by Piper Lennox
“Don’t go.” This one gropes for me in the darkness of his mother’s basement. I can’t remember his name. I don’t remember most names. There’s not much point.
The bed is a twin. His shit is still in boxes, stacked against the cinderblock walls. These are the signs of a man fresh from a relationship. And a serious one, at that, since he was living with the girl. He didn’t seem like the clingy type last night, when I singled him out from his friends. They laughed and shot pool; he spun back and forth on his barstool and ordered another cinnamon roll shot.
“These taste like shit,” I told him, layering the liquor into the glass. Then I made one for myself and toasted him. His smile didn’t look sad. When I grabbed his hand to check his watch—seven minutes left in my shift—he stared at me with his head tilted back, running his teeth over his bottom lip.
“Single?” he asked.
“Always.” I traced his knuckles with my fingertips. “You?”
“Most definitely.”
So, yeah—I assumed he was on the rebound, but far enough out that he wouldn’t get attached. That nebulous zone between Stuck on Girl #1 and Looking for Girl #2.
Guess that makes me Girl #1.5.
Now, with his fingers locked around my wrist while he tries to pull me back into bed, I shut my eyes. I was wrong about him.
“What time is it?” I jump my way into my skinny jeans, still smelling like fried food and beer from the bar, and dig through the blankets for my bra and shirt.
It works: he lets go long enough to check the clock on his nightstand, which is actually an old water cooler without the bottle. “Little after four.”
Jesus. Been a while since I woke up still drunk instead of hungover. When I hop up and grab my boots, I think my eyeballs vibrate in their sockets.
“Don’t go,” he repeats, and rises to his knees. I turn to tell him goodbye, greeted, instead, by the sight of him pumping his semi like he’s showing me the key to Atlantis. “We could have another round.”
It’s tempting. Last night, from what I can remember, was pretty damn good: this one liked spanking me, knew how to work the nipple, and actually said my name when he shot his load on my back.
But that’s the thing. They’re all pretty good.
I don’t do relationships. Relationships are where things get complicated and people get jealous and individuality dies. Don’t believe me? Just ask any of my engaged and married coworkers. Except you can’t, because you’d have to go spelunking up their significant others’ assholes to find them.
I do casual. And seeking out guys whose hearts still belong to someone else is the easiest way to get it.
Plus, there’s nothing like revenge sex. If you want to get fucked rougher and dirtier than you ever have before, pick a guy who needs to piss off his ex.
“I’ve got a wedding to go to later,” I tell him, bending over to shake out my hair. Big mistake. He cups my ass in his hands and runs his fingers between the clenched valley of my legs.
“Need a date? Because I’m free.”
Oh, sweetie. Of course you are.
I always feel bad for these ones. The ones who actually want to move on, but just can’t yet. Nine times out of ten, it’s because the relationship ended without closure. There’s nothing worse than not knowing.
“Just stay a little longer.” He yawns and lies back against the pillows, still stroking himself. “I want to see if I can get your legs shaking again.”
He can’t. My legs shook last night because I was starving, running through a double-shift on nothing but a Mounds bar.
I look at his dick and think of the bananas I just bought. That’s what I’ll eat when I get home: the biggest banana-and-peanut-butter sandwich I’ve ever made. You know the chemistry’s bad when all you can think about is your next meal.
Still, I feel for him.
He pumps himself harder when I crawl into the bed and kiss him. Then I slip my hand under his, taking over. His whispered “Fuck, yeah,” smells like shit. My breath probably does, too. I left my gum at the bar.
“Oh, shit, baby.” His hips rock up from the mattress. “Take those clothes off, let me—”
I pump faster and kiss him again, shutting him up. It only takes another minute before I feel him twitch; the warmth of his release spills across my fingers, his abdomen.
He just lies there, panting, watching me ascend the stairs like he’s not sure I’m real. Which is probably for the best.
Because, in about ten minutes, he’ll be texting whatever girl broke his heart. Whether it’ll be a nice “fuck you” message or a pathetic “miss you,” I don’t know.
