Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  Through a flood of tears and ugly sobs, I tell him everything. I tell him how Tristan kissed me, about the masquerade ball, and finally about what I’ve overheard. The words come out in a stream of consciousness and I’m not sure if I’m making any sense. I then tell him that I’m sorry. How very sorry I am. And that I hate my ex.

  “He just has some sort of effect on me, where I fall in a daze. But now, I’m clear. It’s gone. No more daze,” I say. “But I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore. I just wanted to tell you all this.”

  I start to walk away. It’s over. But the relief that I feel in getting this off my chest is worth it (almost).

  “Wait,” he says. But I don’t turn around.

  “Wait up.” Simon catches up with me. I look into his wide-open eyes and those beautiful eyelashes that frame them. I wait for him to tell me that he just wants to be friends. But he doesn’t. Instead, he scoops me up, pulls me close, and kisses me. He tastes of lavender and mint. His kiss says everything’s going to be okay. And I know he’s not lying.

  “Do you want to come over?” he whispers through the kiss. His lips are soft and inviting and I can’t resist. I nod, follow him to his place.

  We kiss going all the way up the stairs. We kiss as he fumbles with his keys and finally opens the door. We start to pull off each other’s clothes in the doorway and we are entirely naked by the time we reach his bedroom.

  In the morning, everything’s a blur. I wake up early and get dressed quietly so as to not wake up Simon. I’ve never thought I would be one of those girls who sneaks out of bed while the guy she has just slept with is still asleep, but there’s a first for everything.

  I’m not entirely sure why I’m sneaking out. It wouldn’t be a big deal to talk to him, but for some reason, I don’t want to. Simon looks so peaceful sleeping with one of his arms tucked under his pillow that I don’t want to disturb him. I will text him later, I say to myself as I pick up my shoes and tiptoe out of the room.

  35

  “So you had a wild night, huh?” Juliet asks when I walk into our room. “How was the walk of shame?”

  The walk of shame is the process of walking home in your evening clothes the following morning, after spending a night at some guy’s house. It definitely wasn’t great. It was after 8 am when I woke up, which basically means that the whole city was already awake. I tried to cover up the gown as best as I could with my coat, but it was pretty obvious anyway. The homeless man who likes to hang out on 116th Street and Broadway even whistled at me.

  “So what happened?” Juliet asks. “Tristan’s really mad at you, you know that right?”

  I roll my eyes. I can’t bear to even hear his name.

  “I have to wash my face,” I say and head to the bathroom.

  Juliet follows me inside, refusing to give me privacy until I give her some of the gory details. At first, I refuse. I wash my face. My eyes look swollen and tired with black bags underneath. No, I can’t be seen like this. I apply a small coat of foundation, some eyeliner, and a bit of mascara. I look in the mirror again. Much better.

  “Okay? So what happened?” Juliet pesters me again. This time, I give in and give her the broad strokes.

  “I’m so happy for you!” she claps with excitement when I tell her about sleeping with Simon.

  “It’s not that exciting.” I shrug and walk back into the living room. Suddenly, the door to Dylan and Tristan’s room swings open.

  “Where the fuck did you go?” Tristan asks.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Because I was worried, Alice. You don’t just leave and don’t tell your date. This is New York City. I thought you’d been kidnapped or raped or something!”

  His voice is tense and tired and angry. But I’m angry, too.

  “You were the one who left first. I couldn’t find you anywhere!” I scream. I don’t yell often, hardly ever, but I’m too tired to keep this conversation civil.

  “I just went to cool off.”

  “Well, you were gone for an hour before I overheard your brothers there talking about how hot I was and how glad they were that you didn’t bring Tea.”

  “So?”

  “So? You didn’t bring your girlfriend because she’s fat? Because you’re embarrassed of her? Do you know what that makes you, Tristan?”

  “No, what?”

  “An asshole. A real asshole!”

  “Oh please.” He shrugs.

  “And even now, you’re not even sorry. You don’t care. I don’t even know who you are anymore, Tristan. When did you become such a dick, exactly? Because I remember when you were a nice guy. A really nice guy.”

  I walk back to my room. He follows me.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about Tea,” he says. But it’s too little, too late.

  “I never want to see you again, Tristan,” I say quietly. My voice is calm now. Certain. “I know I will; we’re roommates after all. I just want you to know that I never want to see you or talk to you again.”

  He stares at me in disbelief. And then I take it a step too far. I feel myself creeping over the edge as the words come out of me, but I can’t stop them.

  “And I hope you lose all of your stupid money,” I say and slam the door to my room.

  * * *

  Tristan and I don’t speak for weeks. At first, I actively ignore him and don’t respond to his attempts at conversation. And after a while, he gives up. What forms between us is a kind of Cold War. We pass each other in the living room and the kitchen without speaking a word. We talk only to our roommates, but never to each other. I’m actually impressed that we keep this up. The four of us engage in whole conversations in which he and I speak to and respond only to Dylan and Juliet, but never each other.

  Juliet and Dylan pester me about it for a while, but by the end of the second week, they too give up on us. And our Cold War is embraced.

