by Dahlia Adler
“The two of you are gonna get into so much trouble down there, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps you should come with us and find out,” Abe suggests, waggling his eyebrows. “We do need more roommates.”
“If you think my parents would let me share a room with a guy, you have clearly not been paying attention.”
Abe grins. “Touché.”
We lapse back into painting quietly, and blessedly enough, there are no more mentions of Samara for the rest of class.
Getting her out of my head, though? That’s another story.
I fully expect my head to be clearer and the rest of me to be in prime wingwoman form by the time we actually board the bus to the city for the weekend, but alas, I’m every bit as single-minded as I’ve been since Sam basically dumped me a week and a half ago. Worse, maybe, since it’s not like she’s disappeared; in addition to seeing her every Monday and Wednesday morning, we’ve still been hanging out a little—a movie here, lunch there, and, yeah, the occasional making out, too. It feels different to me now, knowing I’m not the only one her lips are touching, wondering how many other wrist tattoos she’s been tracing.
But then, I guess she’s had to live with a whole lot of wondering stuff like that about me too.
The bus ride down to Port Authority is long and torturous, lightened up only by Abe’s company and the occasional exchanged text with Lizzie or Cait. My fingers itch to say hi to Sam, just to check in, but I’m afraid it’s too hover-y, too girlfriend-y, too all the things I’m continuously surprised to realize I want to be.
Hell, this week I actually thought about saying something, finally. I sat at the desk during her Wednesday morning class and sorted mail while I rehearsed how to say everything I was thinking in my head.
I’m actually not so into the idea of us hooking up with other people, so…can we maybe not?
I know I originally wanted us to just be casual, but it turns out my feelings for you aren’t really casual at all…
I cannot fucking stop thinking about you. Are you really not thinking about me?
None of it was smooth, but none of it mattered—she walked out of class straight-up flirting with another girl, and she didn’t so much as glance at me on her way out. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted other options. And now I’m on my way to New York, a city fucking full of them. I need to get her out of my head.
Next to me, Abe’s lying back with his eyes closed, listening to music, but I squeeze his knee until he pulls out an earbud and looks at me. “Talk to me more about what we’re doing tonight,” I say. “After the gallery, I mean.”
He pulls the other earbud out and turns to me with his game face on. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to get in wingwoman mode?”
“Damn straight.”
“Fucking finally.” He holds up his hand for me to slap, and I do, unable to stop a grin from spreading across my face. “Dude, Seth gave me a whole list of clubs to hit up while we’re here. I promise, you will not leave the city in the same practically re-virginalized state you’re entering it.”
I’m about to inform Abe that not having had sex in a week and a half isn’t exactly re-virginalization, but then I remember I haven’t told him about that part of things with Samara. I certainly don’t want to relive it now, so I just say “Good” and leave it at that.
Seven hours later, we’re standing in the Danika Keim Gallery in SoHo with the rest of our class, our stuff stashed in the hotel room we’re sharing with two classmates Professor Richter paired us with. All the sculptures on display are by female Bosnian refugees, and they’re awesome—reinterpretations of famous photographs of the war—which makes it all the worse that as I walk through the solemn space, all I can think about is how much Samara would love this. Soft, phantom fingers squeeze mine, and I have to cough to relieve my throat of the scratchiness that suddenly creeps into it.
“This is so badass,” Abe murmurs as we walk around, taking it all in. And it really is. I push all thoughts of Sam and everything else out of my head and focus on the art; Lord knows it deserves it. I’m focused on a particularly dark one, all sharp, jagged edges, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I slip it out and glance at the screen. Cait.
“I just have to grab this,” I say to Abe, then motion that I’ll be right outside. Once I’m on the sidewalk, I pick up. “Hey, Caity J. What’s up?”
“Did you and my roommate somehow split up without telling me?”
Goose bumps prickle on my skin. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I say flatly.
