by Zoey Castile
I smile at her, aware of how she reacts to my eyes on her skin. I might be different from how I was a few years ago, but I’m still not a saint.
“Party at my place,” I say, and lead the way to our cars parked down the block. “But fair warning, I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.”
* * *
And I do. When I walk into my apartment, Yaz runs circles around me. The boys are quick to set up shop, bringing out the plastic cups and blasting hip-hop out of a tiny Bluetooth speaker that looks too small to be so loud. I am definitely not going to win any “good neighbor” awards around here.
“This is a great space,” Red Lips, I think her name is Anise, tells me. She pulls off the sweater that does little to cover her cleavage and lays it on the couch. “Want to give me the tour?”
I can’t help but grin at that. There’s nothing to tour. The one-bedroom is huge, and has the same setup as Robyn’s. Dammit. I said I wasn’t going to think of her, but there I go. Anyway, there’s a big room, a bathroom, and a living room that came furnished with the sublet. But I already know what Anise wants, and she’s not very subtle in the way she grabs hold of my forearm and squeezes.
Then, I’m saved by the husky. Yaz barks up at us, sitting at attention right at my feet.
“How cute!” Anise says, bending down to pet my dog.
Yaz hides behind my feet and avoids Anise’s hand. If I can’t trust my pup, who can I trust? Don’t they say that dogs are great at reading people? I don’t know who says that, but I’m sure it’s a study somewhere. Anise looks disappointed.
Ricky is playing bartender. He knows where everything is more than I do, even though he doesn’t even live here. He bought me a martini kit, which was more of a gift for himself since I don’t drink martinis.
Between the heavy bass, Anise’s too-sweet perfume, and Yaz biting my pant leg, a headache blooms behind my eyelids. This is what I get for not wanting to let my boys down, I guess.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. Yaz needs to be walked before she goes on my floor again, and I need a space to breathe. I point at Ricky and shout, “Don’t burn the place down!”
I hook the leash on her collar and race her downstairs. She sniffs the sidewalks until she finds a spot that she wants and pisses a river. The yellow light of the streetlamp makes her white fur look gold.
My phone rings and a strange strangling feeling takes hold of me. When I look at the screen, I don’t recognize the number. I wonder if it’s her. If it’s Robyn. Though I don’t underestimate the extremes some clients have gone to to get my attention. One girl got a separate phone to talk to me so her boyfriend wouldn’t know.
I hit decline, and let Yaz drag me around the corner and downhill. She gets down on her hind legs and I swear loudly because I forgot to bring a plastic bag.
When I look up to curse the heavens and this literally shit day, I see her. Something twists in my gut at the sight of Robyn standing at her window. Her hair is tousled and wet, and in the golden glow of the streetlight, her skin takes on a bronze sheen. She’s a goddess, her lips slightly parted as she looks down at me.
There’s a pack of women ready to party in my apartment, but here I am, aching for the one who wants nothing to do with a guy like me. And despite trying to talk myself out of it, I can’t look away.
But she does.
For the second time, she removes herself from me.
Yaz looks up at me, wagging her tail, her tongue sticking out in a way that makes it painfully impossible to be pissed at her. I look up and down the empty street. There’s no one to see me leave this pile of shit in the middle of the sidewalk, but I’m not an asshole. At least, I try not to be. I take a step toward the tiny garden that wraps around the corner of my building. I pull a long oval leaf from a plant and scoop up as much of Yaz’s leavings as I can. There’s no trash can on this corner of the street, so I’ll have to take it to my place and flush it. I’m sure that’ll thrill my guests.
“The things I do for love,” I say to my dog.
“Who are you talking to?” she asks.
I turn around and take a step. I see this happening so quickly that I can’t stop it. No matter what I do, I can’t stop moving forward. An object in motion stays in motion. Robyn’s eyes widen and fall on my open palm. The leaf on my palm. The shit on the leaf.
She can’t step away from me fast enough and there is nothing we can do but collide.
7
Puppy Love
ROBYN
In my apartment, taking a second shower of the night, I scrub dog shit off my chest. I suppose I deserve it, even if Fallon apologized six hundred times as we headed back in to the building. Thankfully, it’s the middle of the night and no one except for Yaz was there to witness our spectacular disaster.
My buzz has downgraded to a sugar headache, and my mind is now painfully clear and reprocessing the series of events that brought us here. Fallon is a stripper. Fallon slapped dog shit on my chest. Fallon is in my living room. Fallon.
I barely dry my skin, and throw on an old T-shirt and pajama shorts. I wish I owned something cute and silky to go to sleep in but this is all I’ve got. I pull my hair out of my shirt collar and look at myself in the mirror. My skin is dewy and I no longer look drunk, just a little tired. It’ll have to do.
“You’re missing your party,” I comment as I open my bedroom door. Clearly, I want to ask a lot more than that. Who is down there? Do I know them? Are you going to invite me now?
“It’s not really my party,” he says, and I note a weary bitterness at the edge of his voice. “It was my turn to host. I didn’t want to flake on my guys.”
