I check the clock on the wall. It's nine p.m. I've made it more than three hours without checking my phone. I'm proud of myself. The compulsion is slowly losing its grip. I remind myself that, between my course load and my endless shifts at the Adams Apple, I don't have time for boy drama.
Since closing time isn't until eleven, I decide that I might as well do some studying while I wait out the rest of my shift. Kendall's already left, so I won't even be risking a lecture on time theft and the perils of multitasking. I walk briskly into the back room and go to my cubby. As I pull an eight-pound chemistry textbook out my bag, I notice that my phone is chirping. Finally, I have text messages!
A surge of wild hope—let it be Laird, let it be Laird, let it be Laird—rushes through me. Heart pounding, I scan the texts. It's not Laird—I should know better by now—but it's also pretty damned exciting. Gran just won two million dollars in the lottery!
/////////////////////////
"Gran, are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"But that's a lot of money. What if you get sick?"
"Your mother would have wanted me to pay for your education. End of story. She was so happy when you were accepted to that fancy-pants college."
"But..." Even after all this time, my throat tightens when I think of Mom.
"No buts. I'm going to make an appointment with Mr. Kost to go over the paperwork."
"Yes, Gran," I say, gratefully accepting defeat. "And thank you."
We exchange I-love-yous, and I end the call. Darcy is watching me expectantly. "OK, girlfriend," she says with a grin. "Hand it over."
I pass my phone to Darcy. I'm going to a party in the city with Maggie tonight. It's a film school gathering, and it will be filled with pretty people hoping to act, direct, and produce. A few C-list celebrities may even stop by. According to Maggie, it's also going be a total Bacchanal with booze, weed, and anything else my corrupt little heart desires.
I'm not going to add drugs to my list of vices, but I'll probably have a drink or two, which is why I'm leaving my phone with Darcy. I've stopped obsessively checking for texts and messages, but I'm not totally sure I trust myself not to text or post or—God forbid!—call under the influence.
Darcy puts my phone in a place of honor on her desk. She looks at me curiously. "How are you going to find the party without GPS?"
I pull a folded piece of paper from my bag. "Darcy, it's called a map."
She chuckles. "I hear the Pilgrims used those things."
"And the Ancient Egyptians," I add.
I slip my feet into some old stripper heels to liven up my plain T-shirt and jeans combo. I also try to access some of my old stripper attitude. I'm sick and tired of feeling like the girl who isn't good enough for Laird Conroy.
Fuck him. I'm going to have some fun.
/////////////////////////
Maggie's party is like an upscale version of the dance clubs I went to with Ethan. I consciously move to the music as I make my way through the club, searching for Maggie. Because I'm feeling the beat, my limp practically disappears, just like it does when I'm dancing.
I remember how much I enjoyed that part of stripping. I loved being able to move normally and fluidly—even if it was only for a pack of creepy men. I realize that men are looking at me now as I weave around fixtures and couches. One of them is a tall blond with an angular face who looks like a gaunt, older version of Laird. I wink at him and, panicked by my daring, disappear up the stairs.
When I finally locate Maggie—yeah, that would have been about ten thousand times easier with my phone—she's not alone. She's seated at a tiny corner table with a small girl who's beautiful in a strangely plain way. Her features are perfectly even, and her blonde hair is thick, straight, and smooth. Her eyes are pink, as if she's been crying.
Then I notice the table is covered in shot glasses, some full and some empty. The blonde shoots one down while Maggie looks on, her face creased with concern. I wonder what's going on.
When Maggie sees me, she stands and gives me a quick, distracted hug. "Amity, this is Darla."
I nod and smile at Darla. "Hi, how are you?" I ask, although I'm pretty sure know the answer. I don't think Darla's doing well at all.
Darla stares through me, while Maggie brings me a chair from another table. We both sit down, while Darla continues to gaze at some invisible point in the distance.
"Oh, don't mind her. She's traumatized," explains Maggie. "She's just broken up with her boyfriend. He's..."
"Don't say who he is!" cries Darla, cutting Maggie off. "I signed a non disclosure agreement." Then Darla breaks into ugly, heaving sobs.
Maggie and I exchange worried glances. Darla sounds dangerously drunk and depressed—a bad combination indeed. We try to make sympathetic eye contact while Darla gets herself under control. Finally, her sobs wind down, and she blows her nose with a cocktail napkin. She turns to Maggie, who takes her hand. "I can't believe that asshole dumped me. Now he's trolling downstairs for fresh meat as if what we had together meant nothing."
Darla looks down at the shot glasses, picks one filled with clear liquid, and tosses it back. Then she hides her face with perfectly manicured hands and begins sobbing in earnest.
I have to look away. She isn't my friend, and I don't want to watch her fall apart. It feels like I'm somehow invading her privacy. I tell Maggie I'm going to get them mixers for their armada of shots. She says that's a great idea, and we head to the bar. When we're about halfway there, she whispers in my ear.
"I'm so sorry about that. Darla's kind of my friend and, well, she's kind of a mess. Do you think you can entertain yourself for a while? I'm going to let Darla drink a little more and then pour her into a cab."