“Is that seriously all the information you’re gonna give me?”
“Since when do you want more?” I counter. “You didn’t want us to date and congratulations—now we’re not. You win.”
“I want you to be happy, Frank. So what the hell happened? Why is she going out with Nora tomorrow night?”
I freeze. That sentence hurts so much, it’s like getting a full-body tattoo, minus any pleasurable undercurrent to the pain. Nora is the extremely cute goalie on Cait’s lacrosse team, and I would’ve done unspeakable things to her in my pre-Sam days if Cait hadn’t strictly forbidden it. The ugly idea that I broke Sam in for her nauseates the shit out of me. “You’ll have to ask her that.”
“She didn’t even tell me,” says Cait. “The only reason I know is because Nora was bragging in the weight room.”
“Well, she didn’t tell me either,” I snap. “Maybe she just prefers athletes. Or undercuts. Or girls who don’t suck dick.”
“Frankie!”
“What, Caitlin? What.” I have never shed tears over a person who doesn’t share my blood, but right now, they’re stinging my eyes, made worse by the chilly night air. I don’t want to talk about how I fucked up. I don’t need Cait knowing that this is all my fault, that if I had just shown the fuck up, everything might be different right now. Because it may be true, but it hurts like fucking hell anyway.
She doesn’t tell me to calm down, or ask what happened. Instead, in a quiet, measured voice, she says, “If you don’t want Samara seeing anyone else, you need to tell her you don’t want her seeing anyone else.”
As if it’s that easy. As if those are words that just roll off my tongue. Not to mention the fact that I have no right to say them. “Samara can see whoever she wants,” I say as coolly as I can. “It’s not like I’m sitting home alone. I’m out in the city, and trust me—my tits look excellent in this shirt. I’ll be just fine.”
She sighs heavily. “Frankie—”
“I gotta go. I’m with my class at a gallery. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay.” I can tell she wants to say more, but thankfully, she can tell I don’t want to hear it. “Have fun over there.”
“Thanks, Caity J. Have fun with Mase tonight.”
“How’d you know I’m seeing Mase tonight?”
I just snort. “G’night, babe.” We hang up, and I go back inside, praying it’s only a matter of minutes before we leave for a bar and I can get obliterated.
• • •
My hangover in the morning is brutal, and waking up to Abe drooling on me super does not help. By sheer miracle, we manage to get to the Met along with the rest of the class, but we waste far too much time in the café, reviving ourselves with black coffee while moaning about how we both feel like shit. At least Abe got some ass to show for it; I lost him for a solid hour last night while he made out with some guy at…I already forget which bar. I, on the other hand, spent my sadass night texting Lizzie and stalking Samara’s Twitter feed. (No mention of a date, just some commentary on Chopped baskets and then a lone tweet about curling up with a book.) (God, she’s so…her.) (Why do I like that so much?)
But gorgeous museums like this one are basically my mothership, so once we get enough caffeine in our systems, I manage to drag Abe around until he’s finally with it too. For the first time since Samara effectively dumped me, I feel like I’m back in my element.
And then
, of course, we walk out of the museum and I spot a fucking adorable middle-aged lesbian couple sitting on the steps. They’re huddling together against the wind and sharing a bag of those amazing-smelling peanuts being sold from carts lining Fifth Avenue, and just like that, a wave of loss washes over me. I wrap my arms around Abe’s bicep and squeeze.
“You okay?” he asks, glancing down at me.
I shrug, still clinging to him like a baby koala.
He follows my eyeline to the couple, then sighs and kisses the top of my head. “You wanted to bring the girl, didn’t you?”
I shrug again, tearing my eyes away from them and letting Abe lead me down the sidewalk, past clusters of tourists, vendors selling art and food, and mustard-yellow cabs honking as they swerve around each other on their way downtown. “I’m not sure what I wanted.” I press closer to Abe as a couple of kids pass by on scooters, whooping loudly. “First I was freaked out by the idea of a relationship, and then I kinda got into it, and then…I don’t know.”
