by JA Huss
The ballerina is directly across the hall from me. She’s doing some exercise at her barre, pretending to be engrossed in her stretches, but glancing over at me every few seconds.
Aria is sitting back at her computer, leaning over. Probably reading my test results.
And how humiliating that is. Right? I was so irresponsible with her, I had to get tested to prove I’m not a man-whore with diseases.
She wasn’t worried about it. I believe her. I wasn’t either. I’m careful.
But the fact is… I fucked up.
I start pounding on my drums. Just making up a beat. My feet hitting the double bass as I bang out a clusterfuck of noise until I get a rhythm going. But my gaze is locked on Aria’s cube. I want her to turn around. I want her to watch me. I want to put on a show for her.
I stop drumming and set my sticks down, then drag my t-shirt over my head and toss it on the floor. I want to make noise and work up a sweat. I want to push Aria Amherst up again a wall and finger her until she comes and then fuck her from behind until her legs are trembling and she’s screaming my name.
But I can’t. I can’t ever touch her again.
So I just do the only thing I can. I play the drums and picture the way she so carefully sat down on my cock that night. The way she moaned, and squeaked when I was fully inside her. The evidence of what I did smeared all over my cock when we were done.
I live in the fantasy because Aria Amherst is now officially off limits.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ARIA
After he walks away I stare at his back for a second and the way his tattoos move across the taut muscles of his arms and the way his biceps stretch when he lifts one hand to point at the ballerina girl, then again when he opens his door and walks inside.
The envelope is clutched in my fingers out in front of me and I turn, noticing the ballerina girl is now looking at me weird. Squinting her eyes a little. I sit back down at the computer. I came here under the pretense that I was going to touch up some photographs we were given in class today. But it was a lie.
I’ve been thinking about him all week. Every day when my dad comes to pick me up after class I secretly hope he’s waiting there too. Fully understanding that it’s a fantasy and having Ryker and my dad in the same vicinity is one of the worst ideas ever.
But then… earlier at dinner. My dad was happy and seemed to like Ryker. It was uncomfortable and weird, but the world didn’t implode and I didn’t catch on fire for not mentioning that, Oh, hey. Small world, Dad. This older business guy you’re doing deals with took my virginity in the most amazing way ever last weekend. It was the best night of my life.
It was the best night of my life. I don’t think I fully appreciated just how careful he was with me at the time. And that only made my tantrum about the truffle grilled cheese all that more ridiculous.
God. I really blew it. He’s so done with me. And why shouldn’t he be? I was acting like a child, that’s why I felt like one. He wasn’t treating me like a kid. He planned a pretty thorough adult sexual adventure for us and I messed it all up with my teenage insecurities.
I look at the letter in my hand. It’s a very high-quality envelope. Thick and cream-colored. The kind my parents use when they’re sending out party invitations. And across the front, written in red script Sharpie, is my name.
Aria. With a little flourish underneath.
Only the tip of the envelope flap has been secured, so a single finger inserted under it releases the seal.
I pull out a letter—same thick paper as the envelope—and two sheets of test results, which do, in fact, indicate that he has tested negative for all sexually transmitted diseases.
The letter is handwritten in the same script as my name.
Dear Aria,
I’m very sorry for making you worry about this. It was inappropriate and irresponsible. I hope this gives you some piece of mind and while I think you’re a very lovely young woman, I’m afraid this is where we part ways. Again, I’m truly sorry for not being more careful, but I’m not sorry I met you.
I wish you all the best in the future.
Ryker
Well, shit. Now I feel horrible for making him do this. I feel horrible about all of it.
A cacophony of random drums fills the co-op and I glance over my shoulder and see him drumming.
I quickly glance back at my letter—tracing each handwritten word with my eyes.
His drumming stops, then starts again, and I chance one more look at him
Oh, fuck.
He took his shirt off and now he’s got his eyes closed, getting into his music. The beat becomes rhythmic and steady.
The ballerina girl appears at my cube door, saying “Knock, knock,” as she raps her knuckles in the air. I can’t hear her over the drums, I just read her lips.
I wave her in and the door opens, the drums get louder, then she closes it behind her and it goes back down to a manageable level.
“Hey,” she says. “You’re April’s sister, right?”
“Yup, that’s me. I’m Aria.”
“Nice to meet you Aria. I’m Babette.”
Of course she is. Babette. That’s got sexy ballerina written all over it.
“So… I was just wondering if you have a thing for him?”
“Who? What?” I say.
She nods her head in Ryker’s direction. “That North guy. Because I like him and I’m pretty sure he likes me too. So… you know. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”
I squint my eyes at her. Fucking bitch. He is not into her. He’s into me.
Or is he? Is that why we must part ways? So he can date the ballerina?
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m just curious. You’re what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” I lowball.
She lifts her chin up and looks down her nose at me. “Twenty-seven.”
