And now it's gone. Probably lost somewhere in that basementbunk room, between sheets that smelled of chlorine and bourbon and sex.
Maybe it's fitting. A sacrifice to the gods of One Night Stands. A physical reminder that I'm letting go of the past, starting fresh. My grandmother would understand. She always said material things were just things—it was the memories that mattered.
I just need time to accept that it’s gone. I grab mugs from the cabinet—Mel's favorite Wonder Woman one and my chipped Carnegie Museum cup—and fill them with coffee as Mel maneuvers her chair to the small table by the window.
Her question unanswered, Mel hums at me until I stare at her. She taps her fingers on the laminate surface. “You gonna at least spill about the pool boy?”
"There's not much to tell," I lie, bringing both mugs to the table.
Mel gives me a look that could wither plants. "You disappeared with Hot Playboy and didn't return until four AM with sex hair. Then you passed out without wrapping said hair. There's plenty to tell."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Fine. His name is Tucker, and yes, we hooked up."
"And?"
"And it was good. Really good." I sip my coffee to hide my expression, but Mel's not having it.
"Sloane Elizabeth Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is, I did not drag my ass to the middle of nowhere and entertain boring law students so you could give me 'it was good' as your only review."
I laugh. "What do you want to know? Size, stamina, technique?"
"Yes, all of that. In graphic detail."
"He was..." I search for words that won't sound like oversharing. "Attentive. In charge but not controlling. And very, very skilled with his mouth."
Mel fans herself dramatically. "Hallelujah. After Ice Man Grentley, you deserved someone who knows what oral sex is."
I nearly spit out my coffee. "Mel!"
"Am I wrong?"
She's not. Josh approached sex like he approachedeverything—efficiently, perfunctory, and with minimal mess. It wasn't bad, exactly. Just... underwhelming. Tucker had been anything but.
"Anyway," I say, changing the subject. Sort of. “There is a small problem in addition to the necklace.” She arches a brow, blowing her coffee. “He is a hockey player. On Josh’s team.”
Mel actually spits coffee across the room. A full blast of shocked explosion. I reach for napkins as she begins to laugh hysterically. “I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes. “It’s too much.”
She’s right about that at least. I drink my coffee and stare out the window, wishing I had more friends to talk this through with me. “I guess go ahead and ask Stellan if he found the necklace. But absolutely no other details, and I’m not talking to Tucker again. It was a one-time thing.”
My roommate nods, pulling out her phone, still chortling. “Orgasm therapy,” she mutters, clicking the phone back to locked when she’s done. “You’re crushing your checklist.”
Mel is referring to a plan we jokingly named the “Season of Sloane”: sex, then school, and finally serenity. I smile, actually excited to go to campus today and meet with the registrar. I left my public health degree just shy of graduating. Of course, I was going to finish school when Josh and I got settled here in Pittsburgh, but then the team went to the playoffs that year, and my degree kept getting pushed down our priority list.
I absolutely nailed my first task–now I just need to focus on the others.
I find the admissions office on campus and wait nervously to speak with someone about late registration for summer classes.
A middle-aged white woman with kind eyes calls me over. Her nameplate reads "Susan Mitchell, Admissions Advisor."
"How can I help you today?" she asks.
“I’m hoping to transfer here,” I tell her. "I was a student at the University of Michigan a few years ago, but I didn't finish my degree."
"Do you have your transcripts?"
I slide her the paperwork with just a few classes remaining for my bachelor’s in public health.
Susan hums. “Let me see what classes still have openings for the summer term."
