From what I heard, Dylan Waterhouse, my roommate who grew up in Connecticut and whose father owns a posh apartment overlooking Central Park, is back with Peyton, his high school girlfriend. Dylan and Peyton, who goes to Yale, had broken up and got back together numerous times last semester. According to Juliet, my roommate from Staten Island whose father owns a string of dry cleaners, they had got back together and broke up twice over Christmas break. But I guess they’re going through an on period. All this drama gives Juliet an insane amount of delight despite the fact that she and Dylan had a thing for close to a month last semester and I was expecting her to be a little bitter over the whole thing.
And the thing that’s even better than old friends is an old love. My old love, to be precise. I hadn’t seen Tristan since we had gone skiing on New Year’s.
“Alice!” Tristan yells as I get out of the cab in front of our building. He wraps his arms around me as I try to fish out a $10 bill to tip the cab driver.
He has recently shaved. His skin feels smooth and smells of coconut oil, his DIY aftershave. I wrap my arms around him and hug him as tightly as I can. And then…my heart jumps into my throat. I take a breath. My chest hurts and no air comes in. My heart starts to beat faster and faster. One more second and it’ll pop out of my chest.
“What’s wrong? You okay?” Tristan asks.
He pulls away from me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just…” I mumble. “I can’t breathe.”
“Oh my God, Alice. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just need a minute.”
I double over and put my head in between my knees. I’ve never had a panic attack, but that’s what I heard Dr. Drew say to do in situations like these. Tristan patiently pats my back and waits.
I take one deep breath. And then another. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal. It hits me. It’s love. I’m actually overwhelmed by love.
“Okay, I’m good.” I stand up straight. I’m no longer sweating, but I’m suddenly keenly aware of how sweaty I am. My shirt is soaked and I’m getting colder with every second. Tristan stares at me with his brows furrowed and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. He’s concerned.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I just got a little too excited about seeing you, I guess.”
He takes me into his arms again.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I think that was a mini-panic attack or something. No worries. It’s over.”
I look up at Tristan’s face. At the end of last semester, his tan had started to wear off. But now, it’s back again. It’s almost certainly from surfing and skiing over Christmas break. I take a moment to admire how nice his body feels next to mine. Even through all the layers of clothes, his arms feel strong and powerful. His piercing eyes sparkle under the lights of the city and alternate between hazel and green depending on the angle.
Tristan’s light brown hair is longer than it was last semester, falling into his face. I move a few strands out of his face. My fingers brush over his lips, which are glittering and soft despite the cold weather and lack of Chapstick. He purses them and kisses my fingers lightly. Then he pulls me closer. Tilting my head upward, he kisses me. His tongue brushes across my upper lip and my knees grow weak. We start to move in unison, as if we’re dancing to the same melody. My breaths match his breaths. His shoulders drop at the same time as mine rise. It’s a game of give and take with neither of us giving or taking too much.
A sudden gust of wind assaults us, bringing us back to reality for a moment. It’s almost 10:30 pm and 23 degrees on Broadway in January.
“Let’s go inside,” Tristan whispers without pulling away from my lips.
“Okay,” I mumble back. This is our special game – talking through our kisses. It’s something we have done forever and it’s one of the things that I love most about us.
Chapter 2
We go upstairs. Juliet, Peyton and Dylan are there, hanging out in the living room. Juliet and I share one room; Dylan and Tristan share another. We all share the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. After a ton of hugs and kisses, the guys serve us all drinks and we catch up. Or rather, I catch up. Everyone else has been here for a few hours already and, from the looks of it, the drinks were already flowing.
I haven’t seen Juliet since December, and I’m taken aback by how beautiful her hair is. Juliet is a voluptuous brunette with porcelain skin and to-die-for silky hair. I don’t know how she makes her hair so shiny, but I’m jealous. She gave me all of her products to use last semester, but my hair never got that lustrous, no matter what I did.
Dressed in high heel boots, a tight turtleneck sweater and a short black skirt, Juliet is the epitome of chic. I, on the other hand, look like the ‘90s threw up on me. I’m wearing leggings, a shabby t-shirt that’s way too thin for this weather, and a plaid button down shirt.
Dylan hands me a beer. He’s dressed in his usual uniform – a Nautica sweater, loafers, and slacks.
“Hey, Dylan, do you own any other clothes?” Juliet asks as if she’s reading my mind.
“What do you mean?” He shrugs.
“No, he doesn’t,” Peyton laughs.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Dylan asks, looking down at his clothes.
“You look like you just stepped off a sailboat in Nantucket.” Peyton smiles.
She’s making fun of him, but it’s obvious that she loves him and his clothes. He’s an L. L. Bean cover model and she’s the Connecticut queen on his arm.
Come to think of it, Juliet and Peyton could be sisters. They have almost identical chocolate hair, similar disapproving looks, and opinionated, know-it-all, coy smiles. Except that Juliet’s a lot curvier than Peyton. That’s really an understatement. Peyton’s so thin, she’s practically malnourished, and that’s coming from someone who lives in LA.
