by LaylaHagen3
When the speech starts, something about her voice is not right. But when I look up from the brochure, I forget about her voice altogether.
Her eyes.
I know that look in them. Haunted and lost.
I sit up straight in my seat and tune in to her speech. I frown as I start to pay attention to what she says. She has some kind of notes in front of her, but she’s not reading them. I don’t think she’s saying what she’s written on them at all. She speaks of hardship, loss, and the ability to put everything behind through hard work. I have a hunch she’s referring to something more than what’s happening here today. Her porcelain skin gets paler with every word. Her eyes become glassy before long, and then she tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. I’m sure as hell she wiped away a tear.
No.
Someone like her shouldn’t be crying. Hurting.
I suddenly have the urge to hold her, do whatever it takes to stop what is hurting her. Make that look in her eyes disappear, and make her smile instead.
It’s an urge I don’t recognize.
I also have another urge. I recognize this one. The urge to bite that full lower lip of hers, and run my tongue down her neck, all the way to that sweet hollow. And then rip her shirt. Button by button. Better, even. Rip them apart all at once and cup her breasts. Twirl my tongue around her nipples.
Fuck.
I’ve got to get a grip. I’m so aroused I’d like nothing better than to disappear with her into an empty classroom. But I don’t think she’s the type. Her skirt is a few inches too long for her to be that type.
Even if she were . . . I’d like to do things a little differently than usual.
First, I’d put a smile on her face.
Then I’d get her to beg me to take her.
When everyone applauds and she leaves the stage, I stand up and walk to the front, planning to start the first thing right away. After she shakes the parents’ hands, and hugs one of the girls who won, she stops in front of a guy who puts his arm around her waist and kisses her.
On her lips.
The view hits me like a whiplash. Of course she has a boyfriend. It’s not like she would wait for me, the biggest fuck-up among fuck-ups, to make her smile. She already has someone who can make her smile.
Except she’s not smiling. After they break from the kiss, her expression hasn’t changed. Whatever causes her torment, the idiot she’s with has no idea how to make it better. Someone like her should always smile. She deserves someone who can make her smile. And this idiot is far from what she needs.
The mother of one of the kids comes to me and starts shaking my hand and thanking me over and over for helping the kids. I can’t peel my gaze from her, Serena was her name, I think, and her idiotic boyfriend, with his pointed nose and small eyes, looking just like the rat he is.
He points at the notes in her hand and leans to whisper something to her. She flinches.
Flinches.
I swallow hard and turn my attention to the mother in front of me. I have to focus on what she’s saying. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll walk over to that idiot and punch him square in the face. Even though I start talking with the mother, images of Serena and him together start playing in my mind, and an urge stirs inside me that I haven’t felt in years. To punch him, break him, and take her away from him.
This urge shouldn’t exist inside me anymore, according to my therapist.
He was wrong. I always suspected he was. Now I have the damn confirmation.
When I finish talking to the woman, I head straight to the door without one look at anyone else, Serena included.
Staying away from her is the best thing I can do.
2014 – College Senior
I stare at the pile of clothes on my bed, my desire to go out with Jess evaporating by the second.
“You know what?” Jess asks, her hands firmly in her hips. “Your clothes just won’t do. I’ll search my closet for something for you to wear. You can’t just wear something sexy, you need something mind-blowingly sexy.”
“Can’t we stay in tonight?” I beg. “I promise we’ll go out tomorrow.”
“No, absolutely not. You’ve mourned your breakup from that asshole long enough.”
I flinch a bit at the harshness of her words. My gaze darts to the DVDs and empty chocolate boxes that have kept me company—though provided little comfort—since that dreadful day weeks ago when Michael informed me he was breaking up with me, transforming my world into a nauseating mix of pain and humiliation.
I glance at Jess, who’s still inspecting my pile of clothes, as if hoping something in it will pass her standards of sexiness. I have a sinking feeling that no excuse will convince Jess I have to stay indoors tonight.
I can’t even use studying as an excuse. I’m done with all my class assignments.
In the past, every free minute around this time of year would have been taken up with my mentoring duties for The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens, but I didn’t sign up for it this year, thinking I’d have enough on my plate as a college senior, what with job hunting and everything. I thought part of that everything would also be moving in with Michael. Guess that’s one less thing on my busy senior to-do list now.
“Come in my room,” Jess says after a few minutes, finally giving up on my disappointing array of clothes.
“Why exactly do I need to wear something mind-blowingly sexy?” I ask.
“Because you’re getting yourself a rebound tonight.”
She throws me a worried glance, as if thinking that if she left me alone, I would crack open another box of chocolate and slip under my covers, watching a DVD and eventually sobbing myself to sleep.
Which is probably exactly what I would do, though I know how little that would help. Swallowing hard, I stand up and follow her out of the room. Maybe it’s time I started doing things differently.
2014
“I can’t believe Ralph made us meet him in a student bar,” Sophie says, passing her fingers through her long red hair.