“Ah,” I say. “So do you dance professionally?”
“Why?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m just wondering. I used to dance ballet when I was younger.” Really, I just want to be a bitch. Because I know what a defeated ballerina looks like. I took dance for ten years and almost all the girls in my classes had big dreams of dancing professionally. And every one of us—except one willowy, perfectly proportioned girl with the right genetics—was weeded out in our third or fourth year en pointe.
And this Babette here, she was one of the weeds.
I’m being mean. I know that. But she was mean first.
“I do theatre now,” she says, stiffening.
“Cool,” I say.
“Musicals,” she adds.
“I love musicals,” I say. “Let me know when you’re in one. I’d love to come support you.” I smile sweetly.
She smiles sweetly back. “I’ll do that. Did he give you a note, or something?” she asks, looking down at my letter.
I fold it up, thankful I put his test results face down on the desk, and say, “Yeah. Just a thank you. We actually had dinner earlier. With my father,” I clarify. “They do business together.”
“Oh,” she says. “So you know each other.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
She nods. Then she turns on her toes—swear to God, on her toes—and walks out.
I sigh and give up. That was mean. I’m not usually a mean person. My dad always taught my sister and me that being mean is easy. Insulting people takes far less effort than being understanding and nice. And sure, it feels good in the moment but then you feel guilty. And if you’re mean to people enough times, you become used to defending yourself with nastiness. And then one day you wake up and realize that good, sweet person you thought you were is gone.
Then he would look at us—mostly April, because she has an inherent mean streak towards people she dislikes—and say, “I know you’re not that person. And I want the world to know you the way I do.”
So… yeah. I feel awful and want to go make up for it somehow. Tell
Babette nice things and maybe try to be friends.
But when I turn around she’s flicked off the lights in her cube and she’s heading out the back door.
Good going, Aria. Your father would be so proud of what you’ve turned into this past week. Seven days outside his influence and I’m everything he never wanted me to be.
I stick the letter inside my purse, then flip off the light, lock up, and leave by the front door.
The whole way home I think about Ryker this afternoon. Not Ryker last weekend. But the way he was polite and mature today. And how that’s kinda nice. And maybe also how I might need someone like that—someone like my father—in my autonomous adult life. Someone to remind me of who I am.
When I get home I go upstairs to find Felix lounging in the middle of the floor. Flicking his tail up and down all impatient and irritated. He likes me, but he misses April and I think he’s lonely.
I think I’m lonely too. Being on my own isn’t the fun I thought it would be. I like privacy and I certainly have that here. But I do miss living with other people and I’m actually glad my dad has been picking me up from class. I’m also starting to wonder if I should stay here for the next few weeks or just go home.
I flop on the couch and switch the TV on, just surfing channels to waste time until I’m tired enough to sleep. Wishing I had handled things with Ryker differently on Monday. Wishing he hadn’t given up on me so easily.
Suddenly I’m too tired to bother with TV. I just want to sleep. I click it off and hear footsteps coming up the stairs outside the door.
Holy shit. Is it Ryker?
My heart starts to beat fast. Hope flooding my body.
Then a knock.
“Who is it?” I ask. Because if it’s not him—
“It’s Ryker North, Aria. I just… need a minute.”
Just a minute? Why just a minute? What could this be about?
“Can you open the door, please? I promise, I won’t take long.”
I get up, walk over, and open the door. He’s standing on the other side, still sweaty from drumming—but unfortunately for me, he has a shirt on—with disheveled hair and both hands pressed against my doorframe so he’s leaning forward a little bit.
“Umm… hello.”
He holds up a finger. “I just need to say two things, OK?”
“OK.”
“First—I know I said this already, but I need to say it again. I’m sorry.”
“Which part, exactly, are you sorry for?” Because I’m confused. Did he not want to be with me at all? Does he regret having sex with me? Because that’s definitely not what I want to hear.
“I didn’t treat you right.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I mean…” He lifts his eyebrows up. “I think I did treat you right on your birthday. I think I did everything right, actually. Maybe not getting all alpha on you while your parents were waiting in the car when you were in the co-op. But after. I think I did… I think…” He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “I really enjoyed that. Being with you and being considerate and careful for your first time. I hope you remember that night forever and it’s not something you regret.”
I open my mouth to say, I certainly won’t. But he holds up a finger.
“One more thing, then that’s it.”
“OK.”
“Would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend?”
“A… date?”
“Yes. A real date. I pick you up on Friday night, take you somewhere nice. Bring you home. That kind of thing.”
“A date.”
“Yes.”
I start nodding my head. “OK. Yes. I’d like to go on a date with you.”
“Great,” he says. “That’s it. It was very nice meeting you today. The real you, I mean. And your father seems as easy to like as you are. So… Yeah. That’s it. I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”
Then he turns and walks away.
“Ryker?” I say.