Dylan and Juliet play beer pong while Peyton’s nose is stuck in her phone. The fact that Juliet and Dylan are still on good terms is shocking to me. I mean, they slept together for over a month last semester after Peyton fell in love with her Resident Advisor at Yale. And yet, here they all are – Dylan and Peyton are back together without bruised egos or hard feelings and Juliet and Dylan are friends again. Honestly, they’re the epitome of some sort of post-relationship awakening – the image of modernity.
“Okay, kids,” Juliet says, finishing her beer. “It’s been fun catching up, but I’ve got to go. I have a date.”
“You’ve only been here a day and you’re already going out?” I ask.
“Hey, mama’s gotta play.” She shrugs.
“So who’s your date?” Tristan asks.
“His name’s Brayden. He’s a stockbroker,” Juliet announces in her usual way. Name, occupation or major. I’m Alice, English major. Dylan is Dylan, undecided. And Tristan is Tristan, economics major.
As soon as Juliet leaves, Tristan nudges me to go unpack in my room. I smile and tell everyone that we’re going to go unpack. They all nod and pretend they don’t know what we’re going to do.
“You think you’re so mysterious,” I say when we’re both alone in my room.
“No, not really.” He shrugs and pulls me close to him. “I just want to be alone with you.”
Tristan presses his lips onto mine. My knees grow weak again. Shivers run up and down my body.
“No, no, no.” I shake my head. “I do actually have a lot of unpacking to do.”
I pull away from him and unwrap his arms from my body. But when I lean over my suitcase, he’s around me again. Holding me tight. Close. I feel my body temperature rising.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers in his most soothing voice. I smile. Turn around to face him. It’s not that I don’t want him. I do. More than anything.
“What do you want?” I ask. The huge smile on my face is so wide, it’s hurting my face, but I can’t make it vanish.
“You,” he says and tosses me into bed.
“You’re as light as a feather!” Tristan adds, the words that every girl dreams of hearing.
He climbs on top of me, cradles my head. He moves my hair off my neck and kisses it lightly. His kisses send shivers down my body and make my feet feel numb.
I lift his head up to my lips and kiss him on the mouth. I bury my hands in his hair. His hands remain at my sides, but his lips move along with mine. I feel him push into me.
I hear footsteps outside the door.
“What’s that?” I ask, pushing him away.
“Nothing,” he mumbles and starts to kiss my neck again. He gives me light little kisses along my collarbone, driving me wild. But something at the door is worrying me.
“What if Juliet comes back?” I ask.
“She won’t,” he says without stopping. “She’s on her date.”
“So who’s that? Outside?” I ask.
“Shhh.” He puts his finger across my lips. “That’s just Dylan and Peyton. They won’t come in.”
“How do you know?” I ask. I don’t know what’s worrying me. But something is making me stall. I’m trying to buy time. But why?
“They won’t come in because I never intrude on them. They owe me.”
I know he’s right. I take a deep breath. Just relax. I’ve done this a million times. We’ve done this a million times. This is Tristan. You love him. And he loves you.
As Tristan’s mouth makes his way from my collarbone further down, to my breasts and then around my ribs and down to my belly button, I start to relax. All thoughts of intruders suddenly vanish and I’m calm.
Wordlessly, Tristan pulls off my shirt and undoes my bra. He stands above me as he pulls off his own shirt. He isn’t flexing, but the muscles in his stomach still make a perfect six-pack.
“You’re so hot,” I say, running my fingers over each pack.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says, snuggling out of his jeans. He kisses me lightly along my hipbones and tugs at the top of my leggings. I’m getting warm in between my legs. I lift up my butt to help him pull them off me. With one quick swoosh, I’m suddenly completely naked. No leggings, panties, or socks.
Tristan presses his body close to mine.
“You feel nice,” he mumbles, as we start to move in unison. I thread my fingers into his hair. His thick hair is so silky that my fingers can’t seem to find traction.
He kisses me behind the ear as he finds his way into me. We fumble around at first, trying to find the right pace. But quickly, start to move together. Energy builds up within me. I let out a moan.
“I love you,” he moans into my ear.
“I love you too,” I whisper as he sends me over the edge. I curl my toes as warmth pulsates throughout my body. I close my eyes and disappear into another world. Tristan moves faster and faster until he collapses on top of me.
My mind goes blank as my body goes limp. I can’t feel the lower half of my body.
“Thank you,” he says, sighing and rolling over next to me.
“No, thank you,” I mumble.
Chapter 3
We lie quietly next to each other for some time before either of us speaks again. It’s still hard to believe that I’m lying here, next to him.
Tristan Hilton.
