by Amelia Wilde
“Me? Are you kidding?” I’m not going to mention that I spent twenty minutes on my makeup before this lunch date. Anything to compete with her unbelievable success. “You’re the glamor girl! Your hair is so—”
She fluffs it with her hands. “Not shitty anymore?” Then she laughs, and it takes me all the way back to high school, to our corner in the library, to her stack of books next to my stack of scripts. Her laugh is still exactly the same. “I know. It took years, but I finally figured out how not to look like a complete crazy moron.”
That makes me laugh. “You never looked like a crazy moron.”
“You’re awfully kind, Whit, but I’ve seen pictures.” Whoa, she mouths, eyes huge, and laughs again. “Is this table okay?”
“This table’s perfect.” What’s even more perfect is the open bottle of white already there. We slide into seats across from one another and Eva lets out a huge breath. I pour myself a glass and settle in, the sparkling sweetness dancing on my tongue. “You look a little overwhelmed,” I tell her with a grin.
“Oh, I am. I am. New York City is nothing like the old Grove.”
It’s what we used to call Buffalo Grove, the suburb of Chicago we grew up in, and at the mention of the town, my chest constricts. I smile bigger to cover it up. “No. They’re not kidding when they say the city never sleeps.”
Eva groans. “Never. There’s always something going on, and the light pollution is unbelievable.”
I giggle at that. “It can’t be that much worse than at home.”
“It is. Well—” She looks sheepish. “At home, my bedroom overlooked our backyard pool. My parents kept it pitch dark out there for optimal sleeping conditions.”
“My bedroom was up front,” I say. “I liked the way the streetlight came through the curtain.”
She nods and sips at her wine. “You must be used to it, then.”
“The light? Yeah. Other things, not so much.”
Eva’s eyes light up and she leans in. “That sounds cryptic. Tell me everything immediately.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. Just roommate drama.”
“Now you have to tell me. I love drama. Writing about it, anyway.”
A lowkey excitement threads its way through my veins. It’s like my entire brain is glowing from the opportunity to talk to an old friend. We’ve slipped back into those patterns, like college never happened, like moving to opposite sides of the country never happened. With a pang, I realize how much I’ve been missing Summer since she moved in with Dayton...and how I can’t get this kind of connection from Wes.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“I don’t have any other plans,” Eva coaxes. “Tell me!”
I take a deep breath.
“It started with my roommate, Summer.”
“Very intriguing.” She leans back in her seat and listens intently while I tell her about meeting Summer in college, about reconnecting with her when she needed a place to live in the city, about the crazy love she and Day share. I do my best not to sound jealous. Eva nods in all the right places.
“Anyway, after she moved out, it’s been one weirdo after another in the apartment. I don’t have enough money to cover the rent by myself, so I had to find a roommate. The current one is...” I let my voice trail off. I don’t know if I want to get into this.
“Who?” Eva sounds breathless.
“It’s Summer’s older brother.”
“Oooooh,” she says, expression going hopeful. “Is he hot?”
“No,” I say instinctively, but then I give in. “Yes. He’s ridiculously hot.”
Eva puts her wine glass down on the table and looks me dead in the eye. “Whitney. First, show me a picture right now. Second, tell me you’re taking advantage of this sexy man meat living under your roof.”
The wine is already spreading warmth everywhere it touches, and I crack up. “Sexy man meat.” I laugh so hard I shed a tear over it. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Photo evidence,” she demands.
“I don’t think I—” I take out my purse. “Wait. I do. You’re so lucky we were in a wedding together.”
“Your friend’s wedding?”
I scroll through the pictures Summer sent me, including one of me and Wes on the dance floor. It’s mostly of him, looking down at me, his face caught between a smirk and a laugh, and he looks fucking delicious. Even though he was being a total dick at the time. Eva holds her hand out for the phone and I give it.
“Sweet lord,” she says softly, giving it a good long look before she hands it back. “Jump on that. You have to.” She nods to back up her point. “Have to.”
I roll my eyes up toward the ceiling. “Been there, done that.”
“Oh, my God.” Eva slaps her hands down on the surface of the table. “You did?”
“I went after him at Summer’s wedding. Mimosas,” I say, as if this explains everything, and Eva accepts it as a legitimate excuse for why I kissed Wes in an effort to get him to attend. “It didn’t end super well.”
“Why? Is he a prick?”
“I’d say so,” I tell her, but a small part of me feels like this is a betrayal. Wes can be cold, but I have a nagging suspicion that there’s more to him than that. I know there is. I’ve seen flashes of it.
“Still,” says Eva.
“Still,” I tell her.
We sip our wine in silent agreement.
I’m on the drunk side of tipsy when I get back to the apartment.
Wes is cooking.
I’m hit with a spicy, fragrant stir-fry scent as soon as I walk in the door. It makes my stomach growl even though we ordered three appetizers between us, damn it. I kick off my shoes and saunter into the kitchen, bracing my hands against the doorframe.