“Said he was tired of our usual places,” I reply.
I don’t say out loud that he also told me he’s tired of the frigid bitches—his words, not mine—that frequent our usual places, and wanted to try his luck with some college girls.
Freshmen if possible. The pervert.
And now he doesn't even bother to show up. He's an hour late and not answering his phone.
“I’ll try to call him again,” I say, though I’m sure it’ll be pointless. He hasn’t picked up the last five times I called him. Predictably, he doesn’t pick up this time, either.
"Do we still wait for Ralph or go somewhere else?" Sophie asks when I close my phone. She leans in closer to me, and by the way she flaunts her boobs, I know somewhere else means my bed. Or hers. I don’t think she cares. Not that I do. It’s been on my mind ever since I picked her up tonight. We’ve known each other for a few years, but for some reason never had sex.
I plan to rectify that tonight.
"If he doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, we leave,” I say, trailing my fingers down her back and watch with a savage satisfaction as goose bumps appear on her arms. Then I turn and look around the bar. Maybe he arrived but can’t see us. The bar is so packed, it wouldn’t surprise me. Our table isn’t exactly easy to spot, either.
Ralph’s shaved head stands out in any crowd, so if he’s here, I have a better shot at finding him. I have to make absolutely sure he’s not here, otherwise I’ll hear for the next two months how I think of myself as so busy and important that I ignore my old friends. I am busy, of course. But I make time for my friends. Though if I’m honest I haven’t really done that since my twenty-seventh birthday, a few months ago.
I don’t see Ralph anywhere.
But I do see someone who looks vaguely familiar at the bar. She has long black hair and large round eyes. It bugs me that I don’t remember where I saw her before. I have a good memory when it comes to peo
ple. Especially women. And especially when they look like her.
It's only when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear that it hits me where I saw her before, making that same gesture—last year at the award ceremony of that math contest I sponsored. She was the mentor. I grasp my empty glass firmly in my hand, remembering the details of that day. It took me long enough to forget them. I look around for that rat of a boyfriend who was with her then, but he isn't anywhere. The only person she seems to be with is the inebriated blonde sitting next to her at the bar.
I scrutinize her, trying to understand what she’s doing in a place like this. She doesn’t belong here. I’m not exactly sure where she belongs, but it’s not here. At any rate, she didn’t strike me as a particularly outgoing type of girl when she was on that stage. I think I know why she’s here. I've seen this look before in women. The hunched shoulders. The unsure gaze. Yes, she wears the unmistakable signs of someone who's been dumped, and who’s trying, but failing, to forget about it. These signs in women usually make me want to run in the opposite direction.
This time, it has an entirely different effect on me. It makes me want to do what I didn’t have the courage to do last year. Walk up to her. I wanted to make her smile then. The haunted look she had in her eyes back then isn’t as visible now, but it lingers there somewhere. Just like it lingers in me. When it takes over again, I want to make sure she has someone who can put a smile on her beautiful face.
And I still want to taste her lips and those delicious-looking breasts, just like I wanted back then.
"That’s it. It’s obvious Ralph won’t show up. Can we leave now, James? I can’t stand this. There’s no air in here," Sophie says. "We can go to my place. I have an exquisite red wine I brought from my last trip to Paris." Her voice is low and inviting, and if we went to her place, I’m certain we’d skip the drink and head straight to her bed. But I'm not in the mood for that anymore.
Not with her.
"I changed my mind. Let’s stay a bit longer. I’m going to get myself a drink. Do you want something?” Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up and she bites her lip. I’ll have to come up with something to let her down nicely.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says.
I nod and head straight to the bar, to her. The bar stool next to her is empty, the blonde who was occupying it is nowhere in sight. I swallow hard as I think how to approach her. I’m behaving like a damn teenager. With all the practice I’ve had, I know how to approach women.
When I’m less than two feet behind her, I spot two shots of tequila in front of her. Excellent.
Tequila makes for great conversation.
Preview of Lost in Us
There are three reasons tequila is my new favorite drink.
One: my ex-boyfriend hates it.
Two: downing a shot looks way sexier than sipping my usual Sprite.
Three: it might give me the courage to do something my ex-boyfriend would hate even more than tequila—getting myself a rebound.
"You need someone hot, hot, hot," my best friend Jess says, plunking her glass on the sleek counter and beckoning the bartender to prepare another round.
I grimace as the last drops of liquor burn my throat. "Define hot."
"Tall, tan, six-pack." She spins on her bar stool, turning toward the buzzing room.
"Every polo player at Stanford fits that description," I say.
"Precisely."
She bursts into a torrent of giggles that makes me wonder if I shouldn't accidentally-on-purpose knock over the fresh round of shots the bartender sets in front of me, or my big night might just end up with me carrying an incoherent Jess to our apartment, as usual.
"Stanford's entire team is here. Have your pick, Serena."
