The Summer Pact

Chapter 9 Lainey

It’s only been a few days since I left Atlanta, but it feels like much longer, perhaps because I’ve been on a bit of a bender since I last saw my friends. I didn’t plan on that happening, but after digging around on the internet and finding all sorts of nuggets on my sisters, including Ashley’s sappy wedding announcement, I got a little triggered. Drinking helped calm me down.

Last night with Marcus, aka Neighbor Guy, was a particular doozy. We started out at Socialista, a Cuban-inspired cocktail lounge in SoHo; then moved on to the Wiggle Room, a nightclub in the East Village; then Musica, which I only remembered after seeing the photos on my phone. This morning, I woke up in his bed, my clothes nowhere to be found. I must have undressed in my apartment, but I have no idea how I got down the hall without them.

Somehow, though, I managed to make my flight to Dallas. As I sit on the plane now, I order a Bloody Mary—a little hair of the dog—which takes the edge off not only my hangover but also my anxiety about what’s to come.

I still can’t believe Hannah convinced me to go to Texas. I know she has a pure heart and the best intentions, but I can’t help having second thoughts about the mission. I tell myself that I’m not locked into anything other than a couple nights at a luxury hotel. I’ll be able to sort the rest out after we check in and if need be, to talk my friends out of this half-baked plan.

My flight lands slightly after Tyson’s and Hannah’s, and when I get to baggage claim, they are waiting for me, Starbucks in hand.

“Dallas in June!” I say as they hug me. “Everyone’s dream destination!”

Hannah smiles, looking sheepish, while Tyson says, “C’mon, now. Positive attitude.”

“Yep. Just call me Pollyanna!” I say, eyeing the carousel as luggage starts to drop from the chute.

“So do we have a plan?” Tyson asks, looking at me, then Hannah.

“Well…I confirmed the addresses,” I say, feeling squeamish.

Hannah nods, then says, “I was thinking maybe we do a little scouting first—”

“Oh, like a stakeout,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Fun, fun!”

“Not exactly a stakeout,” Hannah says, missing my sarcasm. “More like getting the lay of the land. At least here in Dallas. Dripping Springs is a bit of a haul—”

“We could always put a letter in their mailboxes,” Tyson says.

I nod, thinking. As my heart fills with dread, I feel myself shifting into a reckless mode. “Nah. I say we go right up to the frontdoor.”

“And do a cold call?” Tyson asks, looking wary.

“Yep. We’re in Texas now, baby,” I say, twirling an invisible lasso. “Go big or go home.”

Nestled in a grove of trees strung with tiny white lights, the Mansion on Turtle Creek looks more like a private residence than a hotel. As we pull into the driveway in our rental car, I nod approvingly. We get out of the car, a bellman taking our bags, then walk into the lobby.

“It’s gorgeous,” Hannah says. “Nice job, Lainey.”

I smile, then stride over to the front desk, checking us in and collecting our AmEx amenities, including free breakfast and a spa credit.

“Lainey, you should get a massage!” Hannah says on our way to the elevator.

“I’m gonna need it,” I say under my breath.

A moment later, we are rolling into our suite. As Hannah gushes over the décor, I announce that it’s five o’clock somewhere, diving into the minibar and selecting a local IPA.

“Anyone else?” I ask, cracking it open and taking a long sip.

“I’m good for now,” Hannah says.

“Tyson?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says. “I’m driving.”

“How about a little pool time first?” I say.

Tyson glances at Hannah, then looks back at me. “We could do that, but why not just do what we came here to do?”

I sigh, then sit down on the bed, taking another long swallow of beer.

“Guys. I’m really nervous,” I finally confess. “Ashley is not going to be happy when I show up and interrupt her perfect life.”

“Nothing’s ever perfect,” Hannah says.

I give her a look, remembering that’s what Summer said when I first told her about my father. Boy, did that turn out to be true.