Wes is standing at the stove, his back to me, hands moving easily over a chopping board. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look. Maybe he didn’t hear me come in. He finishes dicing whatever he’s chopping up and tips it into the crackling pan on the stove. Jesus, it smells good.
“Why the hell were you trying to get me to kiss you again?”
The question isn’t nearly as eloquent as I would have liked, but at the sound of my voice, Wes whips his head around, eyebrows raised. One corner of his mouth lifts in a little smirk. “I see you had a good time.”
I stand up tall, hands on my hips. “Answer the question.”
He shrugs carelessly, and I don’t expect an honest answer. “You were there the first time. It was hot.”
My expectations are always off, aren’t they? “That wasn’t hot. That was desperate.” My tongue feels like a lead weight in my mouth. Maybe I’m a little more than tipsy.
“Does that matter?” He turns sideways, stirring at the pan with one hand so he can look at me.
“Yes.”
“Why?” His question sounds genuine enough.
“That was a special case. I was saving the day for Summer. It didn’t mean anything.”
“A kiss doesn’t need meaning to be sexy as hell.”
“If it was so sexy, why were you such an ass?”
The smirk disappears, and with a thud to my gut, I realize he’s being honest. Only I don’t know if I want him to be honest. I don’t know if I want to see the real Wes now, today. “I couldn’t let you get any closer.”
It hurts to hear him say that. It shouldn’t, but it does, a sting that ricochets across my ribs and dives down into my stomach. “I only wanted you to get close enough to come to the wedding.” I fling the words at him dismissively.
He clicks his tongue and turns back to the stove. “So harsh.”
“It’s the truth. And I’m not hungry.”
I am hungry. I’m starving. I want him to offer me a plate of whatever he’s cooking more than anything in the world in this moment, but I’m stewing in hurt and delayed-onset jealousy and the kind of angst I thought I’d left behind in my high-school locker. Fuck. I hate this.
“Good,” Wes says mildly, wi
th one glance over his shoulder. “Because none of this is for you.”
I leave without another word, dragging one hand along the wall to keep myself upright. I brush my teeth in the bathroom and retreat to my bedroom, where I lay down, fully clothed.
None of this is for you.
It never is, is it?
12
Wes
I stop dead in the hallway outside the bathroom.
Sunday afternoon, golden sunlight streams in every available window of the apartment, illuminating a scene I never once thought I’d see. It’s like something out of the world’s tamest porno, if your porn of choice was a lingerie magazine.
I’ve been out all day. I went for a run in Central Park. I ate lunch in a diner. I generally avoided Whitney, because holy shit was last night awkward. Her wine date must’ve put her up to something, because she came in with her verbal fists swinging, putting a name to the tension that’s been thick in our apartment since she told me to my face that she doesn’t have the hots for me.
Fat fucking chance.
I was honest with her last night when I shouldn’t have been. I’ve been giving her space.
She’s been doing laundry.
I must’ve known deep down that this would happen eventually. We’re living with each other for the convenience of it, and since I’ve moved in, we’ve always done laundry on different days. Usually, she’s folding it in a basket when I get back from my weekly appointments at the VA. Half the time, I actually go. Half the time, I go to the park and walk around the big loop.
None of that matters.
Whitney isn’t here, but the bathroom is full of her bras.
The girl has a magnificent fucking collection.
It’s an expensive rainbow of lingerie, ranging from black to aqua to red, and they’re all hanging up around the bathroom, taunting me.
I’m rooted to the spot, pinned in place by thoughts I can’t stop.
Was she wearing one of these at the wedding? Was the lacy fabric grazing her nipples, making them hard, when she leapt at me, pressing her mouth against mine? Are these what Whitney wears under her shirt every day, while she’s wearing her demure dresses that flare at the hips, or the button-downs and dress slacks that make her ass look so grabbable I have to keep my hands in my pockets?
I’m harder than iron at the thought, my cock pressing painfully against the zipper of my work pants. This is some fucking fantasy, and for once, I don’t mind letting my imagination run away with me. For once, it’s running toward something soft and sexy, not toward the killing fields of Afghanistan. For once.
My eyes settle on a deep purple bra, a jewel hanging over the curtain rod. I’ve never been much for purple, but I can practically see it against her creamy skin. The only thing sexier than seeing her delectably round, full breasts rising above the line of this bra would be taking it off. Undoing the hooks, one by one. Slipping my fingers underneath the straps, drawing them over her shoulders one after the other, until this purple thing made of lace and lust falls to the floor and those fucking gorgeous breasts spill out into my hands.
She’d gasp at my touch, the pads of my thumbs against her nipples, and that’s all it would take. One arch of her back and all the sunshine and sarcasm would fall away. She’d be the woman who kissed me in my hotel room. She’d be dark and hot and mine.
I take in a ragged breath.
“What are you doing?”
Oh, fuck.
Whitney stands in the hallway in a t-shirt and yoga pants, laundry basket balanced against her hip, a little smile on her face that looks so smug I want to kiss it off. “You know, they’re a lot sexier when they’re on.”
“I’m on my way to my room.” My voice is gruff. I’m fucking caught with a tent in my pants I have zero hope of hiding.