The guy who was my best friend for many years until one afternoon when he kissed me and we became more than friends. In high school, I thought he was the love of my life. And when his family moved up to the Bay Area in the beginning of our senior year, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. But he promised me that we would make it. We would go away to college together and we would be together forever. And after we finally made it through that year apart, when we got into the same school and almost had everything we had ever dreamed of, we broke up. No, that’s not true. I say that to make myself feel better. But it was really he who broke up with me. The world turned to black. And there was nothing I could do to bring life into it. And then things got worse. I came to college, thinking I would start over, and I found out that he was going to be my roommate!
“Isn’t this crazy?” I ask. Neither of us bothers to put on any clothes, but I pull the comforter up. It’s getting cold and the radiator is all the way across the room.
“What?” he asks. “Us?”
I nod.
“Yeah, it is,” Tristan says with a smile. He rolls over to his side and props his head up with the hand.
“But I don’t have any regrets, do you?”
I shake my head. A part of me wishes that he had regretted ever breaking up with me. But another part thinks that maybe that whole thing made us stronger. We both learned something. We both dated people, experienced what it would be like to be out there. Seeing other people.
“I don’t mean to bring up something bad,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I sort of wish that we never broke up last summer. It was stupid.”
I shrug and flash him a smile. It makes me so happy to hear that, I feel myself beaming.
“Why are you grinning like that?” he asks.
“Why do you think?” I ask.
“Because you were right?” he asks.
“I guess. Though those are your words, not mine!”
He rolls his eyes and kisses me on the nose. I snuggle up in his armpit and close my eyes. I love the way things are now. Different, new, exciting. In ways that I never imagined possible.
Tristan and I spent the weekend before classes start hanging out. We get our textbooks, go out for brunch, walk around Riverside Park, go shopping in Chinatown. But mostly, we laugh. We laugh like we haven’t laughed in a long time. Like old friends who are just catching up. Everything and every story is exciting. We reminisce about high school. About sneaking out of gym class to go out to lunch. About making out in the church’s parking lot late at night. About watching Jaws together in his parents’ bed when no one was home. And by the time Sunday night rolls around, I realize that I’m no longer holding my breath. I’m breathing easily. I didn’t know it at the time, but our time together over Christmas break felt like a dream. I knew it was happening, but a big part of me almost didn’t believe it. But now that we were back in school and together and happy, I’m no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s like something heavy has been removed from my chest – something I didn’t even know was there.
I’m taking 16 credits this semester. Writing 101, a required composition class for freshmen, Victorian literature, an advanced elective that I was lucky to get into, Introduction to Anthropology, another requirement - I think it fills the civilization requirement, but I’m not sure - and public speaking. Public speaking is also required, and this is the class that I’m looking forward to the least. Or rather, not at all.
Public speaking gives me heart palpitations. It makes me shiver (not in a good way!) and makes me want to throw up. I’m not a public speaker. I’m terrified of giving speeches. I’m so bad at it that sometimes I raise my hand in class, and if the professor doesn’t call on me immediately, I start to freak out and sometimes drop my hand and don’t participate at all.
“I’m sorry, Alice, but you can’t drop this class,” my counselor informs me when I barge into her office without an appointment and try to weasel out of it. “Unfortunately, public speaking is one of the only classes that fulfills the diversity requirement and fits your schedule. If you didn’t want this class, you should’ve thought about this last semester.”
“The thing is that last semester, I thought I’d be brave. I thought that it would be good for me to take it and get over this fear, once and for all. But now that I actually have to go to class, I just don’t think I can do it. I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“You’re going to be just fine, Alice.” She smiles at me and ushers me outside. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about this anymore. I have a lot of people waiting. If you would like to schedule an appointment…”
“No, thank you for your time.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
&
nbsp; I lie. I’m not going to be fine. I’m going to fail.
I meet Tristan for a late lunch after class. It’s worse than I even imagined.
“I thought the professor would lecture for a bit and we would speak in public later. Like later in the semester. But no. I have to make a speech next week!” I say.
I’m jumbling my words together. I can barely breathe at the very thought.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, patting my shoulders.
Why do people keep saying this? How do they know this? It’s not a given!
“I have to make five speeches!” I say. “What am I going to do, Tristan? I’m going to die.”
Tristan smiles. “You’re not going to die.”
He’s not mocking me, but I’m not sure that he’s getting the severity of this problem either.
“I’ll help you prepare,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”
“You will?” I ask. I like the sound of that.
Public speaking is not a big deal for Tristan. He was our class president for three years before he moved up north. Speaking in front of people doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t fear what others think of him. I wish I could be like that. Confident. Self-assured. But I’m not. And the more I want to be like that, the more embarrassed I get over how I really am.
“My first speech is next week,” I say. “I have to give a toast.”
“To whom?” he asks.
“Whomever I want. But I can’t. No, I have to figure out a way to drop this class.”
“No, you don’t.” He smiles at me. A confident, self-assured smile. “I’ll help you. We’ll get through this together.”
Auctioned to Him 3: Back to the Yacht Page 93