  It is after we reach this place of equilibrium that I finally write him a thank you card. I’ve been meaning to do that for some time, but I wanted some of the anger to die down within me. When I feel I’ve reached an appropriate level of apathy, I finally pick up a pen and write the thank you card.

  * * *

  Dear Tristan,

  Thank you. Thank you for showing me your true colors at the masquerade ball. That moment, when I realized what you had done to Tea (and in a way to my old self), freed me from your grasp. It allowed me to finally let you go. We are completely different people now. I do not much like this new person you’ve become but it is no longer my place to talk about him. Sometimes, I still miss my friend, Tristan, who made me feel like I was the prettiest girl in school even though I wasn’t even the 100th prettiest girl there. But he’s gone, isn’t he? You’re someone else right now. Someone that I hope you don’t stay for long. But that doesn’t matter now, either. I’m just writing you this note to thank you for finally showing me your true self, at this point in your life. I don’t think we will ever speak again (I’m not sure if that’s right or wrong, it just happens to be the case), but I’m okay with that.

  I hope you have a nice life and remember that there was a time in your life when you weren’t so cruel.

  * * *

  Alice

  * * *

  I reread my thank you card. I have no intentions of sending it, but I’m still apprehensive about how snarky it sounds. But snarky is just the kind of mood that I’m in right now. And I’m not apologizing for that either. I’m done apologizing.

  I’m not sure, but the card feels strange in my hands. It feels a little like a good-bye.

  Perhaps, this is the last card that I’ll ever write him. Wouldn’t that be something?

  36

  After our night together, Simon and I start spending a lot of time together. He didn’t care that I snuck out of his bed without saying goodbye; he just asked me to never do it again.

  “It doesn’t matter what time it is, I want to kiss you good-bye,” he explained. “Promise that you will.�
��

  I promised and haven’t broken it since.

  Over the last couple of weeks, I discovered many interesting things about my new boyfriend. First being that he doesn’t mind being called my boyfriend and me being his girlfriend. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the label, girlfriend, but he assured me that it was going to be okay.

  “We’re dating right? Sleeping together?” he said. “Why wouldn’t you want to call me your boyfriend?”

  “It seems like it comes with a lot of responsibilities,” I said after thinking about it for a moment.

  “Well, it doesn’t,” he shrugged. “It’s just a word.”

  He’s right, but only sort of. This is college. Hardly anyone’s dating anyone at all and even fewer people are committing to each other with heavy words like boyfriend and girlfriend. I mean, Juliet and Dylan have been sleeping with each other way longer and I don’t think they’d approach the subject of labels for at least another six months.

  Besides his acceptance of labels, I learn other things about Simon, as well. I discover that he loves Indian food and sushi, but hates burgers and French fries. French fries! I mean, who hates French fries? He sometimes has one or two when we go out for drinks, but always cringes. I don’t get it, but I’ve given up on trying to convince him that French fries are the food of the gods. I don’t want to waste them. More for me, right?

  Juliet has taken it upon herself to keep me in the loop about Tristan, just like she does with the rest of the people on our floor. Except of course, Tristan isn’t like the rest of the people. I actually have no interest in hearing about what’s going on in his life. But Juliet doesn’t believe me and informs me of things anyway. Apparently, he’s still seeing Tea. And they’re getting more serious. I don’t know what that means exactly. I can only speculate that it means that he has actually taken the step and referred to her as his girlfriend. Or maybe not. Maybe they just slept together.

  Though Tea and I have been moderately successful in avoiding each other in American Lit, we are again assigned to be peer review partners in today’s class. I know it’s bound to go badly as I gather my stuff and move chairs to be closer to her. But as we go over each other’s papers, we are both generous and courteous. It’s strange, but I don’t even feel a bad vibe coming from her. And as for Tristan? It’s as if we have both silently agreed to avoid a particular topic and are both adhering to our promise.

  During our peer review session, I suddenly remember why I liked Tea so much when I first met her in the beginning of the year. We have a lot in common. For instance, we both love Virginia Woolf and Colleen Hoover. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before Tea. But Tea talks about it as if it’s nothing.

  “But what about what all those people say?” I ask. “That you can’t like both high culture stuff like Virginia Woolf and so-called low culture stuff. You know, Colleen Hoover and other romance authors.”

  “I don’t talk to those people often,” Tea shrugs. She’s exuding confidence. It’s practically pouring out of her veins. I just hope that some of it spills over onto me.

  “Okay, but if you did? If someone had said that to you?” I press. I actually really want to know the answer. I’ve read many blogs and articles on the subject and never agreed with any of them.

  “I’ll tell them that they can go fuck themselves. People like what they like. And they read things for a variety of reasons. I don’t go to the bookstore and say, okay, I’m in the mood for only high art today. I mean, who the hell does that?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug.

  “Do you?” she asks.

  “Of course not. I just pick up a book that I like. Often based on its cover, read the blurb, and then decided if I’m in the mood for the story,” I say.

  “Exactly! And you and I just happen to both love Virginia Woolf and Colleen Hoover. So what?”

  I smile. She’s right, of course.

