I hear the door open, then close, and I halt, spinning on one heel to head for the sink. Second-guess, detouring to flip the lock on the door in case he realizes ditching me in my moment of need isn’t the best strategy to get laid.
Without warning, my mind fixates on being carried to a truck tailgate. To the warm press of slick skin and salty air and the absolute certainty I would be fine. Sawyer took care of me without a single grimace or complaint.
I slip my right foot out of one Prada slingback, twisting my foot and staring at the white line by my heel.
It’s the only scar I have. It’d probably be my favorite, even if I had dozens.
Sawyer would have stayed to watch me vomit. If Iweresick. I’m sureof that, despite the careless way he dismissed me on New Year’s Eve. The same way he’d jumped after me. The same way he had taken care of me when I got injured.
I think that’s why he’s lingered in my head the past three months. Because he hurt me, but I’m not sure he meant to. I was a fling for a guy who never wanted more than that. He didn’t want me to get too attached while he was still floating free. Some small part of me respects him for being honest. Most guys would have agreed in the moment and then ghosted later.
I wash my hands, dry them with one of the plush towels from the basket, and release a long exhale while staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror.
I look good. I put extra effort into my appearance tonight. But I don’t look happy.
I was so sure I could do this, and I was wrong. Not because I was scared to be alone with a guy, but because that guy wasn’t Sawyer. He was supposed to help fix what Third had damaged. Instead, I feel more broken than before.
My flawless makeup doesn’t make me miss him less.
While I was styling my hair, I kept glancing at the drawer I kept all of his letters stashed in.
As I was selecting my outfit, I was thinking about all the different dresses I could have worn the night of his friend’s party. I’d only packed a few for that long weekend, my options far more limited than with access to my entire closet. There are others I wish he’d seen me wear.
I toss the towel in the hamper, fix a smile on my face—glancing in the mirror to confirm it appears unbothered—and then walk out of the restroom.
“Finally.” The woman waiting in line hurries inside past me.
I stride toward the nearest exit, pulling my phone out of my clutch and texting my friends, letting them know I’m leaving. Then message my driver, Miles, letting him know too. There’s no sign of the guy I was with earlier, and I’m relieved. Hopefully, he found someone else to have a considerate one-night stand with.
I retrieve my faux-fur jacket from the coat check and continue out onto the sidewalk. My upper half is warm, but my bare legs are already numb from the cold. It’s so unfair that guys’ outfits are weather-appropriate this time of year while wearing a dress requires freezing. I should have stayed inside until my car pulled up, but I’m breathing easier in the brisk air.
I pull my phone out again as a distraction, ignoring the replies from my friends, and search Sawyer’s address. I don’t know what I’m looking for—a photo of his house? proof he exists?—but the fourth result is unexpected. A phone number. I tap it and raise my phone to my ear, fully expecting athis number is no longer in servicerecording.
Someone picks up, which is a surprise.
But that’s nothing compared to the shock of recognizing the voice that says, “Hello?”
I sway in my heels, too stunned to speak. My mouth has forgotten how to form words, and my throat feels too tight for any to exit anyway. It’s so bizarre, hearing Sawyer’s voice on a busy sidewalk outside a club when I’ve only ever heard it in the Hamptons.
“Hi,” slips out.
Immediately, I regret it. I should have just hung up as soon as he answered. How can I explain this without sounding insane?Sorry, I accidentally called you while looking up your address. My bad.
He never gave me his number, and I’m sure he’s happy about that now. I’ve now shown up at his work without being invited and randomlycalled his home phone like a deranged stalker.
Seconds of silence pass as I frantically try to decide what to do next.
Just when I’m about to hang up and hope he doesn’t bother to look up this number, he asks, “Is everything okay, Wren?”
He recognized my voice from a single syllable.
I’m abruptly furious about that. Never mind that I wouldn’t know that if I hadn’t called him.
“Yeah. You?”
I miss him. Not just sex—although I haven’t forgotten how incredible it felt and am very disappointed tonight didn’t include that high. I miss his letters. I miss hearing about his life. I wanted more, from him, and I wound up with nothing.
“I’m fine,” he replies.