“But you miss her.”
“I do,” I say on a sigh. No matter what else is confusing the shit out of me right now, the fact that I would kill to be hanging on her arm instead of Abe’s is impossible to ignore.
“Are you gonna tell her that?”
“Nope.”
He laughs. “Then let’s go get food. I’m starving.”
• • •
We eat, then go back to the museum for a few more hours, and then we go back out for dinner with a bunch of other kids from the class. Afterward, everyone discusses evening plans—bars, movies, pool hall—but while I know I should go with them to distract myself from the fact that Sam’s on a date, I just can’t. I don’t have the mental energy to do anything but collapse on the bed in my hotel and sketch.
“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?” Abe asks.
“No,” I say honestly, “but I don’t think I’ll be any better surrounded by people. Go ahead. Have fun.”
“Okay, but call me if you need me and I’ll come running back to the hotel, all right? Oh, and don’t charge porn to the room—I’m not paying for that.”
I smack him on the ass and send him off to join the crowd on their way to a karaoke bar, which includes our other two roommates. As if I would ever keep Abe from karaoke.
He was obviously joking about porn, but having the room to myself for the first time all weekend does give me…thoughts. Lord knows how I’d be spending the night if I’d brought Samara, but I suspect it would involve far less clothing than I’m wearing now. I strip down to my tank top and pull on the drawstring shorts I brought for pajama bottoms, then climb into the bed I’ve been sharing with Abe.
(Would Samara have cared I was sharing a bed with a guy? Even though said guy only likes guys?)
(Who the fuck cares what she thinks? She’s going on a date tonight. With Nora.)
I grab the remote from the bedside table, but I don’t turn the TV on. Instead, I wonder what Samara’s wearing tonight—if that pink dress is now her standard first-date dress, or if now that she’s all…liberated or whatever, she’s dressed like sex on a stick. Maybe they’re not going out at all; maybe she’s inviting Nora over to snuggle up in her bed for a movie. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve pulled out my phone and I’m calling Sam.
“Hey!” She sounds surprised to hear from me, but not displeased. That’s good. And I don’t hear anything in the background, so I’m guessing I got her while she’s still at her dorm. Cait’s admonishment to be honest with her about not wanting her to go on this date is ringing in my ears, and I can’t help wondering if I could stop her, keep her right where she is, right here with me. “Aren’t you in the city?”
“I am. Just had some time to kill and thought I’d say hi.” Oh, fuck it. “I saw this really cool exhibit last night and I kept thinking about how much you’d love it.”
“Oh?”
I tell her about the sculptures and the stories behind them, and I’m right—she’s completely enraptured. It feels oddly good to be right about that, especially when I think about how there’s no way Nora would have any idea.
Take that, Undercut.
“And how was the Met today?”
“Amazing. As always. I think we were there for something like six hours.”
“Oh, jeez. You must be exhausted. Or, knowing you, probably not,” she says sheepishly. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Not sure yet,” I admit. “But I’m feeling pretty lazy. Everyone else is out, and I’m just lying here in my hotel bed.” I pause for a moment to let her consider the visual, to remember the last time she saw me lying on a bed…underneath her lovely mouth. “The rules from my roommate start and end with ‘no charging porn to the room,’ but, you know, we’ll see.”
She laughs, but it’s low and sexy and I know—I know—her mind is exactly where I want it to be. “I’m sure you could do just fine on your own,” she teases.
“You know, I bet I could,” I say. “Especially with a little assistance.”
She laughs again, brief and breathless. “Oh yeah? What exactly does it take to get off the girl who’s done everything?”
I close my eyes and slide my hand up my thigh while I drown in her honey-whiskey voice. So much less than you’d think.
“I wish you were here,” I surprise myself by saying, not because I haven’t figured out by now that I should’ve invited her but because I don’t need her to know that.
