Chapter 5 #2
Stella manages a tight, brittle laugh. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe—” Her words crash. She shakes her head, once, hard. “This is so weird.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My tongue feels like a chunk of eraser.
Mary Kate, soft: “You didn’t know, Andie. How could you?”
But I can feel the blood roaring in my face, the heat climbing up my neck, my whole body prickling with embarrassment and horror.
I try to say something, to apologize, but every word feels wrong.
All I can do is stare at the phone, the picture frozen on the man I let fuck me—twice—without ever asking who he was.
Kayleigh, of course, finds her voice next. “I mean… he’s really, uh, attractive for a dad, if that helps?” She shoots me a look that’s half-shock, half-guilty admiration, but it withers and dies in the nuclear silence.
Stella doesn’t say anything for a long, long minute. She just sits there, breathing, hands still flat on the wood. Finally, she looks up at me, and her face isn’t angry—it’s something worse. It’s hurt.
“Andie,” she says, voice glassy, “you have to promise me, right now, that you’ll never tell anyone about this. I mean it. No one.”
I nod so fast my head might come loose. “I promise,” I croak, but my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
She swallows, nods, and lets her eyes drift away from me, to the window, to anywhere that isn’t this table. “He’s on the Board of Visitors,” she mutters. “I should’ve guessed.”
Mary Kate glances at me, and there’s sympathy there, but also an edge—like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know existed. I want to crawl under the table, dissolve into the grout.
Kayleigh tries for levity again, “Well, at least now we know he has great genes?” but even she sounds like she wants to throw up.
I try to find my old power, the bravado that made me the queen of this table. But it’s gone, replaced with a raw, naked realization that feels like a sunburn. My hands are shaking. I reach for my latte, but the cup nearly topples, and I have to steady it with both hands.
No one says anything for a long time.
Finally, Stella stands. Her voice is quiet, and I know she’s not mad at me—she’s mad at the whole stupid world. “I have to go,” she says, grabbing her bag and jacket. She hesitates, then looks at me with something almost like pity. “Just… don’t show me any more pictures like that, Andie.”
I watch her go, the door slamming shut behind her, and the bell overhead sounds like a death knell.
The table sits in silence, three girls and a thousand unasked questions. I stare at my phone, at the blank screen, and wonder how I could have been so stupid.
I try to remember if I even asked for his name, or if I wanted to be anonymous so badly that I never bothered. All I know now is that I feel disturbed, and that I can never, ever tell another soul about this.
I look at Mary Kate and Kayleigh, but neither of them is smiling. Even Kayleigh, the queen of one-liners, just keeps staring at the door.
I’ve never felt less like the center of gravity in my life.
Nobody at Brewed Awakening even notices that a bomb just went off at our table.
The textbooks—still open to mid-paragraph—are just props now, and nobody’s touched their drinks in ten minutes.
The only thing I can taste is the memory of him—his tongue, his hands, his cock in places it probably shouldn’t have been.
And the knowledge that the cock belonged to my friend’s father gives me a tingly feeling in my stomach.
No, I can’t change that Thomas Moreland is my friend’s father.
Nor can I change the fact that I enjoyed my intimate interludes with him.
Mary Kate picks at the corner of her spiral notebook, trying to pretend she’s still in the room. She glances at me, then at Kayleigh, then down again. She wants to comfort me, I can tell, but doesn’t know how. What do you say to the girl who just accidentally slept with her best friend’s dad?
Kayleigh, predictably, is the first to crack. She leans in, voice pitched low, hungry for answers. “Okay, but, like—does this change anything? Was it, you know, still hot?”
I shake my head, because I want to say no, but my body’s not buying it. My mouth feels dry, and there’s this awful, shameful warmth pooling behind my navel every time I think about the photo on my phone, the way Thomas looked at me in it, like he owned me.
Mary Kate, whispering: “It’s not your fault, Andie. You didn’t know.”
I nod, but the words slide right off me. All I can think about is how I’ll never be able to look at Stella again. How the next time I see Thomas—if there even is a next time—I’ll probably combust on the spot.
Kayleigh taps her nails on her coffee cup, gears clearly spinning. “So… what happens now? Are you going to keep seeing him, or is it, like, over?”
Mary Kate snaps at her, “Kay, seriously. This isn’t funny. You’re not helping.”
But Kayleigh is undeterred. She glances at me, her tone shifting from gossipy to almost sincere. “I’m just saying, Andie, you didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the adult. He’s the one who should have known better.”
“I should have asked his name,” I mutter, not sure if I mean it.
“Would it have mattered?” Mary Kate asks. “Like, really?”
I want to say yes, but the truth is, probably not. I wanted the mystery. I wanted to be the girl who never asked, who just let a hot older guy take control.
Kayleigh sighs. “This is, like, a Greek tragedy, you know?”
I finally look at my phone again, thumbing past the photo, trying to erase the mental image of Stella’s face when she realized who it was. Oh god, oh god, I swear I had no idea!
The table stays silent until, like a ghost, Stella reappears at the edge. She doesn’t sit, just stands there, eyes fixed on me. The hurt is still there, but it’s dulled, replaced by something else—fear, maybe, or resignation.
She waits until I look at her, then says, “Did he know who you were?”
I shake my head, and I mean it. “No. We never exchanged names.”
Stella nods, as if that helps, but then she says, “He’ll figure it out. My dad. He always does. He can get a list of every girl on the catering crew last night. If you want to stay a secret, you should think about what you’re going to do next.”
Her words echo in my skull, reverberating against all the old certainties.
I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I’d give anything to make it unhappen.
But I don’t, and I’m not sorry at all. Being with Thomas was one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened to me.
I just stare at the table, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my thighs.
Stella stands there for another second, then leaves for good. The finality is total.
For a while, nobody moves. Then Kayleigh, in empathy, puts her hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
I nod, but I’m not.
The coffee shop’s suddenly way too bright, the noise level cranked up from murmur to cacophony. The walls seem to be inching closer, the air syrup-thick with cinnamon and scorched milk.
I gather my stuff—laptop, books, charger, a pencil that snaps in my hand as I fumble it—and mumble something about “an assignment due” that I don’t even remember. My chair screeches as I stand, and I don’t care that everyone turns to look.
I leave the latte behind. I leave the girls, and step outside, trying to reclaim my equilibrium. The cold air is like a slap, but it’s a relief. I breathe deep, and for a second, I almost start to cry.
I want to be the center of gravity again.
I want to win the stupid bet. But all I can think of now is the look in Stella’s eyes, and the question waiting for me at the edge of the next moment: what do you do when your secret lover turns out to be your friend’s rich, handsome, and influential father?
I shove my hands into my jacket and walk, letting the wind strip away everything but the facts.
It’s not over. Not even close.