Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  When I see the screen, I crack up. Quickly, though, I school my expression, draw a settling breath, and launch into “The Boy Is Mine,” giving it my all.

  He joins in, and we ham it up, strutting across the stage. I’m having a blast, like I usually do with Ransom.

  Here and now, sure. But also because we’re plotting something fun.

  Something big.

  Something good.

  And then we’ll go on a date.

  And that’ll be fun too.

  But when I look at the crowd, my joy in the moment fizzles out, leaving me flat. It seems like everyone here is coupled up, arms draped around each other, heads resting on shoulders, kisses brushing cheeks. My heart aches at the sight.

  I once wanted that.

  I once had that.

  But that kind of love cuts deep.

  I wish it didn’t. But, oh hell, does it ever.

  Once, I’d felt those overwhelming, chest-flooding emotions, and the one I’d loved abandoned me when I needed him the most.

  The chorus of the song comes in, and my throat catches. I swallow down the sadness and loss, shoving away this flood of emotion.

  Then I glance at Ransom and go back to laughing, having a good time.

  Yes, I’m the good-time girl.

  He’s the good-time guy.

  That is who we are.

  That is who we will always be.

  At the end of the evening, as everyone shuffles off—hand in hand, arm in arm, lips ready to lock—I head outside with Ransom, telling him I’m going to wait for my Lyft.

  “I’ll wait with you,” he says, with a softness in his eyes that I see every now and then.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to, Teagan,” he insists. “I want to make sure you get home safely.”

  “You have to protect your top bidder before the auction,” I tease.

  He tilts his head, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, that’s it. No other reason.”

  I nudge him, keeping up the joke because humor is safer than being serious with him. “Don’t worry. Just set me up with a bodyguard and around-the-clock protection, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Good to know. Because my other alternative was to do that whole Han Solo encase-you-in-carbonite routine.”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “That’s so 1981.”

  The Lyft arrives, and I slide inside, click the seat belt, and glance out the window. Ransom’s eyes lock with mine, and for a fleeting second—okay, for maybe ten fleeting seconds—after he says my name and wishes me good night, I can kind of see why our friends are always trying to hook us up.

  He’s gorgeous, single, funny, and talented, and he doesn’t want to be serious.

  I don’t do serious either.

  Maybe they all figure we’re perfect clowns together. That we’d be perfectly unserious together.

  Maybe they’re right, because he’s a lot like me.

  But what would happen if two people who didn’t want to be serious got together? They’d crash into each other for a hot, fiery moment in time. Then they’d repel each other.

  We’d become that annoying couple who dated once and then hated each other.

  We’d become the bruise in our group of friends, the brown hole in the apple that you try to avoid.

  I won’t do that to my friends. I love them too much. They have been my family since my family has been gone.

  That’s why I email Nancy in the cab on the way home, extending my donation request to include the companion dog organization, and I go home alone—as I’ve done for years.

  The next morning, Nancy emails me back to tell me the board for my parents’ foundation approved a bid for the companion dog charity.

  Then I read the amount she’s nominated.

  My jaw drops.

  There’s no way anyone else will be taking Ransom home.

  I get out of bed and head to the kitchen, stopping at a framed photo of my family on the way, a shot of the four of us from more than twenty years ago.

  Back when my family was a foursome.

  The least I can do is carry on their wishes, to take all this money they earned and give most of it away.

  And maybe, just maybe, along the way, I’ll have a Sunday Funday–type date with the most interesting man I know. But that’ll be all. Because there’s nothing more brewing between us.

  There shouldn’t be anything else brewing but the coffee I’m starting in the kitchen.

  With the coffee maker gurgling, I grab my phone and send a morning hello to Bryn, ready to give her a piece of my mind, even if it’s a playful one.

  * * *

  Teagan: You are such a troublemaker.

  * * *

  Bryn: Moi?

  * * *

  Teagan: Don’t act so innocent.

  * * *

  Bryn: Ha. As if I’m innocent of anything.

  * * *

  Teagan: Exactly.

  * * *

  Bryn: But what is this trouble you speak of, my friend?

  * * *

  Teagan: I know that you and Fitz and Logan and Summer and Oliver engineered this whole auction date thing with Ransom.

  * * *

  Bryn: Hmm. That’s quite an allegation. Any evidence to prove your accusation?

  * * *

  I roll my eyes at her reply, laughing as I take down a coffee mug. Then I write back.

  * * *

  Teagan: It’s adorable that you think I didn’t immediately know you were the puppeteer in all of this. Hey, how about Teagan bids on Ransom? Gee, won’t that be perfect? So you. So very you.

  * * *

  Bryn: But did you see me working the strings?

  * * *

  Teagan: I did. Right along with Fitz. You two, I swear.

