological damage.”

“You’ll always be my little girl. The same one who put pigtails in my hair to match yours or drew fake tattoos with pens all over my arms.”

“Speaking of tattoos, I was prepping myself for the real deal by testing out designs. That reminds me of my full sleeve idea. Thoughts?”

His eyes narrow, and his smile turns into a frown.

“I’ll take that as a no. Darn.” I snap my finger in mock frustration.

“Show up with a tattoo, and you won’t be on the next plane to Italy. Oh, no. You’ll be off to Antarctica attending a once in a lifetime trip to see penguins and melting icebergs.”

“I wonder if Leonardo DiCaprio would be down to assess climate change damage with me. I heard he likes to visit the South Pole too.” I flash him a mischievous smile.

“Get out of here before I revoke your plane ticket and all-access pass.”

I scoff in fake horror. He gets up from his chair and pulls me in for a quick hug, squeezing the air straight from my lungs.

I’m grateful for his leniency on the F1 issue. I get to trade virgin cocktails for champagne, bounce houses for gala events, and my princess costume for evening gowns. Finally, I’ll live the life my lavish tastes deserve.

Men should be the least of his worries because, excuse my language, but I’m ready to fuck shit up.