“Are you mad about something?”
“What would I be mad about?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I tipped up my glass. “So is that guy your boyfriend?”
“Dean?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Why?”
Finishing my drink, I signaled to the bartender for another. “Seems like kind of a tool.”
“You don’t even know him,” she snapped.
I shrugged. I was being a dick, but I couldn’t help it. “I don’t need to know him. But I guess he’s your type. He play a sport?”
“Football.”
I’d been hoping she’d say tennis or soccer or lacrosse or field hockey—something I could beat him at. But I was shit at throwing a football, and I didn’t like wearing all that fucking equipment. “Figures. He as dumb as he looks?”
“Why are you being such an asshole?”
Another shrug. “Just being myself.”
“Fuck you, Oliver. I was actually looking forward to seeing you tonight.”
The bartender delivered my whiskey, and I took a big sip. “Why?”
“Good question.” She stood there for a moment, anger emanating from her in hot, pulsing waves. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I turned my gaze in her direction.
“Is this about October?”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
I pretended to be confused for a second. “Oh, that. I forgot all about that.”
“What?”
I lifted my glass again. “I said, I forgot all about that.”
“You’re lying.”
Our eyes locked in a silent battle. “Does Dean know about us?”
“No. And you better not say anything. You promised.”
I laughed. “That’s right. I did. Hey, why are we talking about this, anyway? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“You are being such a jerk right now.”
“Bet you’re sorry you gave your virginity to me. You should have let Dean pop your cherry. He’s probably a much nicer guy than I am.”
“He is,” she snapped. “And you know what? I wasn’t sorry about you until tonight.”
That made me even more furious—with myself—but I took it out on her. “Well, it was a stupid fucking idea. I can’t even believe I did it.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re saying you didn’t want to?”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“So, what, you just took pity on me?”
“Pretty much.”
Her eyes glittered, either with anger or tears, maybe both. “I really hate you right now, Oliver. Thanks for ruining my Christmas.” She spun around and took off, her boot heels clacking angrily on the floor.
I felt like shit. My Christmas was ruined too, but it was my own damn fault. I’d built up seeing her again in my head too much. What the hell was I expecting? She’d made it clear from the start she didn’t want me. That she would never want me, not like that. I wasn’t good enough for Chloe Sawyer.
Well, fuck her. And fuck these feelings. I hadn’t asked for them, and I didn’t want them.
I wished I knew how to make them go away.
11
Chloe
THEN
“Do we have to stay the night?” I asked my mom as we got out of the car in front of the Pembertons’ place in Harbor Springs.
“For heaven’s sake, Chloe, we just got here.” She gave me a Mom Look that said mind your manners.
Sullen and pouting, I watched my dad hand his keys to the valet. “I was just asking.”
“Well, Hughie is our godson, and graduating from Harvard with an M.B.A is a big deal. This party is important to him, to his parents, and to us.”
“Fine.” I followed her around to the back of the car, where another valet was pulling our overnight bags from the trunk. Since my three older sisters weren’t living at home that summer, it was just my parents, Frannie, and me. “But I won’t know anyone here, and it’s going to be boring sitting around all day and night.”
“Nonsense,” my mother said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You know the entire family. And Oliver’s home. When’s the last time you two saw each other?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered as we trudged up the wide front steps of the wraparound porch. It wasn’t true—I knew exactly when it was: Cloverleigh’s Christmas party our freshman year of college, when he’d implied that he’d only had sex with me out of pity and hadn’t even enjoyed it. It was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever said to me. Even now, more than three years later, it still stung. I’d never forgive him, and I’d ignored the lame, apologetic texts he’d sent. I’d refused to visit his family’s home or attend any function where I knew he’d be in attendance.
Even now, I didn’t want to see him. The only thing that would make this day bearable was a stiff drink. Several stiff drinks.
“I’ll hang out with you,” Frannie offered as my mom knocked on the front door.
“Thanks.” I gave her a half-hearted smile. Frannie was sweet, but at seventeen, she wasn’t old enough to drink with me and wasn’t the type to sneak it. We were nothing alike. It kind of made me feel worse.
We greeted Aunt Nell and Uncle Soapy with hugs in the foyer, and followed a uniformed housekeeper upstairs to our rooms. Frannie and I were sharing a bedroom, the same bedroom I’d been staying in when Oliver put the fucking rubber snake in my bed. It looked exactly the same as it had then. Two twin beds, white wicker nightstand between them, white wicker dresser, and floral everything—bedspreads, rug, curtains, sheets, pillows.
“Want to change into our suits?” Frannie asked. “Go swimming or something?”
“Nah.” I took my sandals off and flopped back onto one of the beds. “I’m actually not feeling that well. Can you tell Mom I have cramps and I’m resting?”
The look she gave me told me she knew I was lying, but she dutifully agreed to do what I asked. “Okay. I’m going down. Text me if you change your mind.”
