by Kiley Roache
“Exactly.” He smiles. “But for real, do we get glasses or a bottle?”
“I don’t know.” I read over his shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t even really like wine.”
“Really?” He looks up. “I thought all girls like wine.”
I wrinkle my nose. “One, sexist.”
“Sorry.” He shrugs and reaches for his water.
“Two, it reminds me too much of church.”
He almost chokes on his water. “Complicated relationship with religion?” he asks between coughs.
“You could say that.”
“Oh, great, here comes the return of the waiter.”
“Probably wants to know if we want to switch our silverware out for gold.”
Jordan stifles a laugh as Jeffery approaches the table. “Enjoying your water?”
“You know what? Hasn’t killed me yet.” I turn to Jordan. “Although I typically bathe in Dasani, maybe I will switch to this.”
The waiter rolls his eyes. “Would you like anything else to drink?”
“Yes, I’ll have a Manhattan,” Jordan says.
“Me, too.” It seems like a grown-up drink to go with a grown-up night. Plus, I get a cherry! “Oh, and can we get more bread?” Jordan asks.
“Yeah, like, at least two more baskets,” I add.
“Sure,” he says through gritted teeth. He probably thinks our table will be more work than the rest and won’t tip, because we’re young. Jokes on him because I always do 18 percent or more. I’ll just get my retribution by matching his sassy comments with my own.
“He didn’t ID us!” I say as soon as Jeffrey is, hopefully, out of earshot.
“Yeah, well, who the hell comes here when they’re eighteen?”
Jeffrey returns with two sunset-colored drinks.
“Would you like to tell me your order now?” he says, setting down our glasses.
“I’ll have the garden salad.” I snap my menu closed.
“And the Caesar for me.” Jordan nods.
“Is that all?”
“Are the desserts on this menu?” I open it back up to look for myself.
“No.”
“Then yeah, that’s all for now.”
Jeffrey seizes the menus from our hands and is gone in a flash.
“Oh, he is not happy with us,” I say.
“Probably because of your water joke.”
“Oh c’mon, he started it.”
He laughs and reaches for his drink. “Can’t wait to see the headlines tomorrow: Warren student brawls with waiter at Bay Area’s finest steak house.”
“Hey, as long as I win.” I pick up my drink to toast.
Jordan does the same and says, “To...what was it? Loyalty, liberty and binge drinking?”
I laugh. “To valor, honesty, loyalty and brotherhood.”
“Whatever.” He shrugs. “It’s all right. A bit clunky. Not terribly original.” He wrinkles his nose. “How about...to us?”
I smile. “To us.”
We clink glasses and sip.
“Wow,” I say. “That is not Natty.”
Chapter Forty-Six
After tipping 20 percent on our record-settingly small bill, we set out into the city. The sky has gone dark, but the buildings are bright.
The wind off the bay blows back my hair, probably tangling it terribly. I shiver.
“Here.” He slips off his jacket and slides it around me.
His hand brushes my shoulder, and I shiver again, this time not from the cold. “Thanks.”
We walk around holding hands, past quiet storefronts and roaring bars. There’s something so intimate about being in a big city with just one other person. There in the anonymity of a crowd, among people from all different places talking about their own lives in all different languages, in a way you have more privacy than you do out in the country alone. In the bustle and chaos of it all, you have found someone.
We’re standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the walk sign, when I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. His five o’clock shadow scratches me lightly.
“What was that for?”
I shrug. “Just because I can.”
He smiles.
People behind us start to push forward, so we cross the street. He tries to kiss me back as we walk but gets my ear instead. I laugh, and it’s a twinkling sound I’ve never heard before.
Across from Ghirardelli Square there is a small park with a beach. We walk down to the water, the Golden Gate just visible in the fog.
“Wow,” I say.
“I know.”
I look around. We’re the only people this far into the park. I bend down and undo the tiny buckles on my shoes.
“What are you doing?”
I step out of them and sigh in relief.
“This.” I pick up my shoes and take off down the steps until my feet touch the sand.
I turn around to see Jordan still standing on the sidewalk.
“Well, c’mon, then!” I shout. The wind whips my hair back.
He rushes down the stairs as I keep walking until I’m ankle-deep in the water.
He stops on the beach to take off his shoes.
“Are you folding your socks?”
“Yes.”
I laugh.
“These are my favorite ones.” He sets them down carefully in his discarded shoes, rolls up his pants and wades into the water with me.
He steps forward and takes my hand, pulling me close, so my hand rests against his chest.
I never used to believe that you recognized life-changing moments while they were happening. It seemed like some sixth-sense bullshit, the type of thing women reading palms on the streets of San Francisco might talk about, not something I would experience.
One of my favorite scenes in literature is when Gatsby first kisses Daisy. He says no to a ladder to the heavens and kisses her instead. He ties his dreams to her, and in that way, limits them.
