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.
6
TRYING TO DISTRACT MYSELF WITH A MOVIE DATE GONE X-RATED
Andie
Nobody warns you how time stretches when you’re waiting for a boy you’re not actually interested in. It’s like the universe knows you’re in the wrong place and just wants to punish you for it. I’m standing outside the Apollo, a movie palace so old it probably hosted vaudeville before talkies, and the wind off the river is slicing through my jeans like I borrowed them from a ghost.
I check my phone again. 7:14 p.m. The movie starts at 7:20. No sign of Jake. I’m stuck with the yuppie parents dragging their loud kids into the next Pixar sequel, a lone stoner in a parka vaping aggressively, and a pack of sorority girls who keep looking at me like I’m the warm-up act for something better.
I wish I could pretend that I’m here for Jake, but I’m not. I just wanted to distract myself from the disaster that’s my life. I had not one, but two sexual encounters with Stella’s dad. Oh my god.
So here I am, waiting for my so-called “date.” 7:16 now. I dig into my tote bag for a ChapStick, and my phone vibrates with a text.
“Parking be there in 5,” Jake writes. No sorry, no punctuation.
I stare at the screen, willing it to show me something else, and my thumb flicks, almost on its own, to the photo album. The Thomas photo glows back at me: his jaw clenched, the ghost of my lipstick on his mouth, his cock lying thick and sated against his thigh. Oh god, his cock! My mouth salivates while looking at that veiny length, with the sheen of ass sweat and smeared semen against it. My asshole clenches involuntarily, and then my pussy. I can almost feel the heat of Thomas’s hand around my waist, and then on my curves everywhere, making me moan aloud.
I hate how much my body betrays me. I hate that my heart is racing now, not because of Jake, but because I can’t stop replaying every second I spent with Thomas Moreland in my head.
I take a deep breath. The air is sharp and damp, alive with thaw and exhaust and popcorn fumes. It stings my lungs, which helps. For a second, I can almost convince myself that the Thomas thing was a fever dream, a glitch in the simulation.
Then Jake arrives, and the daydream is dead.
The jock is exactly as advertised: varsity jacket, hands in pockets, hair styled like he pays people to make it look accidental. His smile is practiced and practiced again; it makes my teeth hurt. “Sorry, the parking in this town is next-level,” he says, like I should give him a medal.
I look at him and feel… nothing. It’s not even disappointment; it’s like when you drink from a can of Sprite you thought was water, and the taste is so wrong your brain blanks out. Jake’s a very tall, very handsome, completely replaceable carbon-basedorganism. I try to remember what it was I saw in him, and my mind comes up empty.
He holds the theater door open for me, which would be sweet if he didn’t check his phone while doing it. I step inside, the warm air wrapping around me like a bath towel that’s just a bit too old.
We get in line at the ticket window. Jake doesn’t offer to pay, just pays for himself and steps aside so that I can get my own ticket. But honestly, I’m glad because the less date-like this is, the better. I tap my card, and the girl behind the glass slides a stub through the slot. Her nails are painted gold and they glint every time she moves.
Jake immediately angles for the concessions stand. “You hungry?” he asks, already ordering a large popcorn. I tell myself it’s fine, that I like popcorn, that maybe the carbs will blunt my anxiety. He pays for the snacks, but makes a show of checking the receipt. “Total scam,” he whispers. “But I’m happy to share with you, Andie.”
“Thanks for your generosity,” I say in a stiff voice. Not.
We walk into the theater itself, and the Apollo does not disappoint. It’s like a fever-dream cathedral: red velvet curtains, gold-flecked walls, rows of cracked leather seats, and chandeliers shaped like inverted wedding cakes. The floor slopes so dramatically I feel a little seasick, but it’s gorgeous, in a haunted sort of way.
Jake leads us to the far right aisle, “for the best sound,” as if this was a decision made by acoustic science. The seats here are slightly sticky, the armrests chewed and pockmarked by generations of anxious hands.
We’re barely settled before I spothim.
Oh my god, what is Thomas Moreland doing here? While I’m on a date with another man?
Even worse, Thomas is clearly on a date of his own. He’s three rows down and just off-center, sitting next to a woman so elegant it’s like she stepped out of an ad for diamond tennis bracelets. Her hair is glossy and dark, her top black with a plunging neckline, her laugh low and melodic. Thomas is in a button-down white shirt that highlights his bronzed skin, and even in the half-light, he looks like the answer to a question I don’t dare ask.
