Very softly, I say, “I’m sorry.” I feel like all I do is apologize.
Rose looks blank. Completely shut off. “It’s fine. I’m going to try on that black dress.” She slips into her curtained room, leaving me alone. Well not totally alone.
I glance back at the other Victorian chaise.
My heart sinks. Empty. He’s gone. Great, now I don’t even have someone to ogle.
My phone vibrates in my jeans. I pluck it out and frown at the unknown number. Hmm. I open the text.
Want to hang out? – 215-555-0177
Must be a guy I drunkenly gave my number to after we hooked up. I usually keep personal information to myself, considering it provokes attachment and stalking.
My lips grow into a smile, wondering who could be on the other line. The excitement actually takes me by surprise. If I was drunk when we met, I probably won’t remember him. Anonymous. Technically, it’ll be like a first encounter.
I make my choice.
Where do you want to meet?
Chapter Eight
The next morning, I wake to a splitting headache and the spins. Turns out, I vaguely remembered the guy from my text, not enough to warrant a good mental picture. He likes booze and peer pressured me into doing tequila shots. But I still remember the thrum in my chest, the beat pulsing as I reached his door, as I knocked and waited for him to answer, to let me in and do it as many ways as his body would allow. Anonymous sex—not knowing what the guy will look like on the other side—hooked me so, so very much.
As I lie still, coming down from a serious high and left with a hellish hangover, I wonder about Lo. I haven’t seen him since my porn blared across the lecture hall. I spent my lunch break cramming for a quiz and couldn’t meet him on campus, and Saturday was filled with dresses, shoes and sisters. I don’t even know what he did or where he was, not uncommon. We’re not together all the time, anyway. We do separate on occasion. I think.
I drag my body from the bed, throw on a baggy T-shirt and jeans shorts. I want to ask him about that girl he brought home. Maybe he’ll tell me what he did to her. Would that be weird?
As I exit into the hallway, I stop at the sound of faint laughter, emanating from the kitchen. Girl laughter.
My frown deepens. Is this the same girl? No, it can’t be. My stomach knots. Is it? Hesitantly, I move closer and then go still at the doorway.
“You’re a good cook,” the girl says, her voice familiar.
I don’t know why I assumed he would have a one-night stand like me. Why would I assume that? So she stayed the night. Friday and Saturday.
Lo mills around the kitchen, fixing two bloody marys and scrambling eggs on the stove. I scrutinize the girl who sits cross-legged on the bar stool, wearing his muscle Clash T-shirt. Her big breasts peek out on either side, and I can see her red panties beneath the charcoal-gray fabric.
She’s a natural blonde, her hair wet like she just showered. And even without makeup, she resembles a girl next door, someone you’d bang and then take home to your parents.
I feel even more nauseous.
Lo scrapes the eggs onto two plates. When he looks up, he finally notices me lingering like a creep. “Hey, Lily.” He points to the blonde. “This is Cassie.”
Cassie gives me a small wave. “Hi.”
I smile back, but I shrink inside like a wilted flower. She’s nice, too.
“Do you want breakfast?” Lo asks. He acts as though this is a normal routine. Him, bringing home a girl. On a first name basis with her. Since when do we know the names of our guests? Never. Okay, well that’s more my rule, but I thought it would extend to Lo too. It has since we’ve been in college.
“No,” I mutter. I gesture to the hall behind me. “I’m going to…”—go shrivel in self-pity— “take a shower.” I dart into the depths of the hallway, retreating to the safety of my room. Okay, that was weird. I was weird. The whole situation was extremely weird. Is that how Lo feels about me when I bring men home? I shake the thought off. Of course not. I don’t display the guys and test them out to see if they’re boyfriend material. I ditch them almost immediately.
Only one thing can take my mind off Lo. I change quickly into a black day dress and comb my hair that thankfully doesn’t look too greasy. After spraying perfume and slipping into a pair of wedges, I grab my phone and let three texts, all anonymous numbers, guide my fate.
