Love at First Fight

by Aarons, Carrie

  Everyone is pretty wasted after a night out at one of the most popular Montauk bars, and I’m not too far behind them.

  “Have another shot!” Heather points at me, and then to a bottle of vodka.

  I hold up my hands in protest. “It’s almost two in the morning, it’s not time for more shots!”

  I’ve already had plenty of vodka sodas, and I’m barely standing up straight.

  “Oh, come on, coward! Have another shot!” Smith taunts me.

  He’s even let loose tonight, and is drunker than I’ve seen him … hell, maybe ever.

  “If you’re such a big, strong man, you take one!” I push the bottle toward him.

  We’re all acting like college kids, and we’ll have the thirty-something hangovers to prove it in the morning. But right now, we feel invincible.

  He squares his shoulders and gives me a smug grin. “Anything you can do, I can do better.”

  My head tips back with laughter. “God, you’re a child!”

  When he slides a shot glass my way, I tip it back without even cheers-ing him. I’m that petty and want to show him how wrong he is. The alcohol burns my throat and I know I might be paying for this with a trip to pray to the porcelain god in the wee hours of the morning, but I’m drunk enough to not let him win.

  “Dance, monkeys!” Heather shouts as she kicks off a high-heeled sandal, and it goes flying across the room.

  “Is it time for bed?” Jacinda whines, hanging her arms around Peter’s neck.

  “We’re going to bed!” Marta calls as Ray all but drags her from the room.

  “Great, we’ll have to hear her moaning all night again. I need to get laid.” Heather slumps onto her stool as the music stops.

  “Me too.” Smith hiccups and then chuckles at himself.

  For a split second, I watch as Heather’s eyes wander over to him, and an intense jealously burns a hole in the lining of my stomach.

  What the hell? I really must be drunker than I thought, because who am I to care if they sleep together? I want Heather to get some, even if I can’t, and Smith is not mine.

  Even though he was nicer than he’s ever been to me down on that beach today. And even though I’ve been having vivid daydreams about his lips, and what he might do to me in that dark hallway when no one is looking …

  But I’m not ready for all of that. Nor do I want to just get laid.

  The truth is, I’m still brokenhearted. I was with Justin for a little over a year. That’s a long time to spend with one person. You learn a lot about them, develop a routine, and fall into a nice rhythm of like with them. That’s what we had; I’d spend the night at his place from Thursday to Sunday. I would cook him dinner on Monday nights. We had a weekly movie night, and would often jog on Saturday mornings in Central Park. I knew all of his quirks, or so I thought I did.

  Justin was the guy for me, again, or so I thought. I thought we were going to end up moving in together and getting married. I envisioned our future together, and then he just completely chopped that vision up with a machete. It doesn’t mean I’m not trying to pick up the tattered pieces now that he’s gone. He left over a month ago, and while the sharp, needling pain of a fresh breakup doesn’t live inside me anymore, there is still that ache I can’t ditch.

  I’m reminded every time I step foot in the summer house, a place we were supposed to grow stronger in. Each time I cook myself a meal, alone in my apartment, a tiny stab hits me in the center of my chest. Maybe it isn’t so much the guy I miss, because let’s be honest, he was a dick for a lot longer than I chose to realize it. But I miss the stability and comfort of a long-term relationship, and I’m still grieving that.

  “Are you going to puke tonight?” Heather directs the question at me, because she knows my history with hangovers.

  I shrug, too drunk to be embarrassed in front of Smith. “Maybe.”

  He grimaces, completely in on our conversation. “Do it out your window then. Don’t stink up our bathroom.”

  Our bathroom. Even though we only share it since our rooms are right next door to one another, that word does funny things to my stomach when associated with Smith and me.

  “Maybe I’ll do it right now,” I challenge him, and then race off up the stairs.

  I hear the scraping of chair legs as I round the corner to the second floor, but get to the bathroom and lock it before he can fight me for it. We’ve been avoiding each other in this hallway ever since the night I got back and tiptoeing around who uses the bathroom first or second is part of that.