“I know. But I just can’t think of a world in which she’s going to be happy to know about me. Her parents just celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.” I open my mouth, insert my index finger, and make a gagging sound.

“You never know until you try,” Tyson says. “And really, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“I guess so,” I say, though deep down, I know what the worst thing is. I know I could be rejected.

“How about we drive that way, check things out, and see what your gut says? If you’re still not feeling it, we can bag it and come back to the pool,” Tyson says.

“Fine,” I say, giving my friends a reluctant nod. “Let me just finish this beer.”

Less than an hour later, we are turning down a residential road in some random suburb of Dallas. The neighborhood is nice but modest. Tyson is driving and Hannah is navigating, reading off the numbers on mailboxes, looking for Ashley’s house. I’m in the backseat, feeling sick to my stomach.

“That’s it,” Hannah says, pointing to a two-story stucco home with a yellow front door.

Tyson nods, then slowly pulls over to the curb before putting the car in park.

“Who the hell paints their front door bright yellow?” I say, feeling a wave of negativity coming on.

“I like it. It’s cheerful,” Hannah says.

“It’s hideous,” I say under my breath.

“Well, that probably shouldn’t be your opener.” Tyson looks over his shoulder at me and smiles.

I smile back at him. “You don’t think that works?…‘Hi there. Your door is fugly, and I’m your father’s love child.’?”

Hannah lets out a nervous laugh as I eye the house, feeling more nauseous by the second.

“You don’t have to do this,” Hannah says. “It’s your call.”

“What do you mean ‘you’?” I ask. “I think you meant ‘we,’ right?”

“Of course. Yes,” she says. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“She might not even be home,” Tyson says.

I sigh, then suddenly make my decision. I’m tired of carrying around this heavy baggage. It’s time to blow some shit up—or at least rip off the Band-Aid.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Tyson says.

“I’m sure,” I say.

He turns off the ignition, but nobody makes a move. Within seconds, the inside of the car is an oven, and I’m sweating my ass off. I take a deep breath, then open my door.

“You know what?” Tyson says. “I think you two should go alone. I’ll hang back.”

“Why wouldn’t you come with us?” I demand.

“It’s a terrible idea for me to be randomly knocking on some white lady’s door in the state with the highest number of firearms in the country. That doesn’t really work out for people who look like me.”

“That’s a good point,” Hannah says, nodding earnestly.

“Nice try,” I say to Tyson. “You’re coming with us.”

“All right,” he says with a shrug. “But this is how we end up getting shot.”

“Tyson! That’s not funny!” Hannah says.

“It wasn’t a joke,” he says, biting his lip.

I nod, feeling sheepish because I hadn’t thought of that angle—how freely I can walk up to a front door in suburbia without fear of violence.

“You’re right,” I say. “But Hannah’s definitely coming with me.”

“I’ll come, too,” Tyson says. “But you two should lead the way.”

“Fine,” I say, getting out of the car and slamming the door.

I march right up to the front porch with Hannah and Tyson trailing behind me.

“Here goes nothing,” I say, pushing the doorbell.

We listen to the classic ding-dong chime followed by the sound of footsteps.

A second later, the door opens, and we are standing face-to-face with a middle-aged woman in a pink velour tracksuit. Her bleached hair is cut in short architectural layers. I hate it.

“Good afternoon,” I say. “We were looking for Ashley Sheffield—Richards,” I correct myself to her married name. “But I think we may have the wrong house?”

“Oh, my gawd. You’re that actress! On that show!”

It’s a curveball that I didn’t see coming, but I do my best to appear unfazed. “Hello. Yes. I’m Lainey.”

“This is incredible! Ashley didn’t tell me she knows you!”

“So she does live here?” I ask.

“Yes! I’m sorry. I’m visiting this weekend. Ash is at the hair salon! She should be back any minute.”

“Great,” I say. “We’ll just wait in the car—”

“Absolutely not!” the lady says. “Come in! I insist! Was Ashley expecting you?”