I twirl around, facing a sea of people. Of course the entire team is here. Almost every Stanford student is here tonight. Who would miss the first bash of the summer term? For Jess and me, it's the last first bash ever, since we are graduating in a few months. I push my chest forward, the way Jess does it, fully aware that I won’t have nearly the same effect she has. My black tank top, which she insisted I wear, doesn't do me justice, revealing far too much of my barely-there cleavage, despite the definitely-there Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.
Jess twirls a blonde strand of her hair between her fingers, looking around with a confidence that can be neither replicated nor simulated. I take a deep breath and push the curtain of my black hair behind my shoulder. One look at the polo team and I know this was a bad, bad idea. The prospect of talking to one of those over-tanned giants, let alone flirting, has me hyperventilating. I don't know how to flirt. Last time I did it I was a high school junior, and I sucked at it. Also, I thought I would never have to do it again. But six years later, Michael decided his Australian coworker’s seemingly endless legs were not to be resisted anymore, so here I am, a college senior, facing my most daunting exam yet.
I better not fail.
Yet as the number of mind-blowing, gorgeous girls floating around the players increases by the second, all vying for their attention, I dearly wish I could escape and cuddle in my bed, surrounded by mountains of Toblerone chocolate, watching The Lord of the Rings extended edition for the seventh time in three weeks.
I do a quick mental assessment of the probability of escaping without Jess catching on. It’s not good. Besides, she will need me to carry her home, so I'd better not leave her alone. I almost start designing a plan to convince her to bolt together, when someone catches my attention.
He's tall, with dark, messy hair. Judging by the lavish gazes that the blonde at the next table and the redhead on his right throw him, I'm not imaging his perfectly toned chest and arms. On a hotness scale from one to ten, I'd put him between fifteen and sixteen.
I lean in to Jess and say in a low voice, "I bet he fits your hotness requirements."
She follows my gaze and starts giggling again. "James Cohen?"
"You know him?" Please don't say you dated him. Please don't.
"I've read an article about him. He looks hotter than the feature’s picture. You of all people must have heard of him, too," she teases.
"The name does sound familiar," I admit, trying to hide my relief. I wrack my brain for a few seconds. And then it hits me. "Oh yeah, Stanford's golden boy. Every professor in my economics classes mentions him at least once a month. The poster child for successful serial entrepreneurs."
"Serial womanizers more likely," Jess smirks as he bends to the redhead, whispering something in her ear, sliding his hand playfully down her back. For some reason, the sight of them erases any desire to keep looking for potential prey, so I swirl on my stool back to the bar.
"He graduated a few years ago. What's he doing in a student bar?" I ask.
"Alumni sometimes come to semester opening parties," Jess says with a shrug. "Right. I need to pee." She springs from her stool, swaying when her feet reach the floor.
"Do you want me to come with you?" I ask at once.
"No, no, I'm fine," she chortles. "I guess I shouldn't have drunk those cocktails before you arrived."
"That's right, you shouldn't have."
"But the guy buying them was so cute," she calls over her shoulder. I grimace as she stumbles into a couple on her way to the restroom.
I turn my attention to the two tequila shots in front of me, and open my mouth to tell the bartender we won't be having them after all, when a voice says, "I'd recommend you try it with orange slices and cinnamon."
"Excuse me?"
I look sideways and almost fall of my seat. It's him. And up close, it's obvious I gave him far too few points. His striking blue eyes and full lips, curled in a deliciously conceited smile, earn him at least a twenty on that hotness scale.
"Tequila," he points at the two glasses. "It tastes much better with orange and cinnamon than lemon and salt."
"Thanks for the tip." I flash my teeth in the hope they'll detract his attention from my plunging neckline, though I n
ever heard of teeth trumping boobs.
"Have we met?"
"Umm... " I'm one hundred percent sure we haven't or I would remember, but I'm perfectly willing to pretend we have met if it means he'll linger here a little longer.
"We have," he says, recognition lighting up his face. "You were a mentor for the national math contest last year, weren't you?"
Damn. Of the myriad of rules Jess recited to me concerning flirting and dating, one in particular stands out: never show my nerdy side. And there are very few things nerdier than being a mentor in a math contest. Especially since only previous winners are allowed to mentor. In my defense, he was the one who brought it up. I make a mental note not to mention my part-time bookkeeping job. No need to add the boring tag, in addition to the nerd one.
"Yep, that's right."
"I was at the award ceremony," he says, "as a sponsor."
That would explain why I don't remember him, even though there weren't more than a dozen people there: teachers, parents, and sponsors. The award ceremony took place the day before the seven-year anniversary of my sister's death. I wasn't paying much attention to anything that week.
He frowns. "Your speech was very intense."
I stare at him, not sure if he's pulling my leg or not. That must have been the most horrid speech in history. I'd completely forgotten everything I’d prepared, so I started rambling wildly when my turn came. I can't remember one word I said, but I must have made an impression if he still remembers me.
