She lays convulsing in pleasure on the kitchen counter, her hand still wrapping around my arm. “Carter,” she says desperately, then brings her mouth to my ear. “Let’s be a couple. Let’s cut out all this bullshit and be us, on our own terms. We’re better people together than apart.”
My heart pounds at her suggestion, but my teeth stay clenched.
Her skin glistens with sweat as she looks up with me with pained eyes, her chest heaving.
“Carter? Did you hear me?” she whispers again.
I lower my eyes.
“I hear you.”
“So what are you thinking? I can see the wheels turning. It’s scaring me, a little.”
“Laces.”
Her eyes redden, and gloss over with tears.
My chest swells. I want to tell her that I’m ready for a relationship. That I’m prepared to love her forever and be with her until the day I die.
But the truth is, I’m not ready for all that.
As much as I want to be ready.
“This summer has blown my mind. I care about you very much. But we would never work long distance. You’ve got to follow your dream.”
“So this is it?” There’s pure sadness in her voice. “We’re done?”
Gathering her clothes, she puts them on.
“I just found out I have a brother. You’re moving away again. You’ve got to concentrate on your dancing.”
“When did I say that I couldn’t make a relationship with you a priority?”
I swallow. “You didn’t.”
“It sounds more like you’re the one who’s just not ready, and you’re projecting that onto me.”
I think I see her wipe away a tear, but I’m not sure.
I’m still standing there, naked, as she leaves without saying another word.
Wiping tears away from her bright pink face, she runs out. I hear her sniffle in the hallway as the elevator dings.
Then silence.
She’s gone.
Without saying goodbye.
Underlying questions, left unresolved.
It’s for the best, though.
Lingering, and drawing out what we both knew would never work--a long distance relationship--would have been more painful than what I’m feeling right now.
Although the lump in my throat isn’t making this easy.
Love isn’t the opposite of hate. Far from it.
I love Lacy.
And that’s why I’ve got to let her go.
I throw on my shorts and walk to the window, then watch her get a little black sedan.
Fuck it.
My instinct takes over. I rush to the elevator without even locking my door, press the first floor button.
I call her phone. It goes right to voicemail, though. The elevator’s a dead spot.
On the bottom floor, it dings, and I sprint out into the lobby, calling her phone again.
Straight to voicemail.
I rush through the revolving door, and onto the street, panting.
The car is gone, and a distinct feeling of nervousness comes over me.
A text comes in.
Laces: Well it was a fun summer Cartwheel. Have a nice life
I call one more time, but it goes straight to voicemail again.
And my text comes back unable to deliver.
She blocked me.
A bomb explodes in my chest. My senses heighten, and I look out at the cars on State Street, when I see a black sedan one block down.
Shirtless, and sprinting, I almost cause a crash as two cars have to slam on their breaks.
Sprinting up the next block, I see her stopped at a red light.
I bang on the rolled up window, but she looks at me like she doesn’t know me.
The car pulls away, and cars honk at me until I get out of the road.
* * *
Back upstairs in my apartment, I notice my copy of The Great Gatsby sitting on a shelf.
Lacy left it.
I pop it open to the last page, and I feel a lot like The Great Jay Gatz himself.
Maybe I’m wrong for distancing myself from Lacy. But considering my track record of ruining women, I’m doing her a favor by getting out of her life.
My father was a monster.
Like father, like son.
Strolling out onto my balcony, though, I get the distinct feeling that the two of us are far from over.
Gripping the tattered book in my hand, I glimpse over the balcony railing, and get a rush as I stare down forty four stories.
I tear out the last page of the book, and let it go.
Because Unlike Jay Gatz, I’m not dead.
And I can write the end of my story any way I want.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was a good writer, but he didn’t know everything.
I’ll get my green light yet.
Chills roll through me.
Lacy has no idea what my end game is.
THE END...
The End Game - Sneak Preview - Chapter 1
Three Months Later
Lacy
New York, New York
I flash a cordial smile at the man next to me at the bar.
He’s got brown hair, blue eyes, and a soft smile. To top it off, he’s nice, he’s exactly the type of guy I’ve been looking for lately.
Brandon’s the exact opposite of the last man I “dated” last summer.
If you want to call it that.
“Well Brandon,” I say, clearing my throat. “This is been fun, but I—“
I watch as his smile fades ever so slightly at the word ‘but.’
Holding up a hand, his gaze switches to the TV screen behind the bar.
“Wait wait,” he says. “I fucking love this guy!”
The bartender turns up the volume on the television and my heart smashes through my lungs as I see who’s on TV.
The Chicago Wolverines are visiting New York tonight, and Carter is being interviewed.
Leaning back in his chair, sunglasses on even though he’s inside, he fields another question from reporters.
“Carter, you had a triple double today and then you threw a punch at Josh Evans when he tripped into you. What’s with the overreaction?”
My heart thumps, seeing Carter on the flatscreen.
Carter smirks, chills roll through me watching the muscles in his face move.