“No. We were just…passing through town.”

The woman nods, beaming, then looks at Tyson and Hannah. “Are y’all actors, too?”

“No, ma’am,” Tyson says in his polite courtroom voice. “We’re just friends of Lainey’s. I’m Tyson, and this is Hannah.”

“And I’m Sharon! Ashley’s mom! Please come in! All of you!”

My heart stops. She’s changed her hair color and cut from the one photo of her I saw on Facebook years ago, but how did I not instantly recognize my mother’s nemesis? My father’s wife.

We are already stepping into the foyer as my brain absorbs this information. I know I should abort the mission, but for some reason, I keep going, operating on a weird, dread-filled autopilot.

As we pass the point of no return, Hannah grabs my hand and squeezes it while Tyson calmly asks if we should take off our shoes.

“Up to y’all!” Sharon says. “They aren’t a ‘shoes off in the house’ family. But do whatever makes you comfortable! I love going barefoot!”

As she points to her toes, the nails painted a sparkly teal, I feel another wave of nausea.

The three of us opt to keep our shoes on, walking down a short hall and into the family room, scattered with toys, including a vintage Fisher-Price barn I recognize from my own childhood. It occurs to me that it probably originally belonged to Ashley and her sister, and I feel something break inside me.

“The triplets just went down for their nap, thank goodness. They’re quite the handful,” Sharon says with a laugh, bending over to pick up a stuffed animal and a board book, tossing both into a wicker basket. “Now, c’mon, have a seat!” she says, pointing to a denim-blue, slipcovered sectional. “Can I get you some iced tea?”

We all decline the offer, taking seats on the long side of the sofa, our backs to the wall. I am in the middle, Tyson and Hannah flanking me.

“So how do you know Ash?” Sharon asks me. “Did y’all go to TCU?”

I shake my head, fumbling for an answer, as my father suddenly materializes at the sliding glass back door. Oddly, he doesn’t appear to have aged at all. It’s like seeing a ghost, and he’s staring back at me the same way.

“Hon, look who it is!” Sharon says.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, she continues. “It’s Yvette Gregory!” she says, using my character’s name. “Live and in the flesh!”

Sharon laughs, then says, “I’m sorry! I guess I should say Lainey Lawson! But Yvette feels so real!”

I force a smile and thank her.

“It’s true. You’re the best part of that show. Right, hon?” she asks, looking over at my father.

“Yes,” he replies, making fleeting eye contact with me. “You’re a terrific actress.”

An awkward few seconds tick by before we hear a garage door rumbling.

“Yay! Ash is home!” Sharon says. She bolts up from the sofa and runs out of the room.

I stare at my father, feeling a swell of anger as I wait for him to speak.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. How have you been?” he asks in a low, shaky voice.

“Peachy fucking keen,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears.

A second later, Sharon bursts back into the room. Ashley trails behind her, looking confused.

“Hey, y’all,” Ashley says tentatively while scanning our faces.

“Hi, Ashley. I’m Lainey.”

Ashley smiles, blinks, and says, “I’m sorry. I have baby brain since the triplets were born. Have we met?”

“We have not,” I say. “But this meeting is long overdue—”

“Lainey—” Tyson cuts in with a low voice. “Maybe you want to speak to Ashley in private?”

“No, thank you, Tyson,” I curtly reply. “I think everyone should stay for this.”

Ashley and Sharon exchange an intrigued look before sitting down on the short wing of the sectional.

“So, Dad,” I say, feeling my nervousness turn to anger. “Would you like to tell your wife and daughter why I’m here? Or should I?”

Ashley looks at me, then him, then back at me. “Dad?” she asks, her voice rising.

“Yes. Dad,” I repeat.

She looks back at her father, then says, “Why did she call you that?”

He clears his throat, takes off his glasses, and wipes his eyes.