Unfortunately, I must enter the kitchen to reach the foyer and then the front door. I try to put invisible blinders up as I walk through, my target on the exit. Go, go, go!
“Where are you going?” Lo asks, his frown apparent in his voice.
“Out.” I grab a set of keys in the basket and then drop them back in. I don’t need to drive him anywhere since he has Malibu Barbie on his hip. So I’m getting drunk today. Maybe I’ll call a cab as well.
“Did I do something?” Cassie’s loud-whisper echoes from the kitchen before I leave.
I’m waiting by the elevator when Lo appears around the bending hallway. I still can’t meet his eyes. I’m unjustifiably angry, which makes everything so much worse.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I push the glowing button three more times.
“Lily, look at me.” Lo grabs my arm and thrusts my body towards him. I finally take in his warm, amber eyes, full of confusion and scorn. “What the hell is going on? You’re acting weird.”
“Are you dating her?”
His brows furrow with hardness. Does he think I’m jealous? Am I? Oh jeez. “That’s what this is about? I’ve known her for two fucking days,” he says. “You’re the one who told me that I needed to get laid, remember?” Yeah, can I rip out that girl’s vocal cords?
“I remember, but I thought you’d have a one-night stand and be done with her.” Wow, that sounds bad.
“I’m not you.”
My chest constricts. Everything hurts more than it should. He’s said far truer and meaner things to me. I avoid his gaze once more, my eyes planted on my feet.
His hand goes to my shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can you just talk to me, please?”
“I’m scared,” I say the first thing I can think of. I don’t really know what I am. Confused, angry, upset. But excuses start tumbling from my lips, excuses that I’ve engrained in my head like a machine reading code. “What happens when she wants to meet your father? What happens if she starts telling people she’s dating Loren Hale, and that person happens to be friends with Rose?” I don’t care about any of that. The charade can go to hell for what it’s worth. I just don’t like seeing him move on without me.
“I’m not dating her,” he emphasizes.
“Does she know that? Because she seems to be very comfortable for only knowing you two days.” She’s wearing his shirt and sitting half-naked on my bar stool. I want to kick her out. I want to get Rose to kick her out because she’ll do a hell of a lot better job than me.
I am being irrational. And rude and so, so hypocritical. I need to get out of here.
“She’s not moving in, Lily. She spent the night, that’s it.”
“Twice!” I shout. “And she’s eating breakfast with you. You made her breakfast.” He usually makes me breakfast. Not random girls.
“And not everyone acts like a scared little mouse after sex,” he says cruelly. My face twists in hurt, and he grimaces. “Wait, I didn’t mean…”
“Just stop,” I say, holding up my hand. The elevator dings and the doors slide open, but his fingers still wrap around my wrist, so I don’t leave just yet.
His voice lowers, the doors shutting. “You’re a permanent fixture in my life. You’re not going anywhere.” Why does he have to say it like that? Like I’m some chandelier hanging out while he slips a ring on another woman’s finger.
I shove him off now. “I know we’re not together, okay?”
“Lil—”
“She’s going to ruin everything!” It hurts to see him with her, playing house. That’s our routine. I smack the
button hard. Get me out of here.
“At least tell me where you’re going.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
I scoot into the elevator, and he sticks a hand on the frame, the doors refusing to close me in.
“I mean, I don’t know. I’m not going to a club. I’m meeting up with someone spontaneously. Probably at a motel or his place.”
“What?” His chest collapses and lines crease his forehead. “Since when do you do that?”
“Since yesterday.”
His jaw clenches in reproach. “Are you taking the car?”
The elevator buzzes angrily since he has the doors propped open for so long. I push his arm off and he takes a step back. “No,” I tell him. “It’s all yours. I plan on drinking.”
“Lily,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
The elevator doors begin to close.
“Lily!” He tries to stick his hand in, but they shut before he can. “Dammit,” I hear him curse, leaving me with one last view of him inhaling a sharp breath. I should revel in the fact that I’m scaring him as much as he’s scaring me, but I can’t.
