by Q. B. Tyler
Copyright © 2018 by Q.B. Tyler
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: NET Hook & Line Designs
Editing: Kristen—Your Editing Lounge
Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“LA VITA VA AVANTI”
Or in English: “Life goes on.” It’s what my mother always says. It’s a sentiment that I grew up hearing any time things seemed bleak. Whenever I felt the world at my back my mother would give me a day to wallow in self-pity before force feeding me a week’s worth of lasagna, followed by a kick in the ass, and the affirmation that life did, in fact, go on. It wasn’t until I traveled across the globe to the motherland and managed to fall in love and get my heart broken in the span of three months did I really understand the sentiment.
I rub the tattoo written in faint script trailing down my arm.
La vita va Avanti
My heart flutters against my ribcage as I think about riding on the back of a Vespa through the streets of Venice engorging in far too much pizza and pistachio gelato. Spending the nights making love under the skylight in the apartment my parents had rented for me. Everything about it felt magical. But I guess that’s what every young girl says about her whirlwind romance with the sweet-talking Italian.
“God Sky, you’re such a cliché.” My older sister snickered after I’d returned home four months later, ten pounds heavier with a heart I swore was broken inside my chest. I’d flipped her off and proceeded to spend the next two days in bed—Mom offered me a one day grace period because I guess I really looked pathetic. But, sure enough, on that second day, my mother slammed my curtains open, made me the breakfast of champions—frittata and more fresh rolls than was acceptable for your daily carbohydrate intake—and told me to take on the world because “La Vita va Avanti, Bella.” Life goes on.
It wasn’t until I found myself staring up into the neon sign of the tattoo parlor, sipping the iced coffee from the best, tiny bakery in Connecticut, that I realized just how I would show the world and myself that I had moved on.
Armed with the belief that I was a strong independent woman who didn’t need a man, I’d marched into the small shop, slapped my ID on the counter, and took control of my destiny.
My initial idea, a tattoo that read “men ain’t shit,” didn’t get rave reviews. The male tattoo artist seemed to take issue with that. And swore one day I would too.
I guess.
He’d urged me to get one that meant something and not an impulsive reaction in response to pain or heartbreak, because one day I wouldn’t hurt anymore. One day I wouldn’t give a fuck about he who shall not be named.
“Heartbreak sucks, kid, but you’ll love again.” He’d told me as he crossed his tattooed arms, lines of reds and blues inking his olive skin.
It wasn’t the same, but I heard the sentiment lurking behind the words.
Life goes on.
Ten minutes later, La Vita va Avanti was on my arm forever.
My mother had a fucking fit.
I look around the one-bedroom apartment just off campus that my parents got for me—an I’m sorry but this is for your own good. I’d wanted to forego another year of school, tackle another European country, or maybe visit South America, or Africa, or Australia—hell, really any other continent except the one I was born on. I still crave adventure, and I still crave it beyond the borders of the US of A. At nineteen, I’m not ready for college, after spending eighteen years in what felt like shackles—known as the American school system—and they had finally set me free. I’m not ready for another four years of homework and tests and waking up before 8 AM for anything that isn’t to catch the sunrise or McDonald’s breakfast. I’m over school. That, coupled with the fact that I’m smarter than the average nineteen year old—I have an IQ over one forty and grades that had every Ivy League banging down my door last year—makes me wonder what college really has to offer me.
Nevertheless, my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They had stressed the importance of a good education—even if the diploma did just collect dust on a shelf while I fed my hunger for adventure with a backpack and a compass or whatever. These were my parents’ musings as they all but shoved me out the door. So, here I am, five hours from my parents’ house, in an apartment smaller than my room at home, prepared to take on Camden Graf University, my next adventure. College.
I’m startled from my thoughts by a banging on the door and I approach it with caution, wondering who in the world would be looking for me. I know no one in D.C., and classes don’t start for another two days. I know this is a building for students, but I thought I’d slid in sight unseen, opting for a Saturday morning move-in when I was sure more than half of the residents would be hungover from the night before.
I press my face to the door, standing on my tiptoes to peer out the peephole. “I’m not going to bite, open up! It’s the building welcome wagon!” I see a girl with blonde hair wielding a bottle of champagne and a tray of brownies.
I open the door, but not too far, not wanting her to take it as an invitation to come in. To be honest, all I want to do is go to bed early, and a chatty neighbor that wants to stay up to the wee hours of the morning gabbing like girlfriends and trading life stories would definitely throw a wrench in that plan.
“Hey, neighbor!” The girl, who seems no older than me but certainly taller than me, stands in my entryway. A crop top barely covers her breasts, and high-waisted pants are cut off at her ankles, exposing her bare feet. Her blonde hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail secured at the back of her head, and a small diamond stud gleams from her nose. Her makeup looks like she’s just stepped off a runway show, with perfect lashes and lipstick. “Welcome to the building. I’m Peyton. Peyton White. And you are?”