"Sure," I say. "When do you want to meet up?"
"Maybe around midnight? I'll find you here by the bar. I can't believe you didn't bring your phone, you crazy bitch. I want to hear what that's all about. You've been off the grid forever."
I feel a twinge of guilt. I haven't even told Maggie about Laird. "We'll catch up later. I promise."
"See you soon," says Maggie, giving me another hug and glancing back at her friend, who's downing yet another shot.
/////////////////////////
I go back downstairs and look for a dance floor. There's got to be at least one in a club like this. I'm about to duck down another flight of stairs, when a strong hand grabs my arm.
Startled, I yelp and pull away. "What the fuck?" I ask, turning towards the wiry blond I winked at earlier. Up close, I notice he's a lot older than I am. Thirties or forties, at least.
He smiles and slowly raises his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. There's something about his cocky expression that reminds me a little of Ethan. His eyes roam from my face to my feet and back up again.
"I've seen you walking up and down the stairs on those endless legs. You're obviously looking for something," he says, smirking. "Maybe I can help you find it."
"I'm not sure you can. I'm trying to find the dance floor, and you look a little old for that." I deliver my zinger without even the hint of a stammer, but it doesn't scare him away. Instead, his grin broadens and deepens.
"Oh, there's one dance I'm not to old for, young lady. But if you must bounce around to children's club music, there are better places than this. Let me take you to once of them."
I glance down at my watch, one of the few things of Mom's I brought with me to Adams. It's ten p.m., which means I have two hours to kill. I look back at the handsome, older stranger. I wish I had my phone, but I do have a wallet bursting with enough cash to cover cab fare to the moon—or, at least, to Grand Central.
"Sure, I'll go with you. But I have to be back here by midnight."
"I'll call you Cinderella, then," he says.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Just call me Joe."
I take his arm. It's a hard column of muscle that reminds me of Laird. No, I tell myself, don't think about him. Just have fu
n.
/////////////////////////
Three hours of dancing, drinking, and shameless flirting later, I am back at the bar where Maggie asked to meet me. I look around, and I don't see her anywhere. I'm about to leave when the bartender—a thin, bald guy with facial piercings that resemble whiskers—waves me down.
"Are you Amity Dormer?"
"Yes," I yell over the crowd and the music.
"This is for you." He hands me a folded piece of paper. It says:
So sorry, Ams. Darla's in a bad way. Accompanied her to the ER to get her stomach pumped. Now she's chatting with a shrink. Don't know when I'll be back. Go ahead crash in my bed. My roommate will let you in. Love ya, you crazy biyatch.
Joe sidles up to me and whispers in my ear. "Looks like you've been stood up, Cinderella. What are we going to do now?"
I take his hand in mine. "I think I've got an idea," I say, hoping that a meaningless encounter with this handsome stranger will help me forget about Laird.
/////////////////////////
Whoever he is, Joe is loaded. His townhouse is huge, and four cavernous stories high. I remember calling his name from the bottom of the staircase, just to hear the echo.
Now I'm sneaking out of his king-sized bed at five-thirty in the morning. He's still asleep—or, at least, pretending to be. I throw on my clothes without even bothering to shower. I don't want him to wake up and ask for round two. Our night together was yet another stupid mistake.
Joe is an obviously practiced lover with a scary amount of experience. He pressed all the right buttons and moved my limbs around into positions I didn't even think were possible. He was also scrupulous about obtaining informed consent—he even checked my driver's license. But the whole experience was cold and clinical. The moment our clothes fell off, the playful banter fell away. The connection that I'd had with Laird just wasn't there.
I walk quickly down the stairs and emerge onto the Upper West Side. I decide to go straight home rather than drop in on Maggie. She must be exhausted after last night, and I'm not in the mood for girl talk. I don't want her to know about my ill-fated night with Joe. I don't even feel like telling her about Laird. I'm done thinking about him, dreaming about him, and especially talking about him.
/////////////////////////
When I get home, I see that Darcy has left my phone on my pillow. It's blinking and chirping with news. I drop my bag and look at my incoming texts. Three from Gran. Two from Maggie. And, oh my God, there are seven from Laird!
Chapter 22: Laird
"Hey, man, can you spot me?" asks Teo, struggling to push a one hundred and eighty pound barbell away from his chest.
"Sure." I help Teo finish the movement and rack the bar.
Teo sits and breathes for a few moments. His black curls are damp and wild. "I don't know how you do it, man. Football practice every day has got to be brutal."
I grab a forty-pound weight and do some light bicep curls. "You get used to it. Anyway, the program here isn't very intense. Our biggest game of the year is against Harvard. Adams isn't exactly a feeder school for the pros."
Teo takes a forty-pound weight and struggles to raise it. Huffing and puffing, he gasps out a question. "I don't mean to stick my nose into your business, but, um, I haven't seen a lot of ladies tiptoeing out of your room lately. Is everything, you know, OK?"
I shrug and place my weight on the floor. Everything is not OK. Not at all. Despite all my good intentions, I finally broke down and texted Amity. I didn't know what I was going to tell her about the accident or the money I gave her grandmother, but I knew that I wanted to see her again. To hold her again. To kiss her again. I craved her with a crazy intensity that blotted out everything else.