  Only three seconds later, there is a banging on the door that rattles the hinges.

  “You better not be puking in there!” Smith growls.

  “All over your precious hairbrush and expensive cologne!” I yell through the plywood.

  “Molly!”

  The way he says my name, in that angry but teasing tone, has all of my pink parts standing at attention.

  I take my time washing my face, brushing my teeth, and pulling my hair out of its clip to brush it. Part of me wishes I changed into my pajamas first, so I could crawl right into bed, but I’m stupidly cocky that I got first dibs on the bathroom tonight.

  When I’m done putting my night moisturizer on, I survey the sink. And spot the flecks of toothpaste, Smith’s toothbrush, and even an errant piece of used floss. All things I’ve asked him politely to clean up before.

  “Can you stop leaving your toothbrush and paste on the sink?” I ask when I finally open the door.

  His big body is crowding the doorjamb, and I wish those top two buttons on his shirt weren’t undone. It’s making it very hard to concentrate on anything else.

  “Got a problem with that?” His tone is half-annoyed, half-mocking.

  Typically, I’d never square off with him, but he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need to dirty up the bathroom we’re sharing. The least he could do is wash off the rim of the sink when he spits his gross used toothpaste everywhere.

  I finish applying my ChapStick, and then turn to him, trying to roll my shoulders back and appear the more dominant person in this conversation.

  “Actually, yes. It’s a shared space, and I don’t like having to either clean up the mess or place my things around it. I’m simply asking for you to wipe it off before you finish your night or morning routine.”

  There, that sounded fair.

  He reaches over, so close to me, and plucks my ChapStick off the sink. Pulling off the cap as he keeps full eye contact with me, he proceeds to smear the vanilla-flavored balm on his lips.

  My jaw is practically on the floor, both turned on and disgusted that he’s using my product, the one I just put on my own mouth.

  “Noted.” He grins, like the devil he is.

  I want to smack him in his gorgeous face. My cheeks are flaming, I feel them, and I’m so mad that I can’t form a sentence. My silence allows him to escape, and as is typical in this situation, all the comebacks I should have said come flooding my brain about three minutes too late.

  It’s funny how every time we interact, with each instance I come in contact with Smith, I forget all about my broken heart.

  And start wondering what it would be like if it beat for him.

  12

  Molly

  There is something about New York City in the summer.

  The rich crowd, or those who can scrounge up enough money for a house share, insist that the best thing to do when the warmer months hit Manhattan is to flee it. And while I get the certain perks about that, since it’s my first summer experiencing that exodus, there is a nostalgic, quieter feel to the city on summer weekends.

  I live in the Murray Hill area of the city, on the fifth of a five-floor walk-up. My apartment is the size of a shoebox, it doesn’t heat or cool well, and I pay an arm and a leg for it. But it’s home. I don’t have to share it. And it’s easily accessible from all parts of the city.

  As I walk along the streets of my neighborhood, out for a rare Saturday afternoon stroll, I l
isten to a podcast interviewing one of my favorite authors at a low volume. There is an important private party at Aja tonight, and the tips to be made were too good to turn down. So I stayed back from the Hamptons this weekend, and I’m enjoying an hour off from life, something I don’t get often.

  The streets are practically bare, aside from the errant taxi or millennial brunchers. It’s too early in the day for the drinking crowd yet, and most of the families who actually buy in this neighborhood are at their summer homes after the workweek ended.

  It’s magical, this city at a dull whisper. Of course, it’s never quiet, but the charm of the old brick buildings or townhome fronts shows more when there aren’t hordes of people and honking. I wave to my favorite bodega owner, who gives me an extra orange each time I buy a bundle from him.

  And as I walk, my mind wanders to the thing that’s most been occupying it this last week: Smith Redfield.

  I spent two more days at the summer house before I had to come home and work my shifts at summer camp and the restaurant. Which meant two whole days of being in his company, staring at him when he wasn’t looking, and having actual conversations worthy of decent human beings.