It’s not my job to care.
Levi
Weddings are depressing as shit when you’re divorced.
I knew today would be tough. Any wedding would be. Probably doesn’t help that it’s my little brother getting married. I couldn’t be happier for him, but being involved with the wedding instead of just attending means I’ve had at least a hundred reminders today that I’m single.
Worse than single. I remember a joke about how once you’ve been married, you’ll never really be single again: that’s why so many forms have a box for “Divorced.” Can confirm.
“You okay?” Cohen asks, when we’re all gathered in front of the Acre for the wedding party photos. “You look...I don’t know. Distracted.”
I fix his tie when he does it wrong. “Just exhausted. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Or the night before that, or any night since I moved back into my house and Lindsay moved out.
“Same.” Cohen wilts dramatically as he looks to Juliet’s sisters, co-matrons of honor who, I’m pretty sure, orchestrated the entirety of this wedding. “Are we done yet?”
“We haven’t gotten any photos in the courtyard,” Viola protests, but Juliet gathers her dress and starts for the Acre’s gleaming doors.
“The entire ceremony was in the courtyard, Vi. I think we’ve gotten plenty of photos.” She and Cohen grab their daughter’s hands and swing her between them as they head inside. Since Viola also coordinated some big, showy entrance for them, she has no choice but to follow.
Abigail, the middle sister, elbows me on our way inside. “What’s up with you, today? You’ve been staring off into space ever since the vows.”
Yeah, I’m fine. Just wallowing in self-pity that my own vows didn’t even outlast our dishwasher warranty.
“I’m not drunk yet,” I tell her. “That’s what’s up.”
Her laugh echoes through the lobby, alerting her husband and kids to her return. “Couldn’t agree more,” she tells me, before her kids swarm her.
The bar in the ballroom is packed, so I sneak over to Maison and get a whiskey from Seth. It’s a huge perk of being a Fairfield: roaming this hotel like I own the place.
I drink it fast, then order a double to carry back to the ballroom. When I slip into the crowd, Juliet and Cohen are finishing their first dance. As hard as this day has been at times, I can’t be even a little bitter, seeing the way they look at each other.
The song changes; Juliet dances with her father, and Cohen dances with our mom. You’d never know she drove straight through the night and four states to be here, she looks so happy.
For once, my brother’s party-it-up attitude pays off: he and Juliet scheduled the reception so that all the big stuff happens early in the evening, with the rest of the night devoted solely to dancing. As soon as the parent dances end, I’m called up to give my best man speech. Good thing I go first: Juliet’s sisters’ speeches would be tough to follow. Viola’s makes everyone cry, and Abigail’s makes everyone laugh. Mine gets sniffles and polite laughter through a few noses. Not great, but adequate. I’ll take it.
I sneak out right after the cake cutting. Cohen swipes frosting on Juliet’s nose. She shoves a piece across his face, both of them doubling over with laughter.
The elevator dings. I hide the drink behind my back as I step inside past a fawning couple stepping out, all dressed
up for dinner.
When I was a kid running around this place with Cohen, it felt like we’d never find every hiding place. Each visit, we’d stumble onto something new: free food in unattended event rooms, supply closets with boxes of pillow mints—once we even ran into a bunch of girls having a bachelorette on the fourth floor. They cooed over us like we were babies, which I hated, but sent us off with pizza.
It took us years to figure out how to access the roof.
The stairwell’s tucked into its own hallway. I’m not sure having it so hidden adheres to the state’s current fire code, but at least I know no one will find me up here.
It feels so much better than the ground. Everyone’s down there dancing, most of them the same people who danced at my wedding, and I’m up here overlooking the entire city with the wind whipping past and a glass of whiskey. Who needs weddings.
Scratch that: I’m now officially out of whiskey.