“I will. Can you shut the door on your way out? Thanks.”
When she was gone, I crossed my feet at the ankles and closed my eyes. I’m not sure how long I lay there before I heard a knock.
Assuming it was Frannie, I didn’t even open my eyes. “Come in.”
The door creaked opened and shut. “Hey.”
That was definitely not Frannie’s voice. My eyes flew open and I sat up. Leaning back against the bedroom door was Oliver.
He looked good. My heart started to pound, traitorous thing. “What are you doing up here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen you in a while. Your mom said to come find you.”
Of course it hadn’t been his idea to seek me out. I studied him for a moment, annoyed that he’d gotten even more handsome as he’d matured. That chiseled Pemberton jaw. The bronzed skin. The dark hair dusted with gold from the sun. Even from ten feet away, I could see how thick his lashes were, how perfectly they framed his bright blue eyes. Something stirred inside me.
No.
I lay back again and shut my eyes. He didn’t give a shit about me. “Well, I don’t want to be found. I don’t even want to be here.”
“I don’t either.” He paused. “You still mad at me?”
“Yes. So go away.”
“Can’t we talk about it?”
For a moment I was going to refuse to say anything more to him, but then I changed my mind. “Why? So you can insult me again?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were a real dick to me last time we talked.”
“At the Christmas party?”
“Yes, at the Christmas party,” I parroted.
“Chloe, that was like three years ago.”
I opened my eyes and gave him a look I hoped would scorch his eyeballs.
“I said I was sorry. Didn’t you get my texts?”
“Why?”
“Because you fucking hurt my feelings, Oliver.” I paused, wanting to ask a question and yet dreading the answer. In the end, I couldn’t resist. “Did you mean those things you said?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you say them?”
“I don’t know.” He paused. “I think I was pissed you had a boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“Because I was hoping you’d want to have sex with me again.”
Wait … what? I sat up and looked at him. “You were?”
He shrugged. “Yes. So he was pretty inconvenient.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“I didn’t think you cared. Plus, he looked stupid.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “You think all my boyfriends look stupid.”
“That’s because you have terrible taste in guys.”
I frowned. “Didn’t you come here to apologize? Because if you’re hoping I’ll finally accept, you might not want to insult me.”
“Sorry. Will you accept?”
Exhaling, I lay down again. “I guess. Especially if you bring me a drink.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t care. Something strong.”
“Say no more.”
I heard the door open and close again, and when I peeked, I was alone in the room. For a second, I thought about locking him out—it would serve him right—but a drink sounded good, and I felt a little better knowing that he hadn’t meant the cruel things he’d said at the party. He’d been jealous was all.
Jealous!
That must mean that he had enjoyed himself that night in his dorm. What a liar. Why couldn’t he have just been honest with me? It was always games with him. That was exactly the reason I’d forced myself not to reach out after that night in his dorm room, no matter how often I thought of him or wondered if he ever thought of me.
A few minutes later, he knocked again. Figuring he was carrying two drinks, I got up and opened the door.
“Thanks,” he said, entering the room with two old fashioned glasses full of amber liquid. “Hope you like good scotch. I raided Soapy’s best stuff.”
“I might. I’ve never tried it.”
“You’re missing out. Here, take a sip. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else.” He handed me one of the glasses.
I took it from him and sniffed. “Whoa. Smells strong.”
“Taste it.”
I wet my lips with the potent stuff and licked them. Considered. “I like it. Might take a little getting used to, but it’s interesting. Kind of … smoky.”
“I want to visit this distillery when I go to Scotland.”
“You’re going to Scotland?” I sat down on the bed again, and he sat across from me, on Frannie’s bed.
“Well, I’m going to Europe with some friends for a couple months. We’re going to backpack all around, but Scotland is definitely on my list. I’m really interested in the distilleries.”
“Cool. When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
I nodded. Sipped again. “I hear you’re heading to Boston for grad school?”
“Yeah. Tufts.” He took a big swallow. “Not Harvard or anything.”
“So what? Tufts is a great school. You should be proud.”
“Tell that to Hughie. I swear to God, he thinks he shits gold just because he went to Harvard. I can’t even listen to him talk. Or my parents, either. I mean, maybe I don’t want to follow in my brother’s footsteps, and my dad’s footsteps, and my grandfather’s footsteps. Did they ever think of that? Maybe it has nothing to do with getting into Harvard. Maybe I want to make my own path.”
“Did you get into Harvard?”
“No,” he admitted with a scowl. “But I wouldn’t have gone there anyway.”
Unsure how to respond, I tasted the scotch again. I liked the way the flavors in the scotch didn’t come out right away—you had to let it linger on your tongue a little bit to discover them. I decided to change the subject. “Are you excited about your trip?”
“Yeah. I gotta get the fuck out of here.” He took another drink. “What about you? What are you doing in the fall?”