  * * *

  Bryn: Fine. What can I say? We can both see what’s RIGHT IN FRONT OF US!!

  * * *

  Teagan: What’s in front of you is a dreamscape. You live in some friendship fantasia.

  * * *

  Bryn: Stop ruining my cupid dreams.

  * * *

  Teagan: My dream is for all of us to have brunch on Sunday, no weirdness on the menu.

  * * *

  Bryn: Fine. Fine. We’ll do brunch.

  * * *

  Teagan: And to keep doing brunch. I like brunch. I like our crew. I like the status quo.

  * * *

  Bryn: Message received—don’t rock the boat. Sourpuss.

  * * *

  Teagan: Aww, I love you too.

  * * *

  Bryn: Love you more.

  * * *

  I pour some coffee, take a sip, and check my Tinder profile. Scroll, scroll, scroll.

  Nobody catches my interest.

  Nobody looks like someone I’d want to commit to grabbing a latte with, let alone spend an evening with.

  Leaving the phone on the counter, I take my mug and move to the living room window, gazing out at the tree-lined block on the Upper East Side.

  My home. My parents’ home before it was mine.

  And outside of this home are all my friends that make this city, this life, these times work for me.

  Bryn, Ransom, Logan, Fitz, Dean, Summer, Oliver. The whole crew.

  An auction is an auction is an auction.

  That is all.

  And everything will be fine.

  4

  Ransom

  My friends are competitive assholes.

  That’s a fact I accept. Embrace, really, since I’m one of them.

  We compete over everything.

  And fine, maybe I need to extend my definition of “friends” past my paintball-karaoke-darts-playing group. Maybe my competitors on the Yankees are friends.

  But I need to keep them mentally in the frenemy zone so I can win the big prize—their money.

  Plus bragging rights, of course.

  That Saturday, after I get dressed and button up my tuxedo shirt, I text the dickheads on the Yankees, starting
with Martinez, the closer.

  * * *

  Ransom: Marty Boy, did you convince your sister to bid on you yet?

  * * *

  Martinez: No, I convinced your sister. Last night.

  * * *

  I stare, narrow-eyed, at the text. Yeah, I walked into that. But there is no way he could ever score with Tempest. I toss a glance behind me at my younger sister—electric-blue glasses, hair twisted into a bun and held with a pencil as she chews the corner of her lip and taps away on her laptop in my living room. She’s been hanging here for the last couple of hours, since it’s a Saturday and she works both Hamilton shows.

  “Temp, you don’t think Martinez is hot, do you?”

  She crinkles her nose and scrunches her brow, her face doing a hula dance of confusion. “Who’s that? One of those one-name actors? Is he on Scrubs?”

  “Scrubs has been off the air for years. Good job, Ms. Anti Pop Culture.”

  “I know Broadway.”

  “That does not count as pop culture.”

  “Millions of Hamilton fans would beg to differ.”

  “Fine,” I concede. “Hamilton is pop culture.”

  “Is he one of your teammates? Because Martinez isn’t ringing a bell.”

  I snort. “Marty Boy wishes he were talented enough to play hockey.”

  “Now I’m curious about this guy. Marty Boy, you say?”

  “That’s only what I call him because it drives him bananas.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Adrian. Adrian Martinez.”

  Something shifts in her expression, like her brain unlocked with a click. “Wait. The guy you’ve been calling Marty Boy is really Adrian Martinez? As in Adrian Martinez of the Yankees?”

  “So you do know him?”

  “He’s definitely not on Scrubs. But let me just make sure he’s who I’m thinking of.”

  She cracks her knuckles above the keys before she taps away, mouthing, Who is Adrian Martinez?

  I groan. Why did I say his name? Now she’ll look him up, and I know what she’ll see—the guy who’s numero uno on a bunch of lists of hottest single athletes in New York.

  Yes, I follow that sort of shit. The Dating Pool, BuzzFeed, City Post. Because then I can give my asshole friends a hard time.

  Grabbing my bow tie, I return to the text thread, since the smack talk force is strong in me.

  * * *

  Ransom: I see you’re still taking hallucinogenic drugs. Keep it up, Martinez. I cannot wait to beat your sorry ass tonight when I take home the grand prize as the top fundraising athlete.

  * * *

  Martinez: Understandable. You couldn’t nab top honors on the City Post list, so you gotta try for them where you can.

  * * *

  He sends a photo of his face, so naturally I have to respond like this.

  * * *

  Ransom: Awesome. Gonna go put this on a mug now, along with a cartoon bubble caption that says “Ransom North is my idol.”

  * * *

  Martinez: You do that. Then let me know how it feels to constantly come in third place to Carnale and me. Want me to send some tissues for your tears? Or should I make it some towels because you’re probably drowning in a pool?

