Jocelyn #4
After a quick glance in my purse to ensure my pepper spray and kitty keychain are still where they’re supposed to be, I knock
on the door to Sebastian’s fancy apartment. He lives in the luxury apartments near the ocean, and I definitely don’t hate
it. Even the hallway boasts the evidence of wealth—lighted classy prints on the walls, faux colonnade lining the length of
the hall. The plush blue carpet squishes beneath my feet.
Despite the grandeur, I came equipped.
EverX has a decent verification process, but even professionals can be murderers. I’m reckless, yes, but I’m a prepared sort
of reckless.
My rules for these stranger hookups are few and unbreakable:
Do not accept food or drinks.
Never go inside without two weapons and two condoms.
Always have phone fully charged.
The door swings open seconds later to reveal a man with a kind face, a bright smile and brown eyes with the merest hint of
green.
My stomach hits the floor.
He’s lean. Brunette. Sexy.
This man could be Asher’s brother. His twin. How did I not see it in his profile pic?
My adrenal gland hijacks my entire body, flooding it with epinephrine. This isn’t good. This is very, very bad. He looks like
Asher, and I’m supposed to have sex with him?
No. No. No.
I can’t do that.
. . .
Can I?
He looks like Asher, but he isn’t Asher. I could just close my eyes. And even if I did look—because who the hell wouldn’t when a guy looks like that?—it’s
still not Asher. He merely resembles him. Uncannily. It isn’t like I’m fucking Asher.
It isn’t!
“Well, hello.” Sebastian’s bright smile turns sinfully crooked.
That isn’t a smile. It’s a lure, sparkling in the sun. And I’m a dumbass fish who loves pretty things.
Why is the universe doing this?
“Hey,” I squeak out.
“You want to come in?” He holds the door wide for me, displaying a well-appointed open-concept apartment with what I assume
would be a spectacular view of the gulf if it were daytime.
I take a single step, then pause. “I will if you tell me your real name.”
He laughs and cocks his head. “It’s Sebastian.”
I lift a skeptical eyebrow and cross my arms.
“All right, all right.” He lifts a placating hand. “I’m Ashton.”
My heart stops for three full seconds, then thumps so hard it chokes me. Is he serious? Is this really happening?
Ashton scratches his head. “I don’t tell people because they tend to start calling me Doctor Ashton Kutcher.”
Right. That makes sense, actually. I get it. I do.
But also, this is forbidden. He looks like Asher. His name is basically the same. I would . . . undress him. Touch him. Taste
him.
A strangled laugh explodes from my mouth. “I have to go.”
“Uh. What?” Instead of irritated, he adopts an expression of concern, and it only increases the resemblance to Asher. “Everything
okay?”
Asher would do this. Be genuinely worried when most men would become frustrated. No what a waste of time or bitches always changing their minds or fine, bye, slut. Seems Asher and Ashton are members of a rare species. A couple of unicorns.
“Yeah,” I say. “You look like someone I know. It’s . . . weird for me.”
His expression clears. “Oh. Okay, I get it.”
“No hard feelings?”
“Not at all.” He smiles again, like Asher would.
So cute. For a few moments, I reconsider. He’s handsome and obviously kind. He’d probably be good in bed. It’s mere coincidence
that he looks this way.
But it might seed fantasies that don’t belong. Might confuse things that are currently very straight in my head.
Asher and I are friends.
Asher doesn’t do casual sex.
Asher wants a wife and kids.
If I bang this lookalike and enjoy it, what will that do to my very sturdy Friend shelf where I keep all things Asher-related?
Will it loosen the brackets? Bend the braces?
Tear the whole thing off the wall?
No, thanks.
With that in mind, I give Ashton a halfhearted wave. “Have a good night.”
I practically flee down the hall.
Outside the building, the roar of the gulf’s waves on the shore fills the air, and the warm, salty breeze carries the scent
of sand and fish. Drawn to the water, I slip off my heels and carry them in one hand as I trudge through the soft sand.
The dark gulf stretches out before me, endless, somehow thunderously loud and interminably silent.
It bears a vicious sort of beauty.
At baseline, the ocean is so peaceful, but its power churns beneath the surface, unforgiving, only emerging to remind us of
our insignificance when we least anticipate it.
I often wonder about the levees that broke during Hurricane Katrina. Would any levee have been strong enough to withstand
that storm surge? What circumstances could have led to my parents surviving that awful storm?
The better question: Why do I still live on the coast when the fear of floods keeps me awake at night? The risk of drowning
in a flood would be near zero if I moved somewhere inland, yet I stay near the beach.
But it isn’t safe anywhere, really. The heat in Arizona. A tornado in Kansas. A wildfire in California. An earthquake in Alaska.
A freeze in North Dakota.
Nowhere is safe, and the devil I know is preferable to the one I don’t. I never swim in the ocean, but I need its proximity
as a reminder of the devious power it possesses.
Friends close. Enemies closer.
I am embracing my nemesis with both arms.
To flee would be admitting defeat, and I cannot let it win.
By itself, water is a careless killer. A deceptive lover. A cunning adversary.
The ocean? It’s an attestation that the most beautiful things in life are by far the most dangerous.