I linger at the doorway, a living room between us that feels as wide as fields. I watch him quietly. He’s washing his hands in the kitchen sink. He’s wearing a different T-shirt from the one I saw him in before. He must’ve gone to his place to change and come back. I follow that thought train all the way back to the bachelorette party. Fallon taking off his shirt in front of my friends and colleagues.
My belly does a somersault, and I’m not sure how to start parsing out the way I feel. I just know I have to apologize. Everything that comes after that is a roll of the dice.
I clear my throat. Yaz is sleeping on my carpet. I walk past her and into the open kitchen area. I stand on the other side of the counter from him so it looks like he’s a bartender and I’m asking for a nightcap.
Though the kind of nightcap I want doesn’t involve a drink.
Just one for the road, I think.
Still, because neither of us is speaking, I unstopper the Prosecco bottle I half finished before our shit-tastic meeting.
He follows my gaze behind him, to the shelf where I keep my glassware. He gets two champagne flutes and inspects them in the light. With his thumb, he brushes away a water stain and sets them on the countertop. He pours the bubbly liquid to the rim. Holds the drink up to me. The look on his face is unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s pissed at me or not. His brow is closely knit together, so I know he’s a little mad and definitely confused. There’s a tiny smirk on his lips, so I know he’s at the very least amused. If he didn’t want to be here he would’ve gone back to his apartment. He wouldn’t have lingered while I showered. He would just let our stupid mistakes pass like ships in the night.
We don’t owe each other anything. We aren’t friends. We aren’t lovers. We’re in a city so big that even if we live one floor apart, we might never truly cross paths again.
But we’re still here, and I think that means something, even if it’s just a little bit of chance.
“What should we toast to?” I ask.
“To being hot messes,” he says.
We clink our glasses and then an awkward silence settles. His blue-green eyes fall on my bare shoulder, where my ratty T-shirt falls to one side. Heat blooms across my skin, starting from that very spot.
“I’m sorry,” we both say.
“I—” We both start again.
W
e drink at the same time. We lower our gazes to the floor at the same time. It would be cute if I didn’t feel so pathetic.
“I should go,” he says slowly, like he’s testing out the words. “I’m sorry I smothered you with dog shit.”
“I’m sure you didn’t plan it. And I probably deserve it.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and twirl a strand around my finger.
“True.” He drinks his Prosecco, leaning on the countertop. The thin, delicate flute looks tiny in his massive hand.
“Hey,” I say indignantly. “I really am sorry, Fallon. What I said—I didn’t know. I just talk too much. In high school I was awarded Most Likely to Put a Foot in Her Mouth.”
An amused smile plays on his lips. “Look, I get it. I’m not exactly the kind of guy someone like you brings home to the folks. It’s cool. I’m over it.”
“Someone like me?” I set my flute down harder than I intended so it sloshes at the sides. I stand from the bar stool and stare into his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs and moves his hand up and down in front of me, like that’s supposed to explain it. “Just—you know. Fancy degrees, nine-to-five, wholesome family, upper-crust types.”
“I teach fifth grade!” I shout, my voice loud and shrill. I don’t care if I’m shrill. I don’t care if my entire building hears me. “I’ve got six figures of college debt. My mom’s a dentist and my dad, who didn’t speak a lick of English until he came to this country thirty years ago, is a pediatrician. So maybe, yes, I love my wholesome family and I work eight to three, and I went to Columbia, but I worked my ass off. You have no right to judge me.”
“Like you judged me? Not so fun, is it?” Fallon drinks casually, then leans on the kitchen island between us, his face so close I can count the stubble along his jawline.
Over in the living room Yaz picks up her head and looks at us. The noise woke her up, but once I’m quiet, breathing hard and staring daggers into her owner’s disgustingly beautiful face, she goes back to sleep. The heavy thumping of music and people dancing reverberates on the floorboards. Jesus, how loud are they?
I ball my fists. I point at his face. “What are you, a Sesame Street special?”
He grimaces. “I never liked Sesame Street. Puppets are an irrational fear of mine. But I’m just trying to make a point, Princess.”
“Fine. I judged you. I said I was sorry. But I did it before I knew—that—what you did.”
“That I’m a stripper?” he says plainly, smugly. “See? You can’t even say it.”
I feel my face burn. “I can, too, say it.”
“So say it.”
“I can’t now.”
“Why?”
“Because, it’s no longer in context, that’s why.”
“But it’s who I am.”
“No,” I say. “It’s what you do.”
“You’re a teacher. It’s part of your nature.”
“I could teach you how not to throw shit at girls trying to apologize to you.”
He pushes himself up from the counter, startled. “I didn’t throw anything at you. You walked into me.”
I shake my head. “You literally ran into me.”
He throws his hands up. “Is this how you apologize to people?”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? But you’re worse.”
“I’m worse?” He chugs his drink. His eyes are luminous and wild. “How?”
“Because you’re judging me now, too. And you’re sticking to it. You haven’t even considered that you might be wrong about me.”
He grips the edges of the counter, like he needs it for support. He’s thrilling and terrifying to look at all at once. All muscle and anger making the veins along his throat pulse, and his chest rises and falls quickly from breathing too fast.
