It seemed like such a rigid, polite text when Storm Leary is anything but. Not that he’s ever been rude to me exactly, but he’s hard edges and standoffishness and it’s not like we hooked up or anything. I didn’t think he needed tothankme. But I did fall asleep in his arms on the couch and maybe it was the best sleep I’d had in a long time even if he startled more than a few times while he dreamed.
It was still peaceful. Even with the gun on the table.
I rub my thumb over the screen and imagine his eyes when he got to his feet and pulled the weapon from his waistband. They were wild but glassy, like he wasn’t really there.
My chest tightens and I don’t know why. We’re friends, if that. I shouldn’t be so concerned about him. And the things he’s into, I can’t associate with. I have goals. I want to own my own marketing agency, maybe make it international, and having a drug dealer boyfriend might make my ambition a little difficult.
Boyfriend.
Despite the chilly autumn air, my neck and cheeks flush hot and I swipe out of my messages and turn my screen off. We’ve never gone on a date, and yeah, maybe he sucked my finger and pretty much begged me for more but I wouldn’t kiss him because I know this will go nowhere and…
I would have slept with Dax, though, wouldn’t I? I still might. And I don’t see myself marrying him. He’s too full of himself. Not a narcissist, just not able to focus onmethe way I want a man too. It doesn’t change the fact I like sex though, and he’s hot, so why not?
And why don’t I feel the same way about Storm? Obviously if he randomly came over because he knew I was tipsy and he was probably horny, he sleeps around, so it would be fine if we hooked up.
Why didn’t I? I was on my period but if I wasn’t, I still wouldn’t have.
Is it because I know he’s too magnetic? If I slept with him, I might never want to stop?
I lift my eyes to the fountain, gazing into the blue-green pool full of pennies and bigger coins. The only thing I have on me are the keys to my apartment in my matching lilac sweats. No money to make a wish. But I could do one anyway, right? Simply close my eyes and yearn for something? The poets would, and while I love business books and business plans, Keats and Byron and Coleridge are my secret loves.
I close my eyes.
I take a breath in.
What do you want, Sloane Stevens?
My older brother, Caspian, used to ask me that all the time. Caspian is getting his MBA at Harvard. He knows exactly what he wants and he drilled ambition and goals and plans into me. But sometimes I’d look to Henry and long for his wildness. The way he drifts with no intention, being solelyhimself,even ifit hurts people, even if it makes them joyous. Either way, he doesn’t change.
Mom is much the same. It’s why she’s cheated on my dad so much. And Dad isn’t innocent, either. I think he has a girlfriend in Vancouver, the way he flies to Canada frequently for “work” despite the fact no one really seems to know why pharmaceutical sales would be transnational. Different laws for different countries, even though ours are similar. But Mom leaves it alone because she’s rarely home herself. She owns a furniture chain. Locations all up and down the East Coast.
Dad is more discreet; Mom is more brash. Caspian is focused, Heather loves being a mother and she’s nurturing and selfless, while Henry is selfish. What am I?
What do I want?
What do you want?
I hear footsteps. A runner’s gait. It snaps me out of my wish making and I pop my eyes open, my fingers clenched tight around my phone as I lift my head. But there’s no one there and when I hear even breathing, in and out, I turn my head to look over my shoulder.
A woman.
She’s beyond the circle of brick by my bench, a patch of damp grass between us and the cobblestones she’s jogging along. She has midnight black hair, pulled up high in a silky ponytail, and she’s slender in stature, but I see the muscles of her triceps as she runs, visible beneath the black compression shirt she’s wearing. In fact, everything is black: her outfit, her shoes, her hair, the ink on her arm. Clouds of cold bubble from her lips and I wonder if she’s a student. Something about the self-possessed way she carries herself through the orange lamplit glow of Ely’s dim campus, she seems more likely to be a professor, although she’d be the youngest one I’ve seen here.
Her cheekbones are sharp, her jawline is impeccable, and when she follows the cobblestone pathway toward the fountain, I see her face is modelesque. It could be the lighting, but I don’t think so. Her skin is flawless, dark brows perfectly arched, her lips full and red. I don’t think she’s wearing makeup and as she gets closer, I note her lashes are thick and long and I’m not sure she’s got extensions. I used to wear them but I got tired of the grow out in between appointments. But it’s her eyes that are the most striking. Emerald-green, a shade that doesn’t leave any room for speculation about hazel.
She’s beautiful.
And she’s staring right at me.
I offer an uncertain smile, but despite the dimples in her cheeks, she doesn’t return it. As she jogs by, within touching distance, so close I can scent the dark notes of her perfume, the look she gives me is bone chilling. Piercing eyes, lips pressed together, a muscle in her jaw ticks.
Then she’s gone.
Jogging into the mist creeping up in the distance, so far now she could be nothing but a dark angel or a mirage.
I shiver in my hoodie and realize my hand is cramping because of how tightly I’m holding my phone.
And when I look down, I see a new text.