After several seconds of silence, I look at Ashley and say, “Perhaps I can help him explain. Your father had an affair with my mother. Resulting in me.”

“Dad? Is that true?” Ashley asks, her voice shaking as her face turns white.

I glance at Sharon, feeling a stab of guilt. I know that none of this is her fault—or Ashley’s, for that matter. I also know that I’m being needlessly cruel. I can’t stop myself, though, years of grief and anger pouring out of me.

“Well, I wouldn’t count on him for the truth,” I say. “My mother sure couldn’t. He told her that she was the love of his life. And yet here we are—” I gesture grandly around the room.

“That’s enough, Lainey,” Tyson says under his breath.

I feel an ounce of remorse as Sharon runs out of the room, but the pound of hatred for my father outweighs it. Especially when he has the gall to get up and follow her without a word to either of his daughters.

Ashley’s eyes are steely as she stares at me. “Why did you come here? What do you want from us?”

“I don’t want anything—” I say. “My friends convinced me to come meet my sister.”

“You’re not my sister,” she says, her voice ice cold.

“I’m afraid I am,” I say with a laugh.

“Ashley. We’re sorry…. We didn’t know your parents would be here,” Tyson chimes in.

“Yet she still chose to make this announcement in front of my mother?” Ashley spits back at him.

“Welp,” I say, clasping my hands together for effect. “I figured I might as well get everything out in the open.”

“You came here to hurt us,” Ashley says, staring at me with pure disdain.

“That’s not true,” Hannah pipes up, surprising me. “It wasn’t her intent to hurt you. She’s been very hurt by your father’s actions, too.”

“What about her mother?” Ashley spits back at Hannah. “She’s the homewrecker here.”

“Ha. That’s rich,” I say, glancing around the room. “Your home looks far from wrecked.”

“You’re a spiteful person—which I assume you got from your mother. Tell her I said congrats. Mission accomplished.”

“My mother passed away four years ago.”

“Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?”

“I don’t care what you say.”

“C’mon, y’all,” Hannah says. “All else aside, you’re sisters.”

“Like she already said, we aren’t sisters,” I say, getting up from the sofa and giving Ashley a disdainful shrug. “We just happen to share the same asshole father.”

“Get the hell out of my house,” Ashley says.

“With pleasure,” I say with a smile, then calmly walk out the door.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” I grumble on the way back to the car.

My heart is racing, and my hands are shaking, but I also feel vindicated. I knew all along this was going to backfire, and I was right. Absolutely nothing good came from it, except for finally bringing my father to justice—and even that wasn’t worth the way I feel now.

Hannah gives me a furtive glance. “I’m so sorry, Lainey.”

I can’t tell if she’s apologizing for how shitty the whole scene was—or for her role in suggesting it in the first place. Either way, I just shake my head and say, “Whatever.”

I wait for Tyson to chime in with an apology of his own—or at least an acknowledgment that I was right; this was a terrible idea. Instead, he strides ahead of us, gets in the car, and slams his door shut. He’s clearly pissed—and I have a feeling that it’s not at Ashley, or even my father.

“What’s his problem?” I say under my breath.

“He’s just upset for you,” Hannah says.

“Well, he sure has a funny way of showing it,” I say, climbing into the sweltering backseat and slamming my door harder than he slammed his.

“I’m so sorry, Lainey,” Hannah repeats as she fastens her seatbelt. “That was awful.”

“A total fucking shitshow,” Tyson scoffs as he turns on the ignition.

“Yep. Just like I told you it would be,” I say.

“You made sure of that,” Tyson snaps at me.

I stare at the back of his head, fuming. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks over his shoulder, glaring at me. “It means, you couldn’t have been any less tactful.”

“I thought you were all for telling the truth,” I say in a snide voice.

“The truth is one thing,” Tyson says. “But you threw a grenade in there—”

“Are you for real right now?” I shout back at him. “What did you think was going to happen? I told you that this was a bad idea!”