“Skyler,” I tell her as she hands me the plate of brownies and begins to pour the Andre champagne into a solo cup. Andre? But…why? There are so many better options than this toilet bubbly. I wrinkle my nose slightly and shake my head.
“Oh, what, you don’t drink? Shit. I have some La Croix in my fridge.”
My mouth waters; I do love La Croix. But I also love champagne. I just am not about to drink that.
Don’t be a bitch, Sky. My sister’s words blare in my head. “I drink. I just…haven’t had much to eat, and I’m a bit of a lightweight.” Lie number one.
“Oh! Well, have a brownie. Come on, a bunch of us are pregaming at my place to go out tonight. You should totally come.�
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“You know, tonight isn’t great, I’m supposed to meet up with some old friends.” I shake my head. Lie number two.
She raises an eyebrow at me as if she doesn’t believe me. “Where ya from?”
“Connecticut.”
“Really? Is it as boring as the stereotypes say?”
I take a tentative sip of the champagne she’d handed me and force myself not to gag. God that’s terrible. “Yep. Pretty much.”
“I’m from Seattle. Yes, it rains all the fucking time. No, I don’t know Edward Cullen or Christian Grey or the people from Grey’s Anatomy,” she says as if she says that every time she tells someone where she’s from.
I laugh at her joke. “I’ve never been to Seattle but it’s on my list. I want to see the Space Needle and go to that market everyone talks about.” I close my eyes, picturing the red letters in the sign.
“Pike Place? It’s not that cool.” She scrunches her nose in disgust as if she’s just heard a terrible dad joke.
“Still, it’s something renowned.” I shrug.
“Fine, we can go or whatever.”
And I almost choke on my drink as I hear the undertone of her comment. We are besties now and you can come home with me for breaks!
“Right, well, it was really nice to meet you, Peyton. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I begin to shut the door when she stops it with her foot and hands me the bottle of champagne.
“I’m just right down the hall in 408 when you decide to stop being lame and pretending that you have anything to do tonight. I have tequila, and the starting lineup of the boy’s soccer team.” She gives me a wink. “Ciao, Bella!” She skips back to her apartment and flings open the door dramatically, letting the sounds of Kendrick Lamar float out into the hall.
I’m still momentarily speechless; having heard my native language thrown out there as well as the nickname my mother calls me. I know that non-Italians used the phrase often, but it still throws me whenever I hear it.
I look down at my arm again.
Life goes on, Bella.
I could either sit in this apartment and mope over he who shall not be named or I could embrace this new adventure, even if it isn’t hiking in Santorini. It takes me about thirty seconds to come up with my decision before I take a swig from the bottle.
“Ugh! First things first, teach Peyton what decent champagne is.”
I wrap the final strand of my newly highlighted hair around the wand before unplugging it from the wall in my tiny bathroom. There is barely enough room for me in here; heaven forbid I ever have a guy in here with me. My heart thumps and so does my sex. I am not ready for that! my heart tells me. But I am! my sex responds. The space between my legs has felt a dull hum ever since the words boys soccer team fell from Peyton’s lips.
Well, at least I’m not totally broken.
I let out a sigh as I take in my reflection in the mirror.
Okay, Sky, Peyton is nice. Maybe at least try and make friends? It’s time to let your guard down a little. Not everyone is going to screw you over like… my heart slams into my ribcage and my stomach turns. I’m not sure if it’s from the champagne or the thoughts of walking in on my ex with some girl’s legs wrapped around his face.
Ugh.
The white, off the shoulder top I’m wearing is the perfect contrast to my tan skin that I got by nature, not by bottle. Tucked into a pair of black shorts and sandals that tie up my leg, I’m not sure what look I’m going for exactly, but I look hot. My honey blonde hair that I had recently chopped off to shoulder length—spurred on by the words, “a woman who changes her hair is about to change her life”—bounces as I make my way down the hall. I have a clutch armed with the necessities in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Sure, Peyton said they had alcohol, but I was taught to never show up anywhere empty handed.
I knock on the door and when it opens a billow of marijuana smoke floats out around me into the hallway. I wave a hand across my face. “Skyler! Sorry about that.” Peyton waves the smoke away and drags me inside. “You came!”
“Yeah, uh…my friends flaked.”
“Ugh, bitches! Well, I’m so glad you’re here! Guys, guys!” She tries to quiet the noise and, while some of the guys turn their attention to her, most continue what they’re doing. I notice although her apartment is about the same size as mine, it looks way bigger. She has a table pushed against the wall where four guys are playing beer pong. Shot glasses litter the bar in the kitchen as people play what I believe to be Quarters. There’s an array of playing cards on her IKEA coffee table, and four people surrounding it as they try not to crack the beer in the center. “This is Skyler, my new neighbor. Everyone say hi!”
