by Thea Dawson
I wish I could say I accepted it and supported her, and did everything I could to make the most of our remaining time together. But I didn’t.
In fact, I was a total asshole. I was angry and I was hurt; I was terrified at the thought of losing her. So, dumb kid that I was, I did everything I could to drive her away. I never missed a chance to make her feel guilty. I dropped bitter one-liners into conversation about the things we couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to do next year, but refused to actually talk about it with her. In fact, I changed the subject every time she mentioned Paris. I figured she had her sorority sisters and her fellow French majors for that—what did she need me for?
Christmas break came and went. She bent over backward to make me happy, but I held myself back from her—just enough to let her know how much she’d hurt me.
My fraternity brothers tolerated my drunken ramblings, probably because they were often drunk themselves. They meant well, but they probably weren’t the best source of advice. They told me what I wanted to hear: that she was being selfish, that I could do better, that I should forget her, move on, that there were other fish in the sea.
The only one of them who said anything worthwhile was Chip, now a senior and the president of the fraternity.
“Jason, man,” he said, shaking his head at me over a table littered with poker chips and empty beer cans, “You’re being a dick. This is a great opportunity for her. Either be a good boyfriend, support her, and save your money and go visit her next Christmas, or make it a clean break. Right now, you’re just trying to make her as miserable as you are, and that’s totally unfair. Shit or get off the pot.”
I kind of looked up to Chip; he was one of those guys who managed to combine party-animal charisma with real integrity and blunt honesty. He was a natural leader, the kind of guy who commanded respect because you knew he’d always be straight with you.
And he was right; I was trying to make Monica as miserable as I was. But I wasn’t quite ready to grow up.
Sometime in the middle of the spring semester, Amber entered the scene. She was a senior who had been on the fringes of my awareness since freshman year. She was stunningly beautiful—long blond hair, perfect white teeth, an amazing figure, and a tan that wasn’t entirely believable for someone who spent nine months of the year at a college in upstate New York.
She was also vivacious and smart, and had a self-assurance that put her insecure peers, male and female, to shame. The stories about her began with her freshman year when she had allegedly stood up at a sorority pledge event, announced, “This is bullshit,” and walked out of the house, never to return.
They continued with tales of her wild sex life. The rumors about her were salacious—some of them weren’t even physically possible—but they were tinged with respect. Another girl might have suffered with stories like that being told about her, but Amber didn’t care. They only seemed to enhance her reputation. Amber did what she wanted, and far from being looked down on, she just became more popular. Instinctively, we knew that Amber had reached a level of confidence that the rest of us were still groping for—maybe always would grope for.
That spring, Amber was spending more time at our frat parties than she had in the past. Some of my brothers were eager to pass on the news that Amber thought I was hot. Two years earlier, I would have thought it was a joke, but now I was starting to realize that girls thought I was pretty attractive. I had a toned swimmer’s build, I had grown a couple of inches since high school, and I was a lot more confident and outgoing than I had been. And now that things weren’t so great with Monica, I was beginning to notice other girls and to pay attention to how they acted around me.
So I wasn