“You’re right, Lainey,” Hannah says in her most placating tone. “You are a hundred percent right, and I take full responsibility for this—”

I cut her off, still shouting. “And if you think I’m going to go meet the other bitch in the family, you can forget it! Ain’t gonna happen!”

“Why didn’t you just try to talk to Ashley alone? One on one?” Tyson asks as he pulls away from the curb. “Why would you say all that stuff right in front of her mother?”

“I’m sorry I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for that woman and her triplet grandchildren!”

“What do the grandchildren have to do with this?” Tyson asks. “You’re not even making any sense!”

“Oh, I’d say they have plenty to do with this!”

I know I’m being irrational, and that he’s right—it’s not relevant how many children Ashley has or that she birthed three of them at once. But somehow, they feel like one more slap in the face. Because of course she has a big happy family. And of course her children have doting grandparents who babysit while their mother goes to the salon.

As for my father, he is exactly who and what I’ve known him to be for years. The truth has been underscored: his so-called love story with my mother wasn’t complicated or star-crossed. It was all a lie. And my mother—not Ashley’s mother—was the true victim. The one who paid the ultimate price.

No one speaks for the rest of the car ride back to the hotel. When we walk into the lobby, Hannah suggests that we go put our swimsuits on and head out to the pool. Tyson nods, but as they walk toward the elevator, I veer off.

“Lainey!” Hannah calls after me.

“What?” I say, glancing back at her.

“Where are you going?” she asks with a worried look—her default expression.

“To find the bar.”

“For lunch?”

“Nope,” I say. “For a martini.”

Hannah glances in Tyson’s direction, as if torn.

“Go with Tyson,” I say, deciding for her. “I want to be alone right now.”

The Mansion Bar is cool and dark with a clubby, masculine décor and leather-clad banquettes. Fittingly, the bartender is a classic guy’s guy, and there are also three men at the bar. Two are older—in their forties, maybe fifties—dressed in well-tailored suits and expensive shoes. The third is younger than I am, wearing Wrangler’s, cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt. He has nice brown eyes and looks easier to talk to, so I pick him. I’m not in the mood for a challenge.

I hop on the barstool next to his. “Hi,” I say. “Is this seat free?”

“Hi,” he says. “And yes! It’s free!”

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a seductive smile.

He smiles back at me. I glance down at his left hand, wrapped around his pint glass. No ring.

“I’m Lainey,” I say, loud enough for the other two men to hear. Might as well kill three birds with one stone in case this one doesn’t pan out. Four including the bartender, who is now standing in earshot of us.

“Gus,” he says, eagerly extending his hand.

I shake it, saying, “That’s a cute name.”

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s gotten trendy, but growing up, I was the only Gus in my grade.”

“Your parents were ahead of the curve, I see.”

“Yeah. I suppose they were!” he says, grinning, as the bartender asks what he can get me.

“An extra-cold, extra-dirty vodka martini,” I say, giving him a flirty smile.

“Vodka preference?” he asks, all business. For now.

“You choose. I trust you.”

He nods, then turns to make my drink while Gus asks me whether I’m here for business or pleasure.

“Neither,” I say. “I’m here because my friends made me come down to Texas to meet my sister. Who didn’t know I existed until about an hour ago.”

“Wait. Your sister didn’t know you existed?” he asks. “How’s that?”

I sigh and say, “My dad was married when he met my mom. They had an affair. I was an accident that he never told his ‘real’ family about.”

“Hmm. Well, you look pretty real to me,” Gus says, grinning at me.

“Yeah. A little too real for my sister.”

“Uh-oh. The meeting didn’t go well?”

“That’s an understatement. It was a bloodbath. Hence, the martini.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

“Yeah. But whatever.” I shrug. “What about you? What brings you to Dallas?”

“Work,” he says. “But I’m not staying at this hotel.”