“Overreaction?” Carter cocks his head, looking unamused. “Josh stepped toward me in a way I felt was inappropriate, so I took care of it. End of discussion.”
The reporter seems confused. “Josh Evans…is in the hospital with a concussion. You don’t have an apology?”
Carter shakes his head slowly.
“Look, Mr...whatever your name is, asking all the questions for the hot takes for your stupid news station—you want a quote to print, is that it?”
I glance at my date, and Brandon seems as entranced by Carter’s actions as I am.
“Uh, no, I just wanted to understand where your state of mind is at to come after a guy like that.”
“He started it. Look here.” Carter leans down underneath the table and takes one of his shoes off, and puts it on the table. The camera cuts to the reporters, who seem confused.
Carter continues. “Right. You need a good sound byte for your article. So here’s one. I put my shoes on before every game, same as anyone else. One at a time. And I make sure my laces are tight. Tight as ——.”
The station bleeps out the last word he says, and the camera cuts back to the reporter. “So, you lace your shoes up? I don’t understand.”
“But there’s just one difference between me and everyone else. Once my laces are tied tight, I win games. And If anyone steps on my laces, I will fucking destroy them. End of story. Thanks for the questions.” He looks dead on at the camera, and winks, and my stomach hardens and flips.
The reporter goes off script, telling the cameraperson to cut the video, but it’s too late.
Carter already dropped an F-b
omb, on national television.
Just when I was thinking that it might be possible for Carter to fade from my memory, he appears again. I drop my face into my hand and shake my head.
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I jump back and recoil.
“Lacy?” Brandon asks. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “Totally fine.”
Lifting my head up, I force a smile that I can’t quite seem to make reach my eyes. “What were we just talking about.”
“That’s funny how Carter Flynn was talking about his laces. And your name is Lacy! Ha.”
“Hilarious,” I echo, taking a long pull of my beer.
Brandon smiles and takes his hand off my shoulder. “I’ve had a great time tonight, Lacy. You’re a cool chick. Be right back. I’m going to hit the bathroom real quick.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Brandon hops down off the stool, and heads for the bathroom. As he jumps down, he jiggles his jacket and something falls out of his side pocket. He doesn’t notice, and I pick it up and I’m about to call to him, but Brandon is already to the bathroom hallway.
It’s a small black notepad, and when I pick it up I can’t help but glance at the page it opens up to. Inside he’s got a list of dates and names.
Curious, I read. It seems to be a planner of some sort. I squint when I read my name.
Tuesday, November 27th
Laura - 8 pm — The Big Frog Bar - Fiorella - Blonde, 27, met off Christians in NY, not very cute. Seemed super uptight. I bailed and said my mom was sick so I needed to go be with my sick mom
Lacy - 9 pm. - The Big Frog Bar - Lacy, 26, black hair. Met off couples match app - cute. Modern Dancer. Hot Dancer = good sex?
I feel the bile rising in my stomach as I recoil. Scrolling through the other pages, I see the dates are filled with names of girls and notes on them. I hold my chest and convulse, seriously wanting to vomit.
I see the bathroom door swing open, and I plant the little notepad back in Brandon’s jacket pocket.
As she strides toward me, I catch the bartender’s eye.
“Will you have another one, Laura?” she asks.
My jaw drops, and I steel her with my glare. “It’s Lacy.”
“Oh,” she says, her face turning a little red. “I must have confused you with someone.”
Damn right you did.
“Yes, I’ll have another IPA,” I say.
She flashes a faint smile and pours me another beer as Brandon sits down again.
“You know,” he says, putting his hand on my forearm. “I’ve really enjoyed tonight. It’s hard to meet someone special in the city, you know? So many people. So many options. It’s hard to find someone who sticks out.”
My heart hammers harder than normal as I come up an impromptu plan in my head for how to deal with Brandon. Should I just come right out and tell him I read the list of girls in his notepad—and how I’m clearly just ‘hot dancer = good sex’ to him, and he doesn’t have a shot in hell with me?
I secretly clench my fist next to him as the bartender slides another drink in front of me, and flash him a look I make sure is extra sexy, batting my eyes.
No. I’ve got a better idea.
In spite of my rising desire to just tear him down, I decide to go another route. Why not play a little?
“I know, right?” I say, all bubbly. “It’s hard to find someone genuine. I haven’t been on a date in way too long. I’m just ready to open up. Have a good time. And let the good times roll.”
He swallows, his drink and nods. “Good times. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
I take a little swig of my drink, and my body toward him, spreading my legs as I toss my hair.
Breathing heavily, I lower my voice to a whisper. “I mean Brandon, you do know what they say about dancers. Don’t you.”
His eyes widen and I can practically hear his heart beating hard than the music as he swallows. “I’ve heard a few things. But by all means, tell me more. Enlighten me.”
“Oh, hang on, text coming through.”
Pulling out my cell phone, I shoot a quick text to Lance before turning back to Brandon.