  He even let me have two strips of the bacon he cooked for breakfast the other day.

  It’s mortifying though, realizing that I harbor this girlish little crush on him. For starters, I used to date his best friend. Going after another guy in their friend group is just … slutty. I know girls who do that, who hook up with their ex’s friend just to get back at them. Or like the dynamic of that group, so they start sleeping around it. That’s not me, and I’ve always found it kind of cheap.

  Next, for all of the insults and tension he’s thrown my way, I’d look like a complete idiot if I tried to throw myself at Smith. I have way more respect for myself than that, and I’m a stronger woman than one who goes after the sort of man who metaphorically pulls your pigtails on the playground.

  But the biggest reason this infatuation with Smith Redfield can go no further? He’s made it extremely clear that he loathes me.

  After picking up the lunch order I called into Fong’s, my favorite Chinese place around the corner, I make my way back to my apartment.

  I can practically smell the beef and broccoli as I climb the five flights of stairs, and my phone rings just as I’m about to pull my keys out.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say as I balance the bag of Chinese food on my hip so I can unlock my door.

  “Hi, pumpkin. How you doing?” His raspy, cigarette-tinged voice comes through the phone.

  My dad quit smoking nearly twenty years ago after a scare with lung cancer, but he still sounds like a sailor stumbling out of a hole-in-the-wall bar.

  “Good, just got some Chinese for myself after taking a walk. Have to go to work a private party tonight.”

  “That’s good tips, right there.” I can picture Dad nodding through the phone.

  He knows, because Mom has waited tables and worked catering jobs on the side for years.

  “How are you? How’s Mom?” I ask out of both curiosity and politeness.

  Something clinks in the background, and I imagine he’s in his truck. Even though it’s Saturday, there are always jobs to be had. I can remember my dad missing on most weekends of my childhood because that meant overtime and off-hour pay.

  “Oh, we’re fine. Went to your cousin’s daughter’s christening the other day. Then I took your mom to bingo, she won a hundred dollars. So we sprang for a bottle of red wine.”

  “That sounds like such a nice weekend,” I say as I set down my things in my tiny kitchen.

  It’s really just a pair of cabinets with a countertop, next to a small fridge and a stove.

  “How was your week?” he asks.

  My dad has always been a good one, he’ll call and listen even if he doesn’t entirely understand my life. During the Justin phase, he was the most stern he’s ever been as my father. I was dating a banker who had no callouses on his hands, and Dad didn’t know how to handle that.

  “It was really good. Worked at summer camp and the restaurant, and at the beginning of the week I was at that summer house I rented with friends.”

  “Must be nice, being so fancy,” Dad quips.

  I know he isn’t saying it to be nasty, but that’s how I take it. Sometimes, my parents wear their blue-collar badge of honor too proudly. I appreciate everything they’ve done for me, and all they sacrificed to put me through college and support me growing up. It couldn’t have been easy on a teacher and an electrician’s salary, but they did it.

  Except, sometimes I hate that they snub their noses at people who have higher salaries. Or those who buy nice homes, or wear expensive clothes. A lot of the time, those people worked really hard for their money, too.

  When I told them I was doing the house share this summer, Mom nearly had a conniption, and went into hysterics that this wasn’t the way they raised me. As if I’m not a school teacher, too, at a low-income district. As if I don’t volunteer more time to help my kids after school. As if I don’t wait tables to help pay my rent all on my own.

  “Actually, it’s been wonderful,” I say, just to be spiteful.

  “That’s not what I meant, Molly.” He sighs, and I know he regrets needling me. “I’m glad you’re getting some time off. You work hard.”

  “You do, too, Dad. Isn’t it time to bring on an apprentice?”

  Dad is an electrician and has owned his own company since before I was born. He does pretty well, and he’s known in our community as the guy to call if you have a problem. But he’s too stubborn and is aging. His back is bad after so many years of manual labor, and he doesn’t trust someone to come in and help him part-time, or possibly set someone up to buy the business and his clients. He’s of the age that he could consider retiring, but I know he never will.