Chapter Nine
I took the car. Maybe Lo’s pleads bled into my brain, subconsciously affecting me. Or maybe I just really didn't want to drink. Whatever the case, my BMW sits outside of a dingy apartment complex. Smoke wafts in a guy’s bedroom, filling my lungs whole. He kisses with rough, wet lips, his mouth sucking my neck. I want to be intoxicated by the moment. I wait for it to carry me away. He’s decent looking, in his late twenties, I suppose. Not fit, not toned. But he has cute eyes and dimpled cheeks.
The seventies shag carpet, dirt-orange walls and lava lamp distract me. As my knees dig into his hard mattress, I stare off, my mind drifting, his hands not doing their job and my head not staying in the game.
I think about Lo. I think about the past. I think about him with Cassie and why it hurts so much. And then a memory floats right into me.
Lo tossed me a blanket in his father’s den, and I wrapped myself in the fuzzy fabric while he loaded the first season of Battlestar Galactica into the DVD player.
“Do you think we can finish the season before Monday?” I asked.
“Yeah, you can crash here if it takes that long. We have to find out what happens to Starbuck.”
I was fourteen, and my parents still thought I cherished Lo like one would a cootie-ridden boy next door. I was far from that place, but I let them believe so anyway.
And then his father stopped by, standing in the crevice of the doorway with a crystal glass of whiskey in hand. The mood shifted. The air sucked dry, and I could practically hear our hearts beating in panicked unison.
“I need to talk to you.” Jonathan Hale kept it short, running his tongue over his teeth.
Lo, fourteen and gangly, stood with tight eyes. “What?”
His father glanced at me, his cutting gaze shriveling my body into the enormous leather couch. “Out here.” He clamped a hand on Lo’s shoulder, guiding him into the darkness.
Their tense voices reached my ears. “You’re failing ninth grade algebra.”
I don’t want to remember this. I try to concentrate on the guy in front of me. He lies on his back and brings me above him. Mechanically, I begin to unbutton his jeans.
“That’s not my report card.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I want to forget, but there’s something about Jonathan Hale that stirs my mind, something off. And so I relive it. I remember. In their moments of silence, I pictured a stare-off between them. One that only fathers and sons with tempestuous relationships can share. Full of hatred and unspoken truths.
“Fine, it’s mine,” Lo said, losing the advantage.
“Yeah?” his father sneered. Their shoes scuffled, and something slammed into the wall. “Don’t be so fucking ungrateful, Loren! You have everything.”
The image hurts, and I shut my eyes, pausing for a minute. I actually stop pulling down the guy’s pants.
Jonathan growled, “Say something, now’s your chance.”
“What does it matter? Nothing’s good enough for you.”
“You know what I want? To be able to talk to my associates about you, to gloat and tell them how my son is better than their little shit. But I have to shut my fucking mouth when they bring up achievements and academics. Get your act together or I’ll find a place that’ll make you the man you should be.”
The guy sits up. “Hey, you okay? You want to switch positions?”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m fine.” I straddle his waist and run my fingers along his chest, sliding down his boxers.
Jonathan Hale’s shoes clapped off in the distance, and Lo didn’t return to the den for what seemed like ten more minutes. When he finally came back in, his eyes looked red and swollen and puffy, and I stood up and walked towards him, letting my emotions guide me.
In the present, I sit up. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, sinking into myself. I grab my clothes, put them on as quickly as possible and high-tail it out of his place. He’s not the right guy. I need another. Something more.
He calls after me, but I don’t listen. His door shuts on my way out, and the cold air rushes into my body, waking me up but sending me back at the same time. My car sits in the rear of the parking lot of his apartment complex. I walk quickly, but my pace doesn’t carry off the memories. They stay.
“Let’s watch the movie.” Lo didn’t look at me.
