Chapter 15
March
The guy groans, “God, you’re so hot.”
I don’t return the compliment. He’s cute, but I doubt I could pick him out of a lineup.
He’s a sophomore in college, visiting friends at Columbia this weekend.
I stopped paying attention after that, so I can’t recall where he goes to school or where he’s from originally.
He is taller than me in heels, wears a Rolex, and hasn’t mentioned a stock portfolio or fraternity once.
We wound up on the dance floor after he bought me a drink.
I was the one who suggested coming in here, and he looked like he’d won the lottery, which was flattering.
He didn’t drawl that this wouldn’t be what I was used to.
He opened the door for me on the way in here.
He’s been respectful and very obviously interested, and there must be something seriously wrong with me—because I sort of hate it.
I can’t even remember his name, and I think he mentioned it multiple times.
I guide his hand to my thigh, and he gets the hint, slipping under the hem and then starting to finger me. It’s not an easy glide. We both realize the truth—I’m not turned on.
He chuckles awkwardly. “Guess I have more work to do.”
His other hand migrates to my left boob, like that’s a magical button that will immediately get me wet.
“Kiss me,” I suggest, and he complies, but it doesn’t help.
Rather than getting lost in sensation, I’m too aware of everything.
The rasp of my dress rubbing skin as he grinds against me.
The pinch in my pinkie toes as my feet protest standing in my heels after an hour of dancing.
The distant thump of the bass, muffled through the wall.
It sounds like a giant heartbeat. Like my heartbeat, steady and slow and … bored.
I’m bored, kissing him. There are no tingles. No butterflies. And definitely no orgasm, even though he’s rubbing between my thighs again.
He’s hard, his erection pressed against my hip, and that’s disappointing too. I’m jealous of his obvious arousal. I wish I were experiencing it. But I’m not. I’m really not. It’s getting worse actually, like there’s a set amount of lust allotted between us and his enthusiasm is shorting my share.
“Stop,” I say, but it’s muffled against his eager mouth.
A heavy dose of panic and adrenaline streams through my veins, chilling my blood. I fight to stay present, stay here, forcing my hands between our bodies and shoving his chest hard.
“Stop!” This time, my airway is clear. My shout echoes off the dark green tiles covering the walls. I hate the loud, scared sound. “I—too many martinis. I’m going to throw up.”
I mime gagging, and the guy takes another step away, so rapidly that he nearly trips.
I almost laugh.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll let you deal with that,” he says quickly.
“And then you’ll be back, right?” I flutter my eyelashes, glancing at the bulge of his crotch. It’s not that impressive, but maybe he’s not fully hard yet. At worst, it’ll hurt less.
Something I hate more than my weak yell? Sawyer Bennett’s huge, beautiful dick. I’d rather drink cheap vodka, then upgrade to premium champagne. I don’t want to compare other guys to him. Yet it’s all I’ve done since we met last summer.
I thought the prospect of fucking me post-vomit would be the final nail in this failed attempt at a hookup.
Instead, the guy nods, shoving his phone in my direction eagerly. “Text me.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, groaning.
“Er, just find me out there. I’ll be by the bar.” He backs away slowly. Faster as I beeline toward the toilet.
I hear the door open, then close, and I halt, spinning on one heel to head for the sink. Second-guess, detouring to flip the lock on the door in case he realizes ditching me in my moment of need isn’t the best strategy to get laid.
Without warning, my mind fixates on being carried to a truck tailgate. To the warm press of slick skin and salty air and the absolute certainty I would be fine. Sawyer took care of me without a single grimace or complaint.
I slip my right foot out of one Prada slingback, twisting my foot and staring at the white line by my heel.
It’s the only scar I have. It’d probably be my favorite, even if I had dozens.
Sawyer would have stayed to watch me vomit. If I were sick. I’m sure of that, despite the careless way he dismissed me on New Year’s Eve. The same way he’d jumped after me. The same way he had taken care of me when I got injured.
I think that’s why he’s lingered in my head the past three months.
Because he hurt me, but I’m not sure he meant to.
I was a fling for a guy who never wanted more than that.
He didn’t want me to get too attached while he was still floating free.
Some small part of me respects him for being honest. Most guys would have agreed in the moment and then ghosted later.
I wash my hands, dry them with one of the plush towels from the basket, and release a long exhale while staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror.
I look good. I put extra effort into my appearance tonight. But I don’t look happy.
I was so sure I could do this, and I was wrong. Not because I was scared to be alone with a guy, but because that guy wasn’t Sawyer. He was supposed to help fix what Third had damaged. Instead, I feel more broken than before.