“Sorry about that.”
“You were saying?”
Brandon’s eyes are as wide as his smile as he hangs on my every word.
I grin, putting my hand on his leg. Leaning forward, I brush my lips close to his ear and whisper. “That we’re really good at getting bent into those hard-to-form positions. Do you understand what I mean, Brandon?”
I leave a few breaths in his ear before I pull back. He puts his hand on my leg, and licks his lips. “I think I do.”
The bar has a glass of pretzel rods on it. Grabbing one, I dip it into my mouth and let my bright red lipstick bleed onto it as I pull it out of my mouth slowly, keeping my eyes on Brandon.
I hand him the pretzel, which he takes with a confused look on his face. “Are you hard, Brandon?” I whisper with a devilish grin.
“A little,” he says between breaths.
“Good. Because I can’t wait to—“
My phone buzzes on the bar.
Shaking my head, I pick it up.
“Hello…Mom?…No….She’s where?…Oh my goodness, I’ll be right there!”
Hopping off of my bar stool, I throw on my jacket.
“Wait…who was that!?”
“I’m so sorry Brandon. My mom’s sick. I have to go! This was fun though. Have a good night!”
He throws his palms open. “Are you fucking serious? You can’t just…just….leave me like this?”
“It’s a shame, I know.” Without saying goodbye, I walk away from him, heels clicking on the ground. “I’m sure the bartender won’t mind you paying my tab. See you soon!”
“We could meet up later tonight?” he calls over my shoulder.
I turn and, I’m about to shout what I have to say, but I think better of it.
Walking back to him. I put my lips to his ear again and whisper, no idea where the stream of consciousness comes from:
“Actually, I’m meeting up with my ex tonight. Carter Flynn. Ever heard of him?”
His jaw drops and he recoils from me.
With a satisfied smirk, I speak again. “Maybe you could call Laura and see if she still wants to hang out.” I wink. “Since you’re too good for her.”
Turning again on my heel, I walk out of the bar and hail a cab to my place.
***
When I tell him the anecdote, Lance doubles over in laughter. “Hot, sane and single. Pick two.”
“I don’t follow,” I mutter, sinking further into the couch.
He rolls his eyes. “All the guys in New York are sharks. So can only pick two. Three doesn’t exist. New York is a dating pool of sharks! Also you are an absolute savage for leading him on like that!”
“He was keeping a record of his dates with women like he was an archivist! What the hell is the matter with him?!”
Lance shakes his head. “Him? You pulled some crazy shit too! Throwing Carter in his face? Where did that come from?”
“I…I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t thought of Carter in a while, and when I saw him on TV it seemed like a fun little dig to add.”
Lance squints, plopping down on the couch next to me with a bag of chips.
“You know at some point, you probably are going to have to talk to him again. If you’re bringing him up in a situation like that…it’s probably a sign.”
“A sign that what?”
“You’re not over him.”
I scoff as I join him on the couch, talking off the top to a container of guacamole. “Oh, I’m over him. I’m perfectly fine with my life now.”
Lance narrows his gaze. “If you say so.” He turns back to the TV, flipping around Netflix.
“If I say so? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s code for ‘I don’t believe you.’”
“Well you should believe me. I just brought up Cart
er because it was funny that he was on TV.”
“And he was talking about his laces.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“His shoelaces. That was just coincidence,” I retort. “He’s got a new line of sneakers out. So he wanted to find a way to publicize them.”
Lance picks up a heap of guacamole with his chip and crunches it.
“Pure coincidence. I’m sure. He said it three times, like he was Dorothy from Wizard of Oz or something. Laces. Laces. Laces.”
I furrow my brow. “Lance, did you watch the interview?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you were a basketball fan.”
He swallows. “Joseph and I may or may not have started watching the Wolverines after this last summer. And Joseph may or may not have bought courtside season tickets.”
“You’re just telling me this now?!”
“I don’t like to tell you things that remind you of Carter. I thought you were trying to get over him!”
I bite into another chip with guacamole, then cross my arms. “I am over him.”
Lance finally clicks onto Friends Season Four and presses play.
Turning toward me again, he arches an eyebrow. “So over him that you are throwing his name out there to get revenge at random guys at the bar?”
I frown. “Right. That means I’m over him.”
Lance mumbles something unintelligible.
“Hey! What did you just say.”
He groans. “Look. I’ve been watching you self-destruct on dates for three months now! I’m actually starting to feel bad for these guys! They don’t stand a chance. They’re competing against the ghost of Carter, whose number you’ve blocked! You’ve created an impossible situation for yourself.”
A wave of adrenaline comes over me, and I resist the tears welling behind my eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side! I told you how we left things. That man has a heart of stone. There’s no way I’m getting in there. It’s hopeless.”
“So why are you still holding out hope?”
I snort loudly and shake my head. “I’m not. I blocked his number. I’ve gone no communication with him. He’ll be gone from my mind soon enough.”
The Lying Game Page 23