She nods sagely. “Yes. Better take care of yourself.” I watch her gaze flick down to the front of my pants.
This should be one-hundred percent humiliating, but even in this moment, even in this embarrassing fucking moment, I want more than her eyes on the outline of my cock pushing against my pants. I want her on her knees, that hopeful smile playing on her lips. That’s what I want. This is as close as it’s going to get. So it’s only ninety percent humiliating.
Fuck.
Whitney turns her head, averting her eyes, and I take the moment to escape down the hallway and into my bedroom. I shut the door as quietly as I can. She doesn’t need to know the animalistic need raging through my veins.
She caught me.
She fucking caught me, and there was no way to avoid it. I might as well have been standing there with my pants down. I wish it had ended in both of us on the floor, her basket spilled onto the carpet.
But I’m in here, wanting to fuck her so badly I can taste it, and she’s probably in the bathroom, putting up more bras to taunt me when I walk back out.
If I walk back out.
I run both hands over my face, willing this to go away.
It doesn’t.
I can’t get any of it out of my head. The lingerie. The curve of her hip jutting against that laundry basket. The red lips in a little smile, dark eyes locked on me.
I grip the edge of the dresser with one hand and unzip with the other. There’s no way I can live with this. My fucking head’s going to explode. I’m so on edge that it can’t take more than a minute of hard strokes before I’m grabbing for a tissue like a teenager. Part of me cares. The rest of me shudders with the release.
My heart slows, and I sit down heavily on my bed. I can still taste how much I want her, but at least the pressure in my head—and everywhere else—has loosened its grip.
There’s a casual knock on my bedroom door. “Wes?”
“I’m good.” Jesus Christ.
“Did you want any Chinese? I’m going to order from the place down the street.”
“I’m good.” I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
The last of my resolve snaps like an old rubber band. “Go away, Whitney.”
She does.
13
Whitney
“Sorry to be calling with less-than-ideal news, but we’ll get the next one. I just know it!”
I take a breath in and let it out silently, so Christy doesn’t hear. “You know what they say about the cookie crumbling.” I tack a mild chuckle onto the end, so she knows I’m still in this game, still rolling with the punches.
But this feels like a knife to the gut, deflating the last possible balloon of positivity I had going into today.
May first.
I tried to hold it off, I really did. I went to an impromptu improv class last night and absolutely killed it. The rest of the group was in stitches at the end of my last sketch. Their laughter rolled over me and buoyed my spirits.
For all of an hour.
This morning, I woke up with an ache in my throat like the beginning of sickness, only it’s not that. It’s not allergies, either. I’ve been taking my allergy pills religiously since we had the first melt at the end of February.
This day, every year, is the biggest acting job of my life.
Honestly, I was doing pretty well until Christy called with more bad news. Any other day, I could have brushed it off as a fact of the business, but today? Today, it pins me to my chair, weighing my hips down with defeat. Lucky for me, Helen’s birthday lunch has already come and gone. I was the life of the party then too. If the call had come any earlier, it would have been a disaster.
I try to smile at Hollywood’s Man of the Year. Tears come to my eyes instead.
I suffer through the final hour of cold calls, feeling a tiny flash of triumph when I sell an insurance policy to a prickly woman who spends fifteen minutes grilling me about different scenarios involving a rental home she and her husband were thinking of selling. But that, too, was like a balloon filled with lead instead of air.
I fucking hate this day.
It sucks the light out o
f everything around it.
By the time I stand up from my desk to make the beautiful, sunshine-soaked walk home, I can feel my shoulders slouching. I press them upward, against this complicated grief, and grin through it all the way out the front doors.
It’s delicious, early May in New York City. We’re not at the point yet where it’s all overheated garbage and broken air conditioners, and I breathe in what little sweetness I can find on the walk back home.
It’s not enough.
I need a pick-me-up.
I stop at the grocery store two blocks from home, covering this ridiculous grief, this ludicrous sadness, with an animal need for sweet & salty Chex Mix and a package of Rolos. I want to dump the Chex Mix into a bowl and eat all the cookie sticks and cookie whorls first, leaving the pretzels for whatever poor sucker gets to the bag after me. I want to unwrap the Rolos one by one, tearing the golden foil into a neat curlicue, and fill the gaping void in my gut with chocolate and caramel.
I take a basket from the stand at the front and move through the aisles. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t make eye contact. It’s not my usual game, but I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something vast and unpleasant. Chex Mix, check. Rolos, check. But I shouldn’t leave here with a bunch of junk food. The sight of these things alone in my cart takes me to another level of sorrow and guilt, and I swallow a hard lump in my throat, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.
Jesus Christ.
I blink them away. Add some bananas, and it’ll be okay. Maybe a single red apple.
I’m standing in front of the produce section, searching for yellow in a sea of green bananas, when an old woman pushes her cart up next to me. “I’m looking for pineapple,” she says tremulously. “The kind in the can, but I can’t find it. I’ve been looking everywhere.”
It’s an innocent question but her voice barrels through the last of what was holding me together.