In my younger, dumber days, I spent a lot of time on rooftops. Too much time. Scaling trees and fences was fun, but nothing like the thrill of sneaking into buildings. Empty offices in parks, the old auxiliary gym of the nearby middle school, the duplex where my first girlfriend lived: anywhere without security alarms was fair game.
I never took anything. No graffiti, no busted glass—just in and out, to see if I could.
The wind picks up. Something clangs; probably a loose pipe rolling.
I sit against a vent and shut my eyes. The city lights suddenly sting, they’re so bright.
Cigarettes would be heaven right now. Lindsay convinced me to quit, back when we were dating. I was twenty-one. Since age fourteen, I hadn’t gone a day without smoking. Threats from my mom didn’t work. The rotting smell of my own fingers didn’t work. But one word from her....
“Got a light?”
My gasp can’t be healthy at this altitude. The girl appears out of nowhere, suddenly beside me from the shadowed half of the roof. When I look up at her, splayed back from the vent like she shoved me over, she laughs.
“Scared you good.”
“Uh...yeah,” I pant, fighting the heart attack as she sits beside me and digs through her purse. “You did.”
“Light?” she asks again. Her hand comes up with a bowl; I watch in silence while she packs it. “Everyone at work steals my Bics.”
“Can’t help you. But it’s funny, I was just thinking about how I used to smoke cigarettes, and....” I let my thought trail. Why would she care what I was just thinking about? Why should she care I used have more lighters in my pocket than coins?
“Cigarettes!” She pulls a pack from her purse and crosses her fingers before opening it. “Thank God,” she sighs, and taps a lighter out of it. “I forgot I put this in there—nice thinking.”
“Oh.” I feel weirdly proud of her compliment, even though I didn’t do anything. “Good.”
She takes a hit and looks around, soaking in the view, before speaking through her exhale: “Levi, right?”
It’s hard to see her face. She’s still sitting in the shadow of the vent, while I’m staring down the glint of the buildings around us, twice as tall as the Acre. Something about her feels familiar, though. Not so much her voice as just...her. The weird tightness in my limbs, being near her.
“Have we met?”
She tilts her head into the light. “Mara,” she prompts. “Juliet’s old roommate. We met when she was having the baby.”
The memory hits all at once, like the next hit she takes, holds, and blows straight into my face. “Right, right. How, uh...how are you?”
“Can’t complain.” She scoots closer. The shadows slink back like yanking a cloth off a table. It’s been over a year since I last saw her, but I’m not sure I’d recognize her anyway, the way she’s dressed now. First: the fact she’s wearing any color but black. Second: the way her arm crosses her ribs, pushing up her breasts, when she shivers and offers me the bowl.
“I haven’t....” I’m about to tell her I haven’t gotten high in years. When my business started to gain traction, I culled my life down to nothing but essential habits: showering, eating, and sleeping. Everything else felt like a waste of time. I gave up weed, rarely drank after work, and almost never took a real day off in four years.
It’s almost a wonder Lindsay didn’t cheat on me sooner.
The motions come back easily. Holding the smoke in my lungs does not.
She laughs when my first attempt comes sputtering out in a throaty cough. “New?”
“No,” I wheeze. “Just been a while.” I try again. My lungs adjust faster this time. Her eyes trail the smoke I let out, snatched up by the wind as soon as it rises high enough.
“You can stop sneaking glances.” Her eyebrows lift when I bring my eyes to hers. “If you want to stare at my tits, just do it.”
My neck gets hot. I pass the bowl back to her. “I wasn’t looking.”
“You don’t have to lie. That’s why I picked this dress—it shows them off.” Her wink knots my stomach. “They look good, right?”
“Wow.” I cough again and force a laugh. “This feels like a trick question.”
“No tricks.” Her eyes look a little heavier now; I wonder if mine do, too.
“They, uh.... Yeah. They look really good. I mean, you do.” I shrug off my jacket and hand it to her when she shivers again. “You should cover up, though. It’s cold out here.”
Mara looks impressed. “Chivalrous of you. Thanks.” I’m suddenly aware of her legs getting closer to mine, and the scent of her perfume trailing on the wind. My jacket will smell like her all night.