It’s the fatal move. Asking one person to make your life complete. To save you. It’s a dangerous game to play. But we tell the story again and again, because it’s such a beautiful delusion, that there’s a soul mate out there and finding him or her is all we have to worry about. But it is a delusion. So you resist it; you tell yourself that you have much grander ideas than dreams tied to one person. So you sit and discuss Gatsby’s stupidity in high school English. You annotate and dissect in class. And you promise yourself that your sights are set on your dream, and that there is no person who will disrupt that. That there is no way you will settle for a normal, happy life and give up your dreams for a love that fades to average.
But then here you are, having run away from your life for a weekend with a boy you have no business falling in love with, about to watch your whole life change.
Or maybe that’s just bullshit. Maybe you can’t exactly know what your choice will mean. Sometimes all you know is that there’s a beautiful, wonderful boy and you want to kiss him, so you do.
And when his lips touch mine, I know in my bones that this is a moment I will replay in my head for years to come, though whether as a sweet beginning or a what-might-have-been, I don’t, can’t, know. But F. Scott Fitzgerald was right. My dreams are tied to this boy now, and I’m either going to have to sever myself from him or watch those dreams wither away.
He rests his forehead against mine, and in the pale moonlight I can just barely see the outline of his smile.
“What do you want to do?” I whisper.
“I don’t care—I’m just happy to be with you.”
I kiss him on the cheek.
“We could go to a bar,” he says. “Or check out Ghirardelli for a second dessert, or take a midnight boat ride...”
“Let’s go back to the room,” I say.
“Ye
ah?”
“Yeah.”
We can’t keep our hands off each other the whole way back to the hotel. But in the elevator, the nervousness starts to set in. Mostly I’m filled with exhilarating excitement, but I’m also a little bit scared.
“Give me a second,” I say as we enter the room.
“Okay.” He sits on the chair nearest the bed and undoes his tie.
I head to bathroom, trying to slyly pick up my duffel bag on the way.
Watching myself in the bathroom mirror and the unfortunate fluorescent lighting, I slip off my dress, revealing a simple black strapless bra and bikini-style panties.
I unzip my bag and dig through my clothes until my hand closes over plastic. Pulling out the package I’d ordered online a few weeks ago, I rip through the Victoria’s Secret logo so the lacy fabric slips out.
Taking a deep breath, I set it down on the bathroom counter and look at myself in the mirror. I slip off my bra and underwear, and shove them in my bag.
It takes me a second to figure out exactly how I’m supposed to put on the red corset, but then I manage fine.
Then comes the matching thong: fabric in the front, just a single strip in the back. Ridiculous, but not really requiring an instruction manual.
Next come the black thigh-highs, which are easy enough, like socks, but they just keep going up.
But how do I attach the thigh-highs to the little plastic and metal clippie things hanging from the corset?
I reach for my phone to Google it, then remember it’s on the dresser in the other room.
I try to pry one open and it closes on my finger. Shit.
Okay, got it open. Now I just have to slip it on the thigh-high and...yes! Perfect. One down, four to go, and then the other leg.
I take a deep breath and stand up.
The little ribbon pops off the thigh-high.
I’m going to write an angry email to Victoria tomorrow. Maybe that’s her secret, how to work these goddamn contraptions.
Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck.
If I stay in here any longer, Jordan is gonna think I’m pooping.
“Jordan?” I open the door slowly.
“What’s up?”
I step out tentatively. He’s scrolling through his phone, sitting on the edge of his chair.
I look down at the ribbons swinging from my hips. I twist one of them around my finger.
“These things are supposed to clip onto the stockings, but I can’t figure out...”
I look up. His eyes seem darker than usual, and yet more alive. Like slow-burning embers.
“Wow.” The word barely escapes his lips. His phone falls to the carpet.
I smile and step toward him. When I reach him, I lean down to kiss him on the lips, slow and sensual.
“It’s like a dream,” he says when I pull away.
I can’t help but agree.
He pulls me onto his lap, kissing me again.
The hell with those stupid ribbons.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Hey there,” I say. I can feel the smile in my voice.
The sheet is half twisted around us, where we lie naked in the bed.
Light shines through the half-open curtains. Outside the window the bay is sparkling and the city is coming to life.
“Mmm.” He doesn’t open his eyes, just pulls me closer and kisses me on the forehead.
I close my eyes again and rest my head on the little nook his shoulder forms.
Sometimes it’s not big, dramatic moments. Sometimes it’s just waking up and not knowing where you are or what time it is or anything at all, but seeing a face and feeling like you’re home. Sometimes that’s all it takes to know you’re falling in love.
My phone rings, and I wake up for the second time. Jordan stays asleep, so I carefully untangle myself and climb out of bed. Stepping over the discarded corset and thong, I grab my phone off the charger.
Madison Macey’s name is on the screen, but the phone stops ringing before I can hit the green button.
