by Tara Brown
“Trust me, you and my mother were never friends on, and I never even applied to Columbia.” Her cheeks flush. “Don’t even say it. You can’t buy my way in and pay my way in life. This isn't Pretty Woman, I’m not your hooker.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Whatever.” She laughs. “That's just not how it’s done, not in the real world. Besides, I want to stay home for a few more years. My dad needs me to run interference. Imagine him all alone with her?”
She’s lying but this isn’t the moment to fight about it, again. I’ve been hounding her all summer over her mother making her stay home and go to community college for her graphic art degree. Her entire future is currently at risk. But I refuse to allow this to be how it plays out.
I have plans for her. Thinking about them I almost do the villain finger pyramid and laugh maniacally. Almost.
“So what’s up with Colin?” Her eyes dart to my phone.
“I sent the breakup text.”
“Classy. A text. I thought you’d call at least, call him out on the Tinder thing.”
“He doesn’t answer his phone. The Tinder thing is gross but the relationship never would have worked anyway. He’s a pothead and boring as hell. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months now, and the few times we hung out, he played Halo with you more than he spoke to me.”
“Don’t diss Halo.”
“I just don’t understand recreational drug use if it makes you more boring. He’s a slug. Good luck to the Tinder girls. Maybe he’ll find a nice stoner to chill with.”
“Did you guys even have sex?”
“I had sex a couple of times while we were dating but not with him. I think the weed has killed his sex drive. Waste of talent and time. What nineteen-year-old boy doesn’t like sex?”
“Speaking of wasting time, we should just go dance and pretend like we’re having fun. Your dad’s son’s dog’s boss would want that. Plus, then we can leave sooner.” She glances at the dance floor with a look of annoyance, but it only lasts a flash before her eyes perk up. “Oh my God.”
I don't even have to turn my head or ask who she sees.
And there’s only one guy who can evoke the look on her face or the excitement in her voice.
William “Douche Nozzle” Fairfield.
I almost sneer and tell her we can go home like she wants, but when I glance in his direction he’s too close for us to fight it. He’s already walking our way.
“Oh good,” I add, wishing there was a drink in my hand I could spill on myself and force us out of here. Except spilling drinks on myself has been officially boycotted since New Year’s. It’s been added to the list, along with dating celebrities, forcing the staff to play Cards Against Humanity with me, and wearing workout clothes in public.
A server comes by as if reading my mind and offers me my drink, a gin and tonic with double limes. She hands Nat a crisp green appletini and saunters off, without a single word.
“We’ve never been here before but she knows our drinks?” Nat cocks an eyebrow.
“I guess someone here knows us.”
“Seriously though, what if William ordered them?”
“He didn’t.” I want to say he’s not gentlemanly enough but putting him down only hurts her feelings. It’s like reverse, reverse psychology; I insult him and she likes him more.
“He’s so hot,” she mumbles as she raises the drink to her lips.
“And he knows it.”
He’s also a bit older than we are, which with him translates somehow into superiority and adds a wonderful accompaniment to the completely narcissistic way he already carries himself. In comparison, he makes my entire family appear as if we don't even share a single hair of conceit amongst us. Which is saying a lot. My dad reminds me of Sir Walter Elliot from Persuasion, another one of the movies Nat made me watch. I didn't tell her I loved it and have watched it several times since. My favorite is the one with Rupert Penry-Jones. He’s hot as hell.
“What?” Nat turns, giving me a sour frown.
“What?” Maybe I mumbled something about hot guys of Austin.
“You said something.”
“It was nothing. Oh God, he’s coming over,” I groan.
“I know.” Her face lights up, gushing pathetic crush all over us both. “Do I look okay? Is my makeup too much?”
“Better than he deserves,” I mutter.
“What?” She leans in again. “Why are you talking so low?”
“I said you look beautiful.”
Her gaze narrows, but he’s at the table before she can question me.