“Got the details on you from Juliet’s sisters,” she adds, suddenly. This is what I found familiar: the way I can’t tell if she’s teasing because she likes me, or because she’s judging me. The night my niece was born, I spent at least an hour of our fragmented conversation in the waiting room trying to figure it out.
“Details?”
“They said you got back together with your ex, after all. Maybe I’m imagining it, but you’ve had that ‘fuck weddings’ look on your face ever since the ceremony, so I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”
“Nope. You, uh...you were right about her.”
She smiles, but it’s wrought with pity. “Wish I hadn’t been.”
Mara
It’s rare when I can say something is a first for me. I might be young, but I’ve lived a lot more than most. It’s not bragging—there’s lots of shit I wish I could say was still on my Never Have I Ever list.
But this is a first, and a good one: being high on a rooftop with a guy, watching stars through the haze of the city. His suit jacket keeps me warmer than it should. I wrap my fingers around the lapel and press it to my nose, smelling his cologne.
Between us, my purse chimes. It’s the sound of my phone dying. In this warm-bathwater feeling, Levi’s shoulder touching mine while wind rushes past, I’m actually glad.
“Must be hard, watching your little brother get married.”
“No, I’m happy for him. Juliet’s awesome. And her family, too. They’ve basically accepted me right along with Cohen.”
This makes me smile. I’ve only met the Brooks family a few times, but I can totally see them welcoming Levi as one of their own. They tried to do it with me, too.
“The only hard part,” he goes on, drawing a breath, “is that it’s here.”
I sit up on my elbows. “You guys got married in the same hotel? Why would he do that to you?”
“It’s not like that. Our uncle insisted, and I told him it was okay. I mean, what was I going to say: ‘No, don’t have it in this incredible, free venue, because I’ve got bad memories?’”
He’s got a point. It would look bad to forbid someone from using the same advantage you got, just because yours didn’t work out.
“Probably wanted to prove something to yourself,” I add, lying back. “Showing yourself you’re moving on, or whatever.”
He looks at me. I stare back and trace the bo
w of his mouth with my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not sure if I have or not, though, after today. It’s been harder than I expected.”
“Weddings are always harder than you expect.” I look back at the stars. We can’t see many, but a few peek out whenever the smog tumbles out of the way.
“And besides,” I say, a moment later, feeling him look at me again, “it’s okay to just be ‘moving on’ instead of ‘moved on.’ Progress is better than nothing.”
“It’s not like I still want her.” He brings his arm up and puts it behind his head. The other stays where it is, hand so close to mine, I keep imagining contact. “After she cheated on me the second time...that was it. I couldn’t even look at her the same. The first time finally felt real, when she did it again.” Levi shakes his head and swallows. “Fool me twice, right?”
I try not to wince as I smile. He’s not wrong. That was a lesson I learned much, much sooner than most: if someone screws you over once, they’re an asshole. If they do it twice—you’re an idiot.
“This is a huge downer,” he sighs, and sits up, rubbing his face with both hands. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about something else.”
I stay where I am and shut my eyes. “Like?”
“I don’t know.” His glass clunks nearby. “Like us somehow getting alcohol without having to go all the way back downstairs.”
My smile immediately puts him on his guard.
“What? What’s that look for?”
I don’t say a word. I simply grab my dress and pull the fabric up, past my knee, all the way to my thigh.
Levi bursts into laughter.
“A garter flask?” He leans in, inspecting it. “I have no idea why I’m surprised.”
“Always prepared.” I lift my leg straight up in the air and point my foot. “Care to do the honors?”
The wind drowns out his laughter as it quiets. But the smile, I notice, doesn’t totally fade, even when he scratches the back of his head and glances at the skyline.
“Come on.” I prop my leg on his shoulder; he shrugs me off. “It’ll be good for you to remove a different garter, from a different woman’s leg, in the same building you removed your ex-wife’s.”
