My phone vibrates in my pocket and I let out a sigh, knowing it can only be one of two people. My mother, who’s main goal in life is to “find me a suitable wife,” whatever the fuck that means, or Britt. The woman I thought was suitable, but my parents could not stand because she has purple hair, six tattoos, and a nose ring. Then we broke up and all of a suddenBrittany was someone I “didn’t deserve anyway.” Fucking hypocrites. Not that there’s any hope of getting back together with her, even if I wanted to. Because like always, I’m too much.
My needs are too much. My veryspecificneeds.
I twist my fingers in the o-ring of my choker, rubbing them along the metal to soothe my nerves. Before I know it, this trip will be over and I’ll be right back in Ashbourne, working my boring ass custodian job at the ice rink just out of town and fielding all the “potential” dates my mother sets me up on.
None of those women she insists are “good for me” are actually good for me. Most of them are like her—uptight and bitchy. But they come from money, they’re pretty, and they would makeperfectwives.
That shit may have worked on Austen, but it won’t work on me. If my mother knew what was really good for me, she’d have a heart attack.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, and I glance down at my screen to see a text from Britt.
Having fun yet?
I scoff. I’ve had six shots and two Buzzballz since boarding this fucking bus, and I’m not even feeling it yet.
Austen laughs loudly, and I look up to see Cameron and him sitting next to one another with huge smiles on their faces. Not sure when that happened, sinceCameron was sulking in the shadows ten minutes ago, like he usually does.
At least one of us is having a good time, I guess.
I think about everything I’ve done since I got here. I’d come with the intention of having fun, and I guess I’ve done some things I enjoyed, but I haven’t gotten laid or anything. Not that I have to, but this is Vegas. Walking away without a top tier sex story is basically a crime.
I’ve flirted with enough people, mostly women, because we’ve been favoring the strip clubs rather than dance clubs, and there was that cute girl at the pool this morning, but nothing’s panned out. Usually I’m pretty good at telling when someone wants to fuck me. Man or woman, but all my interactions have been heavy flirting.
See, this is why I hate being fucking single.
Looking down at the screen, I twist my lips, trying not to think about my perpetual singleness or the reason I no longer have a girlfriend to begin with.
I pull on my ring just enough to give the smallest choke, and it makes me feel a little better. I let go and text Britt back.
Don’t know. Not drunk enough to tell.
Trey and Hudson holler with excitement as Andre and Paul raise their glasses. The neon lights on the busflicker as the sounds of Tove Lo’s “Talking Body” carry through the air.
Are you okay?
I’m not sure how to answer her. Because I’mnot.I hate pretending I am. Just once I wish I could be honest withsomeoneabout how I really feel.
I love Britt. Not in an “I’ll burn the world for you” kind of way, or even an “I do” sort of way, but in the way that she knows me better than anyone else. She has seen the mess and she is still here. I don’t get it. She doesn’t want me because I’mtoo much, but she still calls and checks on me. Like I’m a toy she isn’t ready to throw away. It’s… frustrating, but it’s also kind of relieving. Most of all it’s confusing.
Tonight, I’m feeling mopey. It’s been a weird day, and I just need to get shitfaced and fuck something. Then I’ll be right.
The seat dips as a body drops next to me, making me shift my weight. One look and I purse my lips. Mack settles into the seat, spreading his legs wide and stretching his arm across the back of the seat.
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” he scoffs, bringing his glass to his lips for a drink of champagne.
My gaze fixates on his amber eyes, on the sharpness of his jaw. He’s drunker than me, that’s for sure, but someone has to make sure we make it to our location.
Before I can force my guard back up, he shifts his drink to his other hand and grabs my phone right out of my grip.
“Ah. Your girlfriend,” he says, his tone bitter.
I twist my fingers in my chain, fighting the need to say something,anything, to change the subject. But he’s drunk and likely won’t remember anything I say, just like he doesn’t remember last night.
If he had, he wouldn’t have called me annoying and acted like I have the plague when we played volleyball earlier—and he certainly wouldn’t have gone out of his way to change in the bathroom, considering he had no problem doing it in front of me before he passed out.
But maybe anonymity is what I need right now. Maybe a secret confession to a drunk man can be my form of therapy, even if it’s just this once.
Well, technically, my form of therapy involves a bit more pain of the physical variety, but I guess when in Vegas…