Her bright-blue eyes and pale blonde hair give her a sweet girl-next-door look that science says guys like William should fall for, but she’s naive on how to work it, and him. So he works her instead. It’s been going on since we were twelve, and I don't know how much more I can take.
He’s an idiot.
He doesn’t deserve to wipe the shit from her shoe, but she’s so beaten down by her mom she doesn’t see it.
I have nightmares about the day she tells me they’re getting married and he only hits her because he loves her.
I hate him. He’s an asshat.
But I love her so I tolerate him. Until I can have him killed off, which is my ultimate plan.
“Ladies, how are you this evening?” William approaches with a grin, speaking directly to me because Nat’s so into him. He does it all the time, like he enjoys being chased by her, which is super not manly.
“Great,” I sneer.
“Where’s Colin?” He scans the bar for my boy du jour.
“He’s home. Reading the breakup text I just sent before we left the house.” I don’t even blink as I say it.
“A text? Harsh, Sami.” William laughs.
“I received an anonymous email with a link to his Tinder account. His active Tinder account. Nat made a fake profile and asked him to meet up, and of course he agreed to.” I keep the part where I’m glad I never had sex with him to myself. Him or Drew. Disgusting asshats.
“Holy shit! Tinder! Damn. What an idiot. The guy’s high all the time. You’re better off,” he adds, like he’s not also an idiot.
“Yeah, whatever.” I shrug.
My eyes drift behind William to the guy he’s introducing to Nat, “This is a friend of mine, Carson Bellevue.”
“Sami and I are well acquainted with one another.” Carson gives me a knowing grin as if a memory has flashed in his mind. Likely it involves me sitting on his lap while he drives his dad’s Porsche with the top down. We were top down times three.
“This is my friend Natalie Banks. She went to the academy with me.” I distract him with Natalie so he’ll stop making that face and thinking about me with no shirt on.
Everyone has seen me with no shirt on. It’s not even a big deal anymore.
“Hello, Natalie.”
“Hey.” Natalie nods at Carson but bats her long thick lashes at William the D-bag.
“Natalie. How are you?” William tries his usual bullshit where he pretends they’re vague acquaintances.
“Great.” She hardly even flinches at the way he acts.
It’s pathetic.
And the meaner I am to him the angrier she gets with me, not him. Even when the flaws are so obvious.
She is the truest example of love being blind.
Sometimes I cry about the hopelessness of the situation in the shower when I’m alone, or just sob on the inside like a winner when we have to hang out with him.
Like right now.
Carson’s eyes leave mine and dart back to Nat’s, which is an inevitable outcome. Nat is gorgeous and she doesn’t know it, the perfect toy for boys like Carson and William. “Lovely to meet you.” He offers her a hand, taking hers and pressing a kiss into it.
William raises his eyebrows when Nat blushes. “All right, Bellevue, don't slobber on her.” He glances down at our drinks and turns his head toward the bar. “I’ll go get us something better to drink.” He t
urns and leaves.
Carson takes the opportunity to slide into the booth next to Nat. “So are you going to Columbia with us?”
Us?
He’s going to Columbia too?
He never mentioned that was where he wanted to go.
“No.” Nat shakes her head, averting her eyes. “I’m going closer to home.”
“Oh, in Greenwich. Which school?” His lips twist into a wry grin.
I open my mouth to defend her right to go to a random community college when something catches my eye. I want to say it’s just a cute face because I am a sucker for a cute boy. But that’s not the reason I’m staring.
It’s him.
Black-cab guy.
My heart races and my mouth dries, thinking about the kiss. The whole event has chapters in my journal, diary thingy, dedicated to it.
It’s still the single greatest ending of any night, ever.
And now he’s here . . . in New York.
In the same bar as I am.
And I look hot this time.
And I smell good, not like old beer.
Blood leaves my entire top half when I realize he’s strolling over, with perfect swagger. He smiles wide and I wonder if he saw me across the bar or even better—he came here because he heard I was here.