  * * *

  Ransom: Be sure to bring blankets to sop up your waterworks tonight, dickhead, when I win all your money.

  * * *

  Martinez: A few too many hits on the ice has made your head too big, North. Or is it that your dick is small, since you play a sport less popular?

  * * *

  Ransom: My dick is double digits. And my contract has plenty of zeros. Case in point: I do believe that’s my face I walked past earlier today in Times Square, advertising watches. Take that.

  * * *

  Martinez: Was it beneath my underwear ad?

  * * *

  I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. I forgot about his billboard too. His fucking billboard, which is right above mine. Dammit.

  My sister snaps her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me your Martinez was Adrian Alejandro Martinez from the Gigante underwear ad in Times Square?”

  I hang my head. “I should never have mentioned his name,” I mutter.

  “Oh, you should have. Believe me, you should have. God bless you, big brother. I didn’t connect the dots. But now I’d like to play connect the dots on him. And Battleship. And Chutes and Ladders. I mean, look at those abs,” she says, spinning her laptop around and shoving it at me. It’s open to a full-screen image of the Yankees closer dressed only in a pair of royal-blue briefs and a smirk. “I have no interest in athletes, but I think I might make this my new wallpaper.”

  I stare at the ceiling. “What have I done?”

  “You’ve introduced me to my new eye candy, so thank you very much.” She eyes my phone. “Is he the one you’re trash-talking to?”

  “No,” I scoff.

  Setting her computer down, she rises and makes grabby hands. “Liar.”

  I raise my phone above my head. She’s not short, but I’m six foot three, so lifting the device out of her reach is no sweat. “How do you know I was trash-talking?”

  She rolls her eyes as she tries to snag the phone, a futile but amusing attempt. “It’s only your favorite hobby of all time,” she says, finally giving up and lowering her arms. Returning to the couch, she closes her computer and slides it into her black messenger bag. She’s a financial whiz and a brilliant writer, so she pens columns for various money magazines, as well as authoring personal finance books, a gig that frees her up to do what she truly loves—interpreting Broadway shows and other performances for the deaf and hard of hearing.

  I tuck my phone into my pocket and finish with my bow tie, conceding she’s right. “Look. I only trash-talk Carnale and Martinez because they deserve it. That’s why I have to take them down tonight.”

  “Why do they deserve trash talk and a takedown?” she asks with a furrowed brow.

  “Duh. Because they’re Yankees,” I say. Isn’t it obvious?

  “And that’s the only reason?” She slings her bag across her chest as I grab my keys, tossing them high in the air and catching them easily.

  “What other reason do I need?”

  She arches a brow. “Is it because of the lists they’re on?”

  “What lists?” I ask, like I have no clue what she means.

  She shakes her head as she rolls her eyes. “You’re so see-through. You’re like a cellophane brother,” she says as we exit my corner apartment.

  “And what do you see when you look through the Saran Wrap of me, Temp?”

  She frames her eyes with her hands. “You’re jealous because those two guys are jockeying for one and two on the hot lists and you’re a consistent three.”

  I dismiss that crazy notion. “As if I care about those lists.”

  “You always care, and I know why.” Her tone is a little softer, a little gentler.

  “Because they care,” I blurt. But that’s not all of it, and she does know the rest.

  “Ransom.”

  “Whatever. It’s just a game.”

  As we wait for the elevator, she sets a hand on my arm. “It’s because of Edie.”

  I cringe. “No.”

  “Ransom.”

  I sigh heavily. “Whatever. I don’t care about her.”

  “You didn’t care about those lists until she left.”

  “Because I wasn’t on them when I was with her. Because I was involved,” I bite out.

  “I know,” she says softly. “But really, what difference does it make if you’re one, two, or three? Any woman with her head on straight would be thrilled to have you, regardless of the number. Edie didn’t see what was in front of her, and she lost out.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be had,” I say as the elevator arrives, the doors sliding open. “This guy is happy to be single.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll want a relationship again.”

  “Maybe never. And
until then, it’s way more fun to bust my buddies’ chops on these single-in-the-city lists, because being single means I can do whatever I want.”

  It also means no one can ever again hurt me like Edie did the night I proposed to her two years ago.

  The night she told me she’d fallen in love with another man.

  For four years, I was devoted to her.

  Four years flushed down the drain in a single night, along with a ring I never gave her.

  “You really don’t ever want to get involved again?” Tempest asks.

  As the doors shut and I press the button for the lobby, I shoot her a warning look. She knows the answer. She’s asked me the question often enough.

  “I don’t,” I say quietly. “It’s not worth it. I don’t want to go through that ever again.”

  Tempest squeezes my shoulder. “I get that it doesn’t feel worth it. She really did a number on you.”