“Are you meeting someone here?”

“No. I just wanted to check this place out. I love nice hotels. The lobbies and bars, that is. I wouldn’t know about the rooms.” He smiles. “Can’t afford ’em!”

I smile back at him, though he’s boring me so far. “What kind of work are you here for?” I ask.

“Litigation. A trial.”

“Oh. You’re a lawyer?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m a witness.”

“Was it Mrs. Peacock? With a candlestick? In the conservatory?” I deadpan.

He laughs and says, “No one was murdered, thank goodness. It’s a civil litigation.”

“So what happened? Were you a witness to a slip and fall? Banana peel in a grocery store?”

“No. I’m actually an expert witness,” he says, looking proud.

“Nice!” I say as the bartender returns with my martini, placing it on the bar in front of me. I thank him and take a sip.

“Would you like to start a tab?” the bartender asks.

“Definitely,” I say.

I take a second sip. I already feel better.

“So. What kind of an expert are you?” I ask, turning back to Gus.

“I’m a cynologist,” he says, sitting up straighter on his stool.

“A who?”

“It’s like a canine specialist.”

“Like a dog trainer?”

“More like a dog behaviorist, though I have trained some dogs in my day.”

“So are you, like, just obsessed with dogs?”

“I love them. And I respect them. Both my parents are legally blind. We always had Seeing Eye dogs.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s really interesting.”

He nods and says, “Yes. Dogs are fascinating.”

“What’s the most interesting fact you can tell me about them?”

“How long do you have?” He smiles.

“All day. And night,” I say with a wink. I know I’m being cheesy, but I can tell he likes it.

“Okay. Interesting facts,” he says, his face lighting up even more. “Let’s see…. So dogs can tell when we’re sad. They can read all sorts of human emotions. Anxiety and worry and depression. They internalize those feelings and feel worries themselves…. What else?…Prolonged eye contact with a dog releases oxytocin.”

“For the person or dog?”

“Both.”

I nod. “What else you got?”

“Um…Dogs have associative learning capabilities. There are two main types. Classical or Pavlovian conditioning, and operant or Skinnerian conditioning.”

“I know Pavlov! The bell!”

“Yeah. That’s a basic example. But the point is—they can learn associations between contiguous events…. Like, when you put a certain pair of tennis shoes on, they know they’re going to be walked. Some dogs can discern the sound of your automobile—”

“Your automobile, huh?” I say teasingly.

He laughs and says, “Sorry. They know the sound of your car. They can hear it up to a mile away.”

“Impressive,” I say. “So what’s this trial about?”

“It’s a dog bite situation—”

“And you’re defending the dog?”

“Kind of. Yeah. I’m testifying for the dog owner.”

“Who did the dog bite?”

“A neighbor.”

“A child?”

“No. An adult. Who happens to be six-foot-six and was trespassing—”

“To do something nefarious?”

“Well, no. But the dog didn’t know that.”

“So you’re basically testifying that it wasn’t the dog’s fault?”

“I’m not opining on fault or liability. I’m simply explaining that the dog was likely traumatized by something very specific based in her past—maybe another tall adult male—and that the circumstances aren’t likely to present themselves again. Basically, I don’t think the pup should be put down—”

“You think he will be?”

“She. And hopefully not. But likely yes.”

“Wow. That’s sad.”

“Very.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tulsa.”

“They couldn’t find someone in Texas?” I smile.

He laughs and says, “I’m a good value,” he says. “Just starting out.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Hmmm,” I say, looking for laugh lines. There are none. “Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-eight, thank you very much. And you?”

I’ve never cared about my age, and unlike Hannah, I had no problem when I turned thirty, but I still play it coy. “Older than you.”

He smiles. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Oh. I’m between jobs.”

“In what industry?”

“Entertainment.”

“Are you an actress? You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you for the compliment. You’re pretty cute yourself.”

He smiles, looking flustered, both of us aware that he’s in over his head.