That would be how it works out in my journal, something romantic like that.
But his eyes don’t meet mine; they brighten as he slaps Carson on the back. “Bellevue!”
Carson turns, his face lighting up the moment he sees the gorgeous creation next to him. “Brimstone! Holy shit, bro. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Carson jumps up and shakes hands with the guy beaming at him and ignoring me—me—the person black-cab guy shared the greatest kiss in the history of kisses with. “Are you in the city to play or play?”
“Just hang out. Maybe soon I’ll be playing here though. I’m still in Michigan for now. Gotta finish school so the old man doesn’t have a stroke.” Black-cab guy answers him so casually, not darting a single glance my way. Is he avoiding me or does he not even recognize me?
Was I that unmemorable?
“So still with the hockey?”
“Yeah.”
“To your father’s dislike, I’m sure! Still the black sheep then?”
“You know it.” He shrugs. His casual indifference contrasts well with Carson’s obvious man crush. Not that I blame Carson. I’m crushing from over here in the cheap seats, fully eavesdropping.
Black-cab guy looks different here, better.
No suit.
No lipstick.
Just a tee shirt and some old worn jeans. The ensemble looks soft over his hard body, better than the suit did. He’s more in his element like this, I think. Like he could pump gas into his truck and not worry about spilling any of it. He’s drinking beer from the bottle for God’s sake. I didn’t even know you could buy a bottle of beer here.
He’s completely casual and relaxed and underdressed, and yet the club let him in, which can only mean he’s someone who can underdress. And even weirder, he knows Carson.
He doesn't come across as somebody Carson would even flick dirt at. Nonetheless, he’s practically gushing all over him. So whoever black-cab guy is, he has to be someone of importance. Carson is a bigger snob than William the Douche.
But even weirder than all of that is the fact that if he knows Carson, he must know me too.
Which means he pretended not to know me.
Who the hell is he?
I recognize him from somewhere but I have no clue where.
My gaze drifts to his hands gripping the beer.
I shiver, just slightly, or a lot, recalling the moment those hands cupped my face so delicately, while he pretended not to know me. Just as he’s doing now. Only now it hurts more because he’s also pretending he didn’t kiss me.
But he did.
And I have relived the moment for six long months. I didn’t date for months after Drew because of that kiss.
So much so that some days it was the highlight of my entire day. I would fall asleep wondering where he was and if he was thinking about me too. Apparently, the answer to that question is no. No, he wasn't.
I want to call him out on it, but I can’t be the one to remember him when he clearly doesn't remember me. Not a chance. I don't do desperate with boys. I might be dumb when it comes to guys, but I am not needy. Not out loud.
My self-esteem, which has been known to take a beating here and there, crashes as I wonder at my being as memorable as he was.
My eyes lower to my drink as my heart cracks in disappointment, just a small piece of it. I had visions of how this moment would go. I’d made a list:
We would meet up in some foreign country, just like last time, both blown away at the randomness of the second meeting.
We would go for a walk filled with awkward tension and our hands would accidentally brush against each other but not actually touch.
We would laugh about running into one another and recommend the sights of the foreign city we both liked.
It would start to rain and we would duck into a doorway.
The pounding rain would quell the noise of the city, and in that moment, he would confess he hadn’t stopped thinking about that kiss.
He would tell me that he hadn’t stopped thinking about me.
And we would kiss again.
“Sami Ford. Of course you know who she is.”
I lift my eyes at my name, losing the daydream. “What?”
“Hi.” Black-cab guy nods casually as we have a moment. It’s the kind you hear about but never have, where your eyes lock and there’s no one else in the room.
But he ends it.
He blinks, forcing me to blink too and it’s over.
“And this is her lovely friend Natalie Banks. They’re from Greenwich.” Carson points his thumb at Brimstone. “Ladies, this is my bro, Matt Brimst—Brimley—we call him Brimstone. It’s a long story.”