Most of them say hi and wave as if this was that bar where everyone knows your name. I smile, and wave back, slightly intimidated at being put on the spot. I’m not shy, far from it, but being around people I don’t know, in an unfamiliar city, without so much as a wing woman or at the very least one person I know well, makes me a bit uneasy. I’m ashamed to admit I miss my mom, miss home, miss…I squeeze my eyes shut. No, Sky.
“Let’s get you a drink, huh?”
“Oh, I brought something,” I say as I hand her the Grey Goose.
“Oh fancy! I’m not wasting this on these assholes. You and I can drink this tomorrow in our mimosas,” she says as I follow her into the kitchen.
“Mimosas have champagne…” It’s more of a statement but it comes out like a question.
“You’ve never had them with vodka? Oh, girl, it’ll change your life.” She turns towards me and bounces on her toes like she’s dying to share a secret with me.
“Isn’t that just a screwdriver?” I feel like she’s speaking an entirely different language that I’m not familiar with. I know alcohol, for the most part, having spent the majority of my senior year of high school—and a few months in Italy—becoming well acquainted with the term “black-out” despite my under twenty-one status.
“Just trust me, alright? I’ll hook ya up.” And because on some level, I swear guys are pre-dispositioned to hear the words “hook” and “up” when used close together in a sentence, one manifests in front of us.
“P, who’s your friend?” he asks as he slides a hand over her shoulder and points at me. I go through the ManFax—as my best friend, Stella, always says—as I survey the man in front of me. Tall. Blonde. No facial hair, but a cute face nonetheless. Muscular. Blue eyes. All American Boy.
“Skyler. Weren’t you listening?” She pushes his arm off of her. “And no.”
“No what?”
“No and no. Go away.”
“Cockblock,” he grumbles as he walks away, and I wonder if there is something going on between them.
“He’s fucked ninety percent of the girls in this room. Yes, I fall into that ninety percent. Let’s not dwell on it.” She hands me a Jell-O shot. “Just…it’s for the best. His dick game isn’t even all that great. Which is why I have not been back for seconds,” she says through a mouthful of the red gelatin that had far more Everclear vodka than was probably safe. “But he’s hot.”
Two hours later, more than half the party has left to hit the bars, armed with their fake IDs and willingness to make bad decisions. I sit on Peyton’s bed as she rifles through her closet trying to come up with something to change into.
“What you have on is fine, Peyton. Shouldn’t we go soon? It’s getting late.”
“Late? It’s midnight. The only reason people left earlier is one of the bars offers a Power Hour between eleven and twelve which means half priced shots and mixed drinks. Trust me, it’s still early.” I hiccup as I take another sip of my drink when there’s a beep from her nightstand. My eyes flit to the sound and she squeals with delight. “An OC notification! Yes!” She fist pumps the air and moves to her phone, her eyes lighting up with intrigue and excitement.
“O…C?” I ask, feeling the effects of the alcohol starting to catch up with me.
“Yeah, Our Ci
rcle! It’s this new dating app!”
“Oh.” I groan. “So, like Tinder or Bumble or whatever?” I’d never been on a dating app, but Stella swears by them. That girl goes on more first dates than anyone I know.
“Better!”
“They always are, right? Until something better comes along?” There’s always some new dating app that’s supposedly better than the last. It’s just the latest craze.
“No, this really is better. You can only join if you’re invited by someone else.”
“Oh, so kind of like how Facebook started?”
“Right! Well, not anymore. My sister’s unborn child has a Facebook already.” Peyton rolls her eyes and holds her phone up for me to see the app.
“So, you get invited and then what? You get unsolicited dick pics by, not randoms necessarily, but by someone who knows someone who knows someone that may be your neighbor’s cousin’s ex-boyfriend?”
“It takes the element out of whether or not they’re a psycho!”
“No…no, it doesn’t.” I chuckle as I listen to her backwards logic.
“Well…I haven’t met any yet. All the guys I’ve met have been totally normal. And gorgeous. And smart. A lot of guys from the grad schools in the area are on here. Of course, I do have my age preferences set just a teensy bit higher.”
“What’s a teensy bit?” I ask, wondering if this girl is about to unleash her wealth of daddy issues on me.
“Just twenty-two to like…forty.”
“FORTY? Peyton, how old are you?”
“Nineteen, relax.”
“That’s like…your dad’s age.”
“Well, I never knew my dad, so…Psych major me.” She rolls her eyes as if she already knows what I’m going to say.
I hold my hands up as if to say no judgment. “I think I want to try it.”
Her head snaps up from her phone and looks at me. “Really? I can invite you.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Atta girl! Okay, what’s your Facebook name.”
“Oh…” My face falls as I remember the social media disappearing act I’d done. “I deleted it.”
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