I cut to the chase and ask what he’s doing for the rest of the day.

“Not much,” he says.

“Do you want to hang?” I ask. “We could go to a dog park.”

He smiles. “I do have a life apart from dogs.”

“As in…a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”

“What can I say? I’m between them.” He smiles.

It’s his first real attempt at flirting, and although it’s a bit clumsy, he pulls it off. Or perhaps he pulls it off because it’s clumsy.

“Touché,” I say, putting my hand right on his knee.

By the time Tyson and Hannah find me in the bar, I’m on my third martini and getting very cozy with Gus.

“Oh, hey,” I say, giving them a nonchalant wave. Hannah is wearing a white eyelet cover-up and platform sandals. Tyson has on navy swim trunks and a gray T-shirt. They both look like they’d rather be anywhere but this bar.

“Hi,” Hannah says, glancing at Gus, then looking back at me.

“This is Gus. From Tulsa. He’s here for a dog trial.” I hiccup, then laugh. “He’s defending the dog.”

“The dog’s owner,” Gus clarifies.

“Cool,” Hannah says, nodding.

Tyson stands behind her, looking pissed.

“Ask him something about dogs,” I say to Hannah. “Anything.”

She thinks for a second, then says, “Is it true that a dog’s IQ is the same as a toddler’s?”

“It is! Dogs’ mental abilities are comparable to those of a two-and-a-half-year-old human child,” Gus says, nerding out. “Of course, the intelligence of individual dogs differs, just as it does with humans—”

“How many of those have you had?” Tyson cuts in, pointing to my martini glass.

“What are you, my father?” I ask in a snide voice. “Oh, shoot. No. He’s the one with triplet grandchildren, isn’t he?”

“No, Lainey. I’m not your father,” Tyson says. “I’m your friend. Who thinks you need to lay off the vodka.”

“Thanks for your advice, friend. But I’m good.”

Tyson stares me down. “Okay. Do your thing, Lainey. Have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” I say. “Don’t you worry.”

Tyson stalks off as Hannah says, “Lainey, please come out to the pool with us. Gus—you should come, too.”

“Nah. We’re good here,” I say.

Hannah stares at me for a few more seconds, in full angst mode. “Okay. Just please be careful,” she says.

“Will do,” I say.

As Hannah turns to follow Tyson, I look at Gus. He gives me a yikes expression.

“Don’t worry about them,” I say. “What do you say we get out of here?”

“And go to the pool?” he asks.

I shake my head and tell him I have something better in mind.

A few minutes later, after I pay for our drinks, I am leading Gus through the lobby, over to the elevator, and up to our room. As we walk in, Gus glances around.

“Wow,” he says. “This is so nice.”

“Yeah,” I say as he stares down at a pair of Tyson’s sneakers on the floor outside the bathroom.

He looks back up at me, concerned. “You’re sharing a room with your friends?”

I nod.

“So they could come back any second—”

“That’s what these things are for,” I say, latching the security lock, then walking over to the bed. I sit down and immediately start unbuttoning my blouse, then take it off. He follows me like a puppy, watching as I remove my bra, then my jeans.

I’m down to my thong when Gus finally sits down and starts kissing me. He’s a bit awkward, but he has nice lips. We make out for a few minutes, then I start unbuttoning his shirt. A few charged seconds later, we are both completely naked. I pull him on top of me.

He is rock hard, but still hesitates. “I don’t have any…uh…protection.”

“That’s okay. I’m on the pill. And I’ve been recently tested. All good. You?” I ask—which is always the full extent of my inquiry.

“Oh. Yes. All good here, too,” he says with a nervous laugh.

“Awesome,” I say, kissing him again, ready to get the show on the road.

He pulls away, then says, “And you’re…not too drunk to consent?”

“No, Gus,” I say, thinking that if he keeps it up, I’ll be too bored to consent. “I’m all set.”