“Hmm?” He looks back at me over his shoulder.
“You don’t want to come in?”
He shakes his head. “No. We’re going to do this right. I’ll see you Friday.”
Then he disappears down the stairs and I close my door, leaning my back against it as I take all that in.
A real date. As in… we might be starting something real. We might be starting a relationship.
I think I swoon a little.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - RYKER
All week I’ve been asking myself, Am I doing the right thing? Should I just back off and leave her alone? Is this wrong?
And all week I’ve come up with answers on both sides. Is taking her out on a new first date the right thing? Probably not. It’s a professional risk at this point. But I ask myself another question. If we weren’t putting this deal together with her father, would I feel the same way? Yes and no. Because yes, I still want to ask her out. And no, I wouldn’t be feeling this guilt over it.
If Aria were just some random eighteen-year-old girl I met in the co-op I’d still have that initial she’s-too-young-for-me response. But after knowing her a week it would’ve faded. I feel that to be true.
It’s only her father who gives me pause. And yet it was meeting him, and seeing her with him, that changed my mind that night I asked her out.
She is special. Not just special the way a father thinks his daughter is special, but in other ways too.
She kissed him on the cheek before she left. He gave her an heirloom diamond ring instead of a car for her birthday.
There are real familial ties at work here. And I like that. I love it, actually. Because that’s not anything I’ve ever had before. I have Ozzy. He’s my only family these days. But it’s not the same. A business partnership isn’t like a love relationship. And sure, I love the guy. I’d do anything for him and he’d do anything for me.
It’s just not the same. I need more than that.
And her father seems to like us. Ozzy, because everyone loves Ozzy. But me too. He’s dropped by our office twice this week because he was in the neighborhood for meetings. He’s excited about our project and both times he’s reminded us of the Spring Fling at the country club.
I feel like this is a good sign. That one day, if Aria and I continue to see each other, I could go to him and explain how I feel about his daughter and he’ll understand. He’ll get it. He’ll get us and everything will work out.
If that vibe wasn’t there I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have asked her out again.
But it was. So I did.
Is it wrong to date someone seventeen years younger than you?
Probably. But by whose standard? She’s a legal adult. And even though this started out as a one-night stand, that’s not what it is now. We stumbled a little that first weekend but we took time to think and fate brought us back together.
I feel like we’ve been given a second chance. A do-over.
So what if people look at us funny? Does it matter what they think if I love her?
Not that I love her. I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. This is all totally in the like department… for now.
But if we did fall in love, then who’s to say that it’s wrong?
Ultimately no one gets to decide that but us. Her and me. And I’ve already decided it’s not wrong. Not if you love someone. Not if you’re doing it for the right reasons. So I’m going to make sure she knows I’m doing this because I want her.
I want to get to know her. I want to see the young woman her father sees. The innocent one. The sweet one.
“Jesus,” Ozzy says. “What the hell are you daydreaming about? All week you’ve been distracted.” He sits on the corner of my desk. “What’s going on with you?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “You remember that girl I was telling you about?”
“Which one?”
“The last one,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The young one.”
“You mean,” he says, r
aising one eyebrow at me, “the eighteen-year-old baby?”
“She’s not a baby. She’s an adult. And she’s interesting. And good. I like her.”
“Oh, shit,” he says, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “Who is she?”
“I’m not ready to go there just yet. But maybe soon. If this all works out. I’m taking her out tonight. Real first date kinda thing,” I say.
“Ah, man,” he says, dropping a folder onto my desk.
“What?”
“Real first date? Like you just threw away the one-night stand and decided to start over? What the hell? Are you falling for this girl? Because I gotta say, that’s not a good idea, Ryker. Age difference. It never works out. Cut your losses, dude. She’s gonna shatter you. I mean, eighteen? She hasn’t even lived yet and you…” He shakes his head. “You’ve lived a little too much.”
I’ve lived a little too much.
Not untrue, either. I’ve got the figurative scars and literal tattoos to prove it.
“And what’s up with this drummer stuff? I’ve asked you to come out and have drinks with me all week and every time you blow me off for the fucking drums. What gives? What’s going on?”
“I like it,” I say. “I miss it. I guess I didn’t realize how much until I started playing again.”
“So… do you miss the old you too? Because I gotta tell ya, Ryker, I didn’t care for that guy much. I certainly didn’t go into business with him. And I know I brought up your friend in the band, but I was just showing off for Amherst. You know how I feel about old you.”
“No,” I say. “I swear. It’s nothing like that. I just miss the energy, ya know? The music, the—“
“The lifestyle,” he interrupts. “Is that why you’re dating this younger girl? You’ve clawed your way to the top of the food chain and now you’re missing all the things you left behind?”
“That’s not why.”
“You sure about that, buddy? Because I’m no therapist, but this is what you’d call a classic mid-life crisis. If you were married you’d be getting a divorce—“