He walks around the island and my heart thunders with the thought that he might be leaving. Don’t go. I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue. Stay. This feeling in my chest is new. It’s the edge of a hurricane winding into a coil, my skin buzzing with his nearness, my breath falling short when he gets all in my space. I can’t think of a time I felt like this. I want to hold on to it.
His hands grab my shoulders and a moan escapes my lips. His eyes search mine with a silent question. Tell me to go.
But I push myself up on my toes and meet his hungry mouth with my own. My life right now is chaos. I fear that anyone who gets too close might get hurt in the mess of it. I’ve already done it to my best friend, my last boyfriends, hell, even my family. It’s wrong, maybe even cruel, to let Fallon into my life right now. Yet I can’t seem to pry myself away.
Then, he grabs hold of my shoulders and pushes me at arm’s length. He’s breathless and his eyes rake across my face and he asks, “You’re going to be the end of me, aren’t you?”
FALLON
I want to hate her.
I want to leave and say, “Fuck this.” Fuck you. Fuck you and your stuck-up bullshit. Fuck this ridiculous feeling inside of me that shouldn’t logically be here. Fuck these butterflies. Fuck your beautiful, unforgiving mouth. I don’t need you.
But when she gets all up in my space, her hair wet, wild, and eyes as dark as midnight—I want to grab her harder and throw her onto the couch and break it in half with the force of our weight.
I realize, I need her.
When I kiss her, she tastes like regret, and the sliver of fear I’m only starting to discover. This girl might break me in a way I didn’t think possible. I’m not a superstitious man, but I believe in this power she has over me. One I never asked for. One that has been thrown in my hands, against me. Right on my lips.
So instead of self-preservation, I choose to kiss her back. She’s a featherweight in my arms, wrapping long bronze legs around my waist. I carry her to the couch, press her into the leather with my weight until she breaks the kiss to release a moan.
When she lifts her head back, I kiss the length of her neck. The underside of her chin. The tip of her jaw. All of it until I make my way back to her swollen mouth.
“I’m still mad at you,” she says between panting breaths.
“I’m still mad at you,” I say.
I push up her thin cotton T-shirt to the base of her ribs. Her lean muscles constrict under my touch; her skin is warm and soft and I wish I could touch every part of her all at once.
No one, no one has made me this crazy. It doesn’t make sense, and part of me doesn’t want an explanation. I just want to be with her, inside her.
She grabs at the hem of my shirt and pushes it up my torso so I have to pull myself away from her and finish taking it off. I fling it off to the side and give her my attention again. When I lower myself back to her, she presses her hands on my pecs.
I don’t know what she sees when she looks at me like that. But I’ve never felt more exposed. Her dark eyes draw a path from my torso, across the tattoos on my shoulders, around my face, and settle on my eyes. She widens her legs, and I sink against her. My dick is hard and she pushes herself up so I can feel how wet she is through those tiny shorts. I whisper her name, Robyn, and rock my dick against her, and she digs her hands into the waistband of my sweats and rakes her nails across my ass.
I drag kisses along her jaw, her chin, and work my way back to her mouth. The swollen pink of it gives way to my tongue, and I think, I could kiss her forever.
She moans again, and this time she sounds pained.
“Am I hurting you?” I whisper, worried I might be smothering her with my weight.
“No, you feel perfect.” Her fingers leave warm trails up my spine, around my sides, then she cups my face. She reaches for a stray bit of my hair, coils it around her fingertip. She traces the back of her fingers down the side of my face.
That alone has more intimacy and caring than the other girls I’ve been with. I feel shitty thinking of other girls when I’m in between the sexiest fucking legs I’ve never touched. But I can’t help it. She doesn’t look at me like I’m someth
ing to use and throw away. She looks at me like she’s committing me to memory, and the power of that renders me weak under her touch, even though I’m the one on top.
And suddenly I realize, I know how this ends.
We’ll have incredible sex, and then tomorrow she’ll be awkward and we won’t know what to say to each other. I’ll make up excuses and avoid her because I’m a fucking punk, and then she’ll move on. I’ll regret letting this feeling slip right through my fingers.
I take a shaky breath, rest my face in the hollow of her neck, because I’m about to cockblock myself.
“Don’t stop,” she says, her voice small and delicate. There’s a haziness there, and I know it’s the wine she’s been drinking before I got here. She lifts up her hips and grinds them against my dick. I could pass out from the heat of her against me.
I press a kiss on the apple of her cheek. “We should stop.”
“Why?” She sighs and rests her hand on my cheek. “What do you want from me?”
She’s not angry when she asks me this. In a way, she echoes the same thing I want to ask. What do you want from me? The real, hard truth would be that I want to slip inside of her and never come out. I want to finish pulling off her T-shirt and bite her until she screams with pleasure. I want to make her feel like she’s never felt before. I want to walk down the street holding her hand. I want to pretend like her words never bothered me, like she didn’t watch me get buck-ass naked for her best friend. I want to start over. But I can’t bring myself to say any of that.
“I don’t know,” I say. Fucking chicken-shit. I sit back, a chill filling the space between us. I look around for my shirt, but it’s on the other side of the room.