I only knew one way to make a person feel good, something I believed was better. Impulsively, I reached for his hand. I held it, and he frowned, staring at me like I’d grown horns. But at the same time, his reddening eyes looked eager to take hold of something other than the pain that plagued him.
The parking lot. I yank open the door to my BMW and fumble with my phone, finding some numbers I haven’t exhausted yet. I set up a few random meeting places. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.
I kissed Lo’s lips. Softly, gently. And then I led him to the couch where our hands roamed more hungrily, our bodies moved more passionately, needing to feed our temptations and close out everything else.
We had sex for the first time. The only time.
Afterwards, Lo drank himself to oblivion. And I sprawled out on the couch, making a promise with myself to never sleep with Loren Hale ever again. To never cross that line. Once was enough. It could have ruined our friendship, but we acted as though nothing transpired, as though the moment came with heightened spirits and unleveled heads.
I won’t make a mistake that can cost us what we have. So I pocket my phone, put my car in reverse, and make new plans. Ones that involve blank faces and unpainted canvases. Ones that don’t involve him.
Chapter Ten
The next few days blur. I manage to avoid Lo each time I arrive and depart from the apartment. On the occasions that I sleep at the Drake, I wear earbuds to deafen Lo and Cassie’s love-making noises. Mostly, I spend the night somewhere else, any place that involves anonymous sex and the surprise of a mystery man.
My new discovery invades my waking hours. If I’m not scrolling through tons of unknown numbers, I research Craigslist for anyone willing to hookup. I have yet to use the online resource for a lay, but the allure brings me back. With only a screen name to go off of, I find myself imagining the person on the other end. What they look like. What I could do to them in bed.
The more Lo pulls away, the more I turn to sex, the only thing I can reach for. It feels like he’s wedging a large space between us. He hasn’t asked me for a ride in a whole week, and we’ve stopped discussing our nightly plans together. I used to be able to draw up his schedule as fluidly as my own. Now, I couldn’t tell you if he made it to bed last night without passing out.
I lie on my purple sheets, contemplating my very small existence and staring at the sun. It crests the sky, shining bright rays through the slits in my blinds. An arm drapes across my bare back. I don’t want to wake him. Hopefully his eyes will f
lutter open while I feign sleepiness. I’ve been up since five in the morning, thinking and gazing at the same spot. The sun. The window. My life.
Bang! The noise from my door jolts me. “Lily!” Lo knocks again, his fist slamming into the white wood.
My heart lodges in my throat. I put a pillow over my head, spinning and crashing in a post-drunk tidal wave. The door clicks, and I curse the fact that Lo has a key.
My groggy male guest props himself up. “Who are you?” he asks with a yawn.
“Don’t talk so loud,” another voice groans. What?! I did not…Did I? There are two guys in my bed! I didn’t…I couldn’t have had sex with both of them. I search my memories, but I blank when I reach my anonymous “date” at a bar. Booze forgives all transgressions, but it doesn’t help with the morning after.
My limbs have petrified.
“Both of you, get the fuck out,” Lo sneers. “Now!”
Quickly, the two guys shuffle for their clothes, pulling on articles while I disintegrate into my sheets and cower underneath another comforter. When they finally disappear, silence blankets the room.
Usually whenever Lo kicks a guy out in the morning, he’s so blasé about it. Sometimes he even offers the poor guy a cup of coffee before he leaves. This is not normal.
While I avoid his gaze, Lo paces, and I hear the crinkle of plastic. I peek from my sheet-cave.
He’s cleaning?
I use a part of the sheet to cover my chest and straighten up. “What are you doing?” My voice comes out small and choked. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stays focused on tossing the empty beer bottles into a black trash bag along with many articles of clothing. Boy clothing.
For the first time in days, I actually look at my room. Layered in different underwear, spilled with bottles of booze and tainted with white powder on my vanity—it’s disgusting. My floor hides beneath mounds of debauchery and sin. Half the sheets pile on the ground, and used condoms scatter my rug. It feels like I woke up in someone else’s bed.
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