I was shocked when she didn't text me back. I tried her again and again and again. By the time the fever broke, I'd texted her seven times. God, what a pussy I am. When I decided not to text her after our night together, I told myself that all she'd wanted was a fun, no-strings experience. I wonder if that could really be true, and if I've just made a complete ass of myself.
Teo waves his hand in front of my face. "You there, man?"
"Yeah. I just kind of fucked things up with a girl I like." Of course, I don't tell him the girl I like is Amity, the one he thought looked like trouble incarnate.
Teo sits down on the bench across from me and gives me a sly, knowing look. "Are you talking about the girl with the stalker? The one you had the pledges follow around?"
"Yeah," I say, resuming my curls. "That's the one. You saw her picture in my room once. You said she looked complicated. That she was a bad idea."
Teo laughs. "Hey, man. Sometimes the worst ideas can be the most fun. Want to tell me about it?" His expression grows thoughtful and intent, like a doctor who's just asked his patient to describe his symptoms.
I decide that I do, oddly enough, want to talk. I try to simplify the situation for Teo. "Her name is Amity. I know her from home. Our moms both died around the same time. Just a weird coincidence, I guess."
Teo nods, inviting me to continue.
"I ran into her on Registration Day, and we texted a little. Then I saw that guy—her stalker—bothering her the Adams Apple. You remember the meeting when I ran out in the middle?"
Teo laughs. "We all thought you had the shits."
"No, I was following Amity and her stalker into the alley. I scared him off, but I was still a little worried about her. That's when I had the pledges start shadowing her. Anyway, we had dinner last week—just hanging out—and things got, um, physical. She was gone the next morning, and I haven't heard from her since."
"Did you call or text her the next day? Or the day after?"
"No," I admit.
Teo slaps his head with his hands. "You blew her off after you did the deed. She's probably just paying you back. Making you squirm. I'm sure you'll hear from her in another day or two. Just keep your cool and don't, um, stalk her."
I'm about to say that I'd never stalk a girl—especially Amity, who's already been traumatized—when my phone vibrates.
It's her.
/////////////////////////
"You know, we don't have to do this. We can just get out of here and go for p-p-pizza." I can tell from her voice that she's nervous. She stammers a little and runs her words together. It's as if she has an accent from another, better world. I smile at her and stroke her hair.
"We've talked about this. I want you to meet my brothers and feel welcome at the house," I say as reassuringly as possible.
She smiles shyly and nods. "Let's do this thing."
I take her cold hand in my warm one, and we enter the frat house, this time through the front door. It's Raw Friday, which means a sushi chef is making custom rolls for all the brothers and their dates. The dining hall is already packed, and the chef and his assistants are creating rolls almost as fast as the brothers can order them. Pledges are scurrying about, taking orders and pouring sake.
I bring Amity to my usual table. Teo and his friend Torah, a sophomore who spent a year in the Israeli Defense Force, are playfully insulting each other, while Caspar is feeding a small blonde girl pieces of sashimi. Hoover is sitting between two dark-haired twins and laughing loudly. His face is already red.
I introduce Amity to everyone, and she blushes prettily. We settle in beside Teo and Torah. A pledge comes by to take our order and fill our glasses. Amity sips her sake and listens to the conversation around her, nodding and smiling in all the right places. When it seems like Amity is feeling fairly comfortable, I squeeze her hand and whisper, "I'll be back soon." Since I'd warned her ahead of time, she seems nervous, but not terrified.
As frat president, I'm expected to make the rounds at dinner, checking in with the brothers and calling out lazy and inept pledges. I stop at a table of senior lacrosse players and then break up a fight between two heavily muscled sophomores over a bottle of Tamari sauce. I make a mental note to find out if either of those guys are using steroids. A 'roids scandal
is the last thing the house needs.
When I make my way back to my seat, I am pleased to see Amity taking part in a conversation that involves the whole table. The dark-haired twins seem to be especially interested in what she has to say. I sit down, and Teo beams at me with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Your friend Amity was telling us about her career as an exotic dancer," he says.
Oh, great, I think. I force myself to stay quiet and let her speak.
"Strippers don't have sex with their customers," she explains in a sweet, earnest voice. "The customers aren't even allowed to touch them."
"I don't believe that," says Hoover, practically snorting.
Amity shakes her head. "Go to a strip club, try to touch one of the dancers, and see what happens."
"Can girls really make a thousand dollars a night?" asks one of the twins.
"Sometimes," she says quietly, and I realize my face may not have been as pleasantly neutral as I'd thought. It also occurs to me that Amity doesn't know that her time at the strip club is old news to me.
She looks me in the eye, daring me to comment. "I'm not a stripper any more," she says. "I just did it to save enough money that I could come here. I'm not ashamed."
I don't like the fact that Amity was a stripper—and that now my friends know she was a stripper—but I have no right to be angry. If it weren't for the accident that killed her mother and tore her family apart, I doubt she would have ever gotten near a strip club.
Amends: A Love Story Page 14