My flawless makeup doesn’t make me miss him less.
While I was styling my hair, I kept glancing at the drawer I kept all of his letters stashed in.
As I was selecting my outfit, I was thinking about all the different dresses I could have worn the night of his friend’s party. I’d only packed a few for that long weekend, my options far more limited than with access to my entire closet. There are others I wish he’d seen me wear.
I toss the towel in the hamper, fix a smile on my face—glancing in the mirror to confirm it appears unbothered—and then walk out of the restroom.
“Finally.” The woman waiting in line hurries inside past me.
I stride toward the nearest exit, pulling my phone out of my clutch and texting my friends, letting them know I’m leaving.
Then message my driver, Miles, letting him know too.
There’s no sign of the guy I was with earlier, and I’m relieved.
Hopefully, he found someone else to have a considerate one-night stand with.
I retrieve my faux-fur jacket from the coat check and continue out onto the sidewalk.
My upper half is warm, but my bare legs are already numb from the cold.
It’s so unfair that guys’ outfits are weather-appropriate this time of year while wearing a dress requires freezing.
I should have stayed inside until my car pulled up, but I’m breathing easier in the brisk air.
I pull my phone out again as a distraction, ignoring the replies from my friends, and search Sawyer’s address.
I don’t know what I’m looking for—a photo of his house?
proof he exists?—but the fourth result is unexpected.
A phone number. I tap it and raise my phone to my ear, fully expecting a this number is no longer in service recording.
Someone picks up, which is a surprise.
But that’s nothing compared to the shock of recognizing the voice that says, “Hello?”
I sway in my heels, too stunned to speak. My mouth has forgotten how to form words, and my throat feels too tight for any to exit anyway. It’s so bizarre, hearing Sawyer’s voice on a busy sidewalk outside a club when I’ve only ever heard it in the Hamptons.
“Hi,” slips out.
Immediately, I regret it. I should have just hung up as soon as he answered. How can I explain this without sounding insane? Sorry, I accidentally called you while looking up your address. My bad.
He never gave me his number, and I’m sure he’s happy about that now. I’ve now shown up at his work without being invited and randomly called his home phone like a deranged stalker.
Seconds of silence pass as I frantically try to decide what to do next.
Just when I’m about to hang up and hope he doesn’t bother to look up this number, he asks, “Is everything okay, Wren?”
He recognized my voice from a single syllable.
I’m abruptly furious about that. Never mind that I wouldn’t know that if I hadn’t called him.
“Yeah. You?”
I miss him. Not just sex—although I haven’t forgotten how incredible it felt and am very disappointed tonight didn’t include that high. I miss his letters. I miss hearing about his life. I wanted more, from him, and I wound up with nothing.
“I’m fine,” he replies.
A familiar SUV pulls up to the curb. I hold a finger up to the driver, letting Miles know I see him.
“Good.”
I can’t think of anything else to say. Nothing funny or witty or cutting. I want closure, and I have no clue how to get it.
“You bored?” His voice has changed. There’s a lilt to it, a taunt, and I seize the challenge.
“Hardly,” I say loftily. “I’m at Proof.” The name of the exclusive club would impress most people I know. But I realize it likely won’t mean anything to Sawyer, so I add, “With my boyfriend.”
There’s a pause that allots plenty of time to regret the lie that just left my mouth.
“That’s why you called? To tell me you’re dating some douche?” He sounds amused. Distant and detached.
I’m relieved. At least, I tell myself I’m relieved, that his disinterest is exactly what I needed to hear. That’s the reason I made this call—because I wanted him to know that I don’t care either. That I don’t care that he doesn’t want me. That I don’t care that he exists, nearby and out of reach.
“He’s not a douche.”
“You left him to call me. He’s a douche.”
I inhale sharply. He doesn’t even exist, but I’m offended on my boyfriend’s behalf. Irritated on mine because he couldn’t just say, Good for you, or some meaningless bullshit like that.
“I really called to thank you,” I say. “You were right, on New Year’s, about us. If we’d continued our … whatever, I wouldn’t have met”—a bus with a sneaker ad on the side rumbles past—“Jordan.”
“Bye, Wren.” Sawyer hangs up.
I lower my phone, staring at the time—12:01.
Happy birthday to me.
Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday, Mom lets me know she accepted a project in Montauk. My parents already rented a house near Scarlett and Crew’s.
Meaning I’m expected to spend the summer in the Hamptons.