She could say, “I could’ve been.” She could say, “You should’ve invited me, then.” Instead she says, “What would you do if I were?”
Ravage the shit out of you like the wild animal you turn me into. “Pull your hair out of that ponytail.”
She laughs, and I let the tip of my index finger slip inside the black lace panties I’m wearing for no one. I could paint my entire body in what her voice does to me. “You’re so sure I’m wearing one.”
“Yes.” But I wouldn’t really pull it out. I’d wrap it around my fist, yank her head back, and suck every inch of skin around the base of her throat until I left marks. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Two fingers, circling, sliding, marveling.
“Do you hate the way my hair looks up?”
“I like the way it looks swirled on my thighs better.”
“Well that’s a different story.”
My hips jerk off the bed as I finally let my fingers graze my clit. “It’s a very good story.”
“You’re just a sucker for happy endings.”
My fingers pause in their ministrations. “That was a terribly good pun.”
“Thank you. I thought so.”
There’s no heaviness to her breathing, nothing to suggest she’s mirroring my hand on the other end of the line. She’s probably sitting upright on her bed, maybe even doing her nails or something in preparation for her date. My girl is so very, very good.
And I am losing her.
The unbearably horny girl in me wants to press her to play along, ask what she’s wearing, or something equally obvious. Not that the answer matters; whatever it is, I’ll just picture her fingers creeping under it, stroking her golden skin. I’ll wish they were my fingers, to be followed by my tongue.
But they’re not, because she’s there, and I’m here.
Because I’m a fucking idiot.
“Hey, you still there?” she asks.
“Always.” But I slip my hand back out, wiping my fingers on my thigh. She deserves so much better than me, and now she’s gonna go out and find it.
“After all this time?”
“Huh?”
She laughs. “No Harry Potter for you, huh?”
“Oh, no. Not yet.” I have no idea why I throw on those last two words. I have no desire to read or see Harry Potter. But I somehow sense admitting so would be a dealbreaker.
“As long as you read it eventually. I could totally see you gettin
g a hot ‘mischief managed’ tattoo.”
“I have no idea what that means, but if you think it’s hot, I’ll certainly consider it.”
“You’d do that to your body for me?”
Okay, she can’t possibly expect me to keep my hands above board with that one. “Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve thoroughly enjoying doing to my body for you.”
“Jesus Christ, Frankie.” My name ends on a soft groan.
“You brought that on yourself and you know it.”
“And yet somehow, you always take it a step further than I’ve even imagined possible.”
Before I can respond, there’s a static-y noise over the phone, and then a muffled “Be right there!”
All the heat that’d been coursing through my body turns to ice. “Date’s here?” I try to sound casual, but I sound like an asshole. There’s no way she misses it, but she’s polite enough to pretend she does. “Cait, uh, mentioned something.”
“Oh, well, yeah, and somehow I got distracted from finishing my makeup, so I’m a little bit of a mess. I should go.”
There’s no way she looks like a mess to any degree. I should probably say, “Have fun,” but the words stick in my throat. All I want to do is ask her not to leave, to stay here with me on the phone until we fall asleep, completely spent. I want to tell her about the Met, and the adorable couple on the steps, and all the paintings I’d want her to see if she were here. I want us to watch the Food Network together and listen to her yell at the TV until we fall asleep.
I want her to be my fucking girlfriend. And I don’t want to share her. Not with anyone. Not like that.
“I’m sure you look gorgeous,” is what I actually say. “Bye, Sam.”
A woman’s voice floats back to me, obscuring Samara’s, and I hang up.
The topic of The Date feels unavoidable when Samara stops by my desk to say hi on her way out of class on Monday morning, even though it’s obviously the very last thing we should be talking about. I’m not proud of the fact that I’m burning with morbid curiosity about every single detail, from where they went to exactly how well the night ended. But all I ask is, “So, how was getting out there?”