My missed messages and calls replace her on the screen. Five voice mails. How the hell did that happen?
I grab Jordan’s undershirt off the floor and slip it over my head. Luckily it covers me up enough that I can step out onto the balcony, where I call her back, shutting the door quietly behind me.
“Cassie, where the hell have you been?”
I guess we’re skipping hello, then. “Uh...asleep. It’s only, like, ten.”
“God, college kids.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I’ve been trying to call you to tell you America Weekly wants the story.”
Oh my God! “That’s—”
“For the final issue this month.”
“This month? It’s not done. We haven’t even finished the second round of interviews. And then I have to write the report. Like, there is so much analysis to do, there’s Professor Price to consult, peer reviews to submit and—”
“No, no, no. Cassie, stop talking.”
My mouth snaps shut.
“They don’t want an academic paper. They want to run your entries verbatim, diary-style. Just whatever you have so far will work.”
“But that eliminates context, and there were times when I was wrong. They can’t run it half-done. It won’t be honest.”
“It’s more important that we run it when we have the most buzz, which is right now.”
“But—”
“Cassie, these emails from your frat, they’re all over the news. This is your opportunity to take the story wider, to a national audience. This will launch your career, Cassandra. Next week you could be on the Today show, so stop complaining.”
“I’m not sure—”
There’s a knock on the door behind me.
“You know what, I’ll call you back.” I hang up and press the lock button.
“Hey.” I turn around as the door opens.
“What are you doing?” Jordan stands in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet.
“Just...thinking.”
He furrows his brow. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds frail. “Perfect.” And it is so close to being the truth. If that call hadn’t happened, if my reality was just him, a sheet barely covering his beautiful body, and me in his shirt, I’d have nothing in the world to worry about. But that call did happen, and it makes me sick to my stomach.
“Come back inside.”
“I will in a minute.” I lean over and peck him on the cheek, my phone still in my hand.
When I lean back he stares at me, concern in his eyes.
I force a smile.
“Okay, I’m gonna shower,” he says.
I nod.
When the door closes again, I turn back to the city. Leaning over the railing, I stare out at the cars and debate calling Madison Macey back.
Then I decide maybe I can let myself stay in the dream just a little bit longer, so I turn my phone off and head back inside.
The bathroom door is slightly open, swirls of steam sneaking out. I walk over and open it farther.
I shed the T-shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and pull back the shower curtain.
“Hey.” He smiles, then takes my hand to help me step over the edge of the tub.
He’s so happy, in this pure, carefree, precious way. For him, there’s no expiration date looming over us. There’s just great sex and fun dates and sweet words and laughing until it hurts, waking up next to each other and days spent entirely in bed, snuggling, and adventures to more cities where we know no one and nothing except that we will go together, ad infinitum. I smile, so my face doesn’t give away my sadness.
He kisses me slowly, sweetly. Like we have all the time in the world to just enjoy being with each other.
I kiss him back, and then slip under the water, so he doesn’t see the tear slip down my cheek.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The rest of the weekend is so great. We take a boat ride out to Alcatraz to see a modern art exhibit on political prisoners, ride trolley cars down rolling hills, eat sourdough bread by the water and chocolate sundaes from Ghirardelli, walk through the Castro, where I buy a shot glass that says, “Drink until He’s Cute” just to mess with Jordan, and to the Mission District, where we wait in line for an hour to have the best tacos in America.
Oh, and we spend quite a bit of time rolling around the king-size bed. We have such a good time that Jordan jokes we may have to worry about that noise-complaints warning after all.
I keep my phone off and in my bag, deciding I deserve to just enjoy the weekend and planning, if Madison gets mad again, to send an email saying I’d dropped it and had to wait until after the holiday to get a new one.
We check out on Monday and head back to the house, me in a cab, Jordan on the train an hour later. I’m expecting everyone to be pretty pissed about the probation.
But I wasn’t expecting pretty much everyone to seem pissed at me.
“Hey, Bambi,” I say as I walk through the front door.
He barely looks up from his book. “Cassie.” He sounds tired at best, and mad at worst.
“That’s it? I’ve been gone all weekend.”
“Well, excuse me if I’m not pumped to see you.” He snaps.
Jesus.
The two upperclassmen I pass on the stairs avoid my eyes and mumble something.
What the hell is going on?
There’s a knock on my door as I unpack.
“Yeah?”
“What’s going on, little lady?”
“Hey, Duncan!”
He pulls me into a big hug.
“How was your weekend?” I ask, returning to my dresser.
“Not good.”
I assume this is in reaction to the probation decision.
“Yeah...listen,” he goes on. “Peter wanted me to tell you, he wants to see you in his room.”
I stop as I’m putting a couple of shirts in a drawer. “Did he say why?”
He avoids my eyes, picking at the chipping paint on my door frame. “I really shouldn’t, Cass. He wants to be the one to talk to you.”