“Heading for Chicago. I got a job with a marketing firm there, and I’m going to take some graduate classes too.”
“Cool. I love Chicago.”
“Then you’ll have to come visit me,” I told him, and I was surprised to find myself hoping he really would.
He smiled. “Maybe I will.”
We talked for a while. It was nice to hang out again, just the two of us. He told me about the death of his grandfather, and how hard that had been on him because they’d been so close. “He didn’t care that I hadn’t gone to Harvard. He always told me to do my own thing.”
I talked about feeling frustrated with my parents because they refused to believe that Cloverleigh’s brand needed a serious overhaul, with a new website, more advertising, and a presence on social media. “They don’t take me seriously at all,” I complained. “They just want to keep doing things the way they’ve always done them, and it’s a huge mistake.”
“Why won’t they listen to you? You got a degree in marketing, right?”
“Right.” I tossed a hand in the air. “Who knows? Maybe they’re upset I don’t want to move back home right away and work for them. So far, none of their kids has really shown an interest in taking over—Sylvia got married and moved away, April is working in New York, Meg’s at law school in D.C.”
“Do you have any interest in working for Cloverleigh?” he asked.
“I do,” I said hesitantly, “but I’d like to get out and live a little first, you know? I’ve spent my entire life on that farm, and I love it, but I want to experience other things.”
“I get that. God knows I have no interest in the soap business.”
I laughed. “What do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, swirling the last little bit of scotch left in his glass before tossing it back. “Mostly I just want to have fun. You want another drink?”
“Sure. Do you think we need to make an appearance at the party? It’s almost six.”
“Fuck the party. I’ll be right back.” He took my glass and headed out of the room, returning with two more generous pours a few minutes later.
I have no idea how much time passed, but by the time we finished our second drink, the sun had gone down, we’d switched on a lamp, and we were sitting on the floor between the two beds, laughing about the rubber snake incident.
“Someday I’m going to get you back for that,” I told him, setting my empty glass on the nightstand. “You better lock your door tonight.”
“I’d never lock you out.”
Our eyes met, and my breath caught in my chest.
“So are we ever going to talk about it?” he asked.
“Talk about what?”
“That night in my room.”
My face immediately felt flushed. “Why do we need to talk about it?”
“Because I have questions.”
“What do you want to know?”
“For one thing, why me? For real.”
“I told you. I needed someone I could trust.” I hesitated, figuring I was just tipsy enough to admit the truth. “Also, I was attracted to you.”
“Aha!” He looked smug. “I fucking knew it.”
“Congratulations.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Do you still regret it, like you said?”
I sighed. “I did, after you were so mean at the Christmas party. But now … I guess not. I mean, I don’t like that it messed up our friendship for three years, but I suppose the event happened exactly like I wanted it to. And in the end, I’m glad it was you.”
He smiled, and it sent something warm and tingly up my spine. “Good. So did you have sex with that guy Dean?”
I narrowed my eyes. Just when I felt affection
ate toward him, he had to ruin it. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m curious.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”
“Was he better than me?”
Rolling my eyes, I started to laugh. “Jesus Christ, Oliver. Are you going to ask me whose dick was bigger?”
“No.” And then a second later he puffed up his chest. “Wait, was mine bigger? It was, wasn’t it?”
That made me laugh even harder. He was so predictable. “Sorry,” I wheezed. “I don’t remember.” It was a lie—Oliver’s had been bigger. Maybe it was simply that he was my first, but in my memory, he was bigger than all three of the guys I’d been with since him. The best kisser too. By far.
“Did he make you come?” Oliver demanded, setting his empty glass on the nightstand. He was clearly worked up about this.
“Uh, no, he didn’t.” I paused. “But then, neither did you.”
“I didn’t?” He seemed genuinely surprised, which set me off again.
Shaking my head, I grabbed my stomach and giggled uncontrollably. “No. Sorry. Although, in your defense, I’m not sure you had time. It was over too quickly.”
His jaw dropped, then he clenched it. “Give me another chance,” he demanded. “Right now.”
“What?” I stared at him, trying to catch my breath. “Are you crazy?”
“No. I’m totally serious, Chloe. You have to give me another chance.”
“Why?”
“Because what if girls have been faking it with me? What if I have no idea what I’m doing? What if I’m a clueless, selfish asshole in bed? I need you to teach me.”
“I’m sure you’re fine.” I got to my feet, feeling like I needed some air. “Let’s go down to the party.”
“Don’t go!” He jumped up and grabbed my arm. “Listen, you’d be doing me a favor, just like I did you a favor. Then we’d be even.”
I stared at him. “Are you drunk?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
“Then let me give you an orgasm.”
“You’re out of your mind.” I shook him off and went for the door, but he vaulted over Frannie’s bed and blocked it.
“You’re not leaving until I make you come.”
His words were turning me on, but I couldn’t give in. “Oliver, we just spent three years not talking because we had sex.”
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