  “It’s nice to have someone say what I’m thinking,” I say. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with this particular world view. I mean, isn’t it really open-minded and exhilarating? Doesn’t it mean that we’re open to all possibilities? That all we’re looking for is entertainment, but in the best sense of that word? That we’re not bound by some conventions and other people’s opinions?

  “I think so,” she says, cocking her head. “And it doesn’t just apply to books. But other works of art too. For me, anything goes. Eminem and Schubert. Taylor Swift and Edith Piaf.”

  I look at her closely. The way she tapped her finger on the table, not out of exasperation or annoyance, but simply to pass the time. There is something endearing and pure about Tea that I can’t seem to put my finger on. She’s cautious and quiet, but strong and confident in ways that I can’t even imagine being quite yet. And that’s why when she invites me over to her place the following evening, I say yes without hesitation.

  37

  We’re supposed to be studying and going over our notes from Catcher in the Rye, but instead we talk about a book that she’s writing.

  “You’re writing a novel? Really?” I say in shock. We’re both 18 years old and the thought of even beginning a novel scares the shit out of me. But Tea is unfazed.

  “I’ve had this idea in my head for the last two years and finally this summer, I just decided to go for it. I mean, what the hell am I waiting for?”

  “What’s it about?” I ask.

  “A mysterious death of an old expat in Belize. The narrator is a young woman who finds clues to his murder in a book of Belizian folk tales.”

  “That sounds…intense,” I say. It takes me a moment to find just the right word. The book sounds interesting, but I’ve found that saying that something is interesting is kind of a throwaway line. That’s what people say who aren’t really interested.

  “It sounds daunting, too,” I add.

  “Yes, I guess.” She shrugs. But her eyes twinkle and I get the sense that it’s more exciting than daunting.

  “So can I tell you something embarrassing? I don’t actually know where Belize is,” I say. I hate to admit, but geography isn’t my strong suit. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it in the world. Is it in Africa? Asia?

  “Not embarrassing at all.” She laughs. “It’s a small country in Central America right next to Mexico and Guatemala.”

  “How small?” I ask.

  “Very small. It’s got a population of about 320,000 people. Like a medium-sized town here. But it is English-speaking. Sort of. Their accent is something to get used to.” She laughs.

  “Have you ever been there?” I ask. I have no idea why else anyone would write a story about Belize.

  “Oh yes! My family has a place there and I go there every summer for at least a month and often for Christmas break, too. Oh my God, Alice. It’s the most beautiful place on earth. The air is filled with salt and hope and cheer. And the people there dance for no other reason except that they’re alive. Every day is like a celebration of life.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait to read the book.”

  And then suddenly, the conversation turns to me and my writing. A topic that I’m not comfortable discussing. Not at all.

  “Well, I’m not working on a novel, that’s for sure,” I say shyly.

  “But you write? Right?”

  “Yes,” I admit it. “I love it, actually. But the thing is that I don’t have much time.”

  Time has always been an issue with me. For some reason, having other things to do, like schoolwork, completely derails me and makes it impossible for me to do work. Homework weighs heavily on me and even if I’m not working on it, I can’t focus on anything else. So I waste my time on the Internet or watching Netflix instead of seizing the little time that I have left and writing. And then, of course, I feel guilty over the whole thing. And guilt makes it even more difficult to focus.

  “I know what you mean,” Tea says. “But the thing is that you have to make time. You just have to, if it’s importa
nt to you. Because no one else will.”

  “But there’s something else,” I say. “I’m also kind of afraid. No, not kind of, really, really afraid.”

  I don’t mean to blurt that out, but it just sort of comes out. I’d never really admitted it out loud before. I haven’t even admitted it to myself before, in the privacy of my own thoughts. But here, I am sharing my deep dark fears and secrets with Tea, of all people.

  “I’m afraid, too,” she says. “I hate to admit it. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? I mean, what’s there to be afraid of? It’s just pen to paper or typing on a keyboard. But it is. You’re pouring your whole self onto the page and what if it’s crap? What if it’s no good?”

  I nod. Perhaps, only writers can understand these fears.

  “But then I just have to tell myself that what’s important is the process. Nothing else. If it’s crap, then that’s what it is. But that doesn’t matter. The final product doesn’t matter so much. At least, you can’t worry about it until later. While you’re writing, you have to let go. I sometimes feel like I enter some sort of alternative consciousness where all I’m doing is typing and someone else is coming up with the story.”

  “Yes, of course.” I nod. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s like all the characters have minds of their own. They’re no longer made up people. I’m no longer playing pretend. I’ve created them, but then at some point they start to speak and think and act on their own.”

  “Exactly!” she nods her head vociferously. For a second, she looks like a bobble head and I think that her head might pop off her shoulders and roll away.

  “But as for being afraid,” Tea continues, “you just have to do it. A little every day. If you write a few hundred words for a few days, then in the coming days, you won’t worry about not being able to write. You build confidence. And experience shows you that it’s possible. You suddenly realize that it’s just a building process. You put a few blocks up every day and after a certain number of days, you’ll have a building.”