  “Phooey. I don’t need anyone running or stealing my business. I’ve done it all by myself, and that’s how I’ll continue to do it.” His voice is defiant.

  He’ll be working until the day he collapses on a job site, and I worry about that. But it also keeps him busy, keeps his mind active, and so how can I argue with that?

  “All right, Dad, well you just be careful. I’m going to go eat my food and then get ready for this event.”

  “Stay safe, pumpkin. Come visit if you get a spare day.”

  “I will,” I say before hanging up, knowing I’ll most likely spend that day in the Hamptons.

  This summer is about me, and though I still may be breaking my back at two jobs, I’m going to take every free second I have to enjoy the well-earned vacation I invested in.

  13

  Smith

  Another sun drenched day turns into a firefly-lit night, and the whole summer house crew is congregating in the kitchen.

  Peter and Marta are snacking on a cheese tray someone laid out, Ray is reading a book with his foot propped on one of the stools, Jacinda keeps running in and out trying outfits for the girls to decide on, Heather is mixing up some cocktails, and Molly is sitting on another stool sipping a glass of wine.

  “Where are we going tonight?” Ray asks, looking up from some medical textbook.

  “I was thinking we could head to Montauk again, check out the bar scene. I have a friend playing with his cover band, they do a lot of Kenny Chesney. Could be fun,” Heather suggests.

  Even though she wasn’t friends with any of us, even less than Molly was though she was dating Justin, Heather has begun to fit in quite nicely. She’s just as peppy as Marta, and she and Jacinda seem to bond over makeup and hair and that sort of shit. Peter finds her funny, and I have to admit that she’s a pretty good cook.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Marta asks Molly.

  “I think I’m going to stay in tonight, catch up on my shut eye. It’s been a long week.” She gives a sheepish smile.

  “No, you can’t! You have to come party with me, I’ve missed you!” Heather sticks out her lip in a pout.

  Molly s
hrugs. “I’m tired, I’ll just drag down your night. You go, have a blast, and then I’ll come out tomorrow.”

  Heather pouts for one more second, but when she realizes it’s not working, hugs her friend. “Fine. You better sleep, though. No working on lesson plans or actual work. I know you. Seriously, get some rest.”

  I sneak a glance at Molly, wondering how much down time she gives herself now that her friend pointed it out. God, she’s beautiful. Every other girl in the room is dressed in heels and tight clothing, with makeup and all those manipulated thick curls down their back. But Molly is sitting on her stool in sweat shorts and a T-shirt, sunflower blond hair tucked behind her ears, and her bronzed skin free of any stitch of makeup. The only jewelry she wears is a tiny gold chain around her neck with an apple charm hanging off, and I bet it’s because she’s a teacher.

  I wonder who gave it to her, and the thought that it might have been Justin makes my gut clench.

  The group starts to rally, calling taxis and getting their last drinks before the bar in. Peter is on his way out when he taps my shoulder.

  “Cab is here.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to stay back. Have some emails to catch up on. You have fun.”

  Peter walks off with a wave, but it’s Marta who lingers behind, giving me a look. She hasn’t said anything about me coming clean to Molly since the first night in the house, but I know she’s been thinking it. I flip my middle finger up at her, just to remind her that I knew her when she had braces in fifth grade, and walk off into the house.

  I do actually catch up on some emails, and every ten seconds it pops into my brain that I’m alone in the house with Molly, though I try to ignore it. About an hour later, I venture out to the big wraparound porch, keen on watching the waves slap the beach in the dark.

  “Oh gosh!”

  Molly’s voice comes from the corner of the deck, and I can just barely make her out.

  “Why are you sitting out here in the dark?” I ask.

  “You scared me.” As I move closer, I see she has one hand pressed to her chest, and the other is holding the stem of a wineglass. “I wanted to watch the ocean a while. It’s peaceful out here when the house is empty.”