Matt.
His name is Matt. It’s a disappointing name. I wanted it to be something better. Captain Wentworth perhaps.
But Brimley sounds familiar.
I give Matt my best indifferent look. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I definitely won’t be the one to admit I remember him.
Whatever.
Forget him.
Matt smiles politely. “Ladies, nice to meet you.” He doesn't linger a moment before his eyes dart back to Carson’s. “So how’s your sister?” He nudges and grins wider.
I’ve been dismissed for Carson’s stupid sister.
I don’t even have a response to that.
“You better not even think about my sister, man. Keep your ginormous hands off.” Carson shoves him. They both laugh and I fight not to notice the way he smiles and how his eyes squint just the right amount and his teeth are so straight and white.
He’s perfect.
It’s unfortunate I will have to hate him for the rest of my life.
My self-esteem might have weak moments but my inner bitch doesn’t.
He wants to slight me?
He wants to pretend he doesn’t remember the cab?
He wants to ruin the best kiss I ever had?
Fine.
Good.
Screw him.
There are millions of boys in the world who kiss just as magically. It probably wasn’t even that magical; he was just the first nice person all night.
“Wanna dance?” Nat nudges me out of my silent argument that plotting revenge sex with strangers to slight a boy who doesn't even know I exist is not a solid plan.
“What? Sure.” I suck back my drink and let her drag me from the booth.
“William’s still at the bar,” she mutters. “So much for getting us drinks.”
“He gets sidetracked easily.” I glance over, grimacing at the way he’s leaned in talking intimately with some brunette in a tight minidress. “Ignore him, it works wonders. Boys try to play us by doing grumpy guy at the bar or ba
rely acknowledging us. Trust me, we fall for it every time. We want them to be happy. It’s some bullshit leftover in our DNA from the last five hundred years.” At least that’s what my shrink says.
My eyes dart back to the guy at our table, Matt.
His indifference to me might as well have come coated in chocolate syrup, but I know better than to get a spoon.
“We need to reverse that shit on them. Be uninterested and act like you don't care. It will drive him insane.” I plan to follow my own advice as I pull her to the middle of the crowded floor when the song changes to something we both love.
She perks up a bit as we dance, throwing her arms in the air and laughing when someone falls in sky-high heels.
We dance and every couple of minutes I notice my gaze has wandered back to Matt.
Sweet Jesus!
Why does he have to be so friggin’ hot? It’s not even fair.
“Thinking about attacking Carson again?” Nat nudges me and shouts over the music.
“No.” I almost shudder at the thought. It was like making out with a girl, only with whiskers. Actually, the two girls I’ve made out with were better. “He needs to just come out of that closet he’s in.”
“He’s not in a closet, he’s flexible. He’s into everyone. He’s omnisexual.” She laughs.
“I guess,” I mutter, still preoccupied.
“What are you looking at then if it’s not Carson? Oh, are you checking out that Matt guy?”
“No!” I scoff. “Pshhhh. I am so not into peasants anymore. That was last season. He’s just random. He’s dressed like he might go to a frat party, but he’s friends with Carson and knows everyone? I just never see Carson slumming it like that. Trust me, that’s it. No interest at all.”
“Doth the lady protest the beefy gentleman a little too much, maybe?” Her smile makes me smile.
“Not at all. He just looks like dirty sex, okay? You know how I have a hard time passing it up. Blue collar is the forbidden fruit of the Upper East Sider. We all have the fantasy about the mechanic and the gardener and carpenter. There’s just something about their dirty hands on our pristine bodies; we can’t fight the attraction.” All I can do is hope rolling my eyes shows how little I think of him. A lie neither of us buys.
“Whatever. I hate to break it to you, but your body isn’t so pristine. Just go talk to him. At least one of us can have some fun. Unless you wanna just go?” she teases but I can’t imagine talking to him. And while I wish we could leave the bar altogether, I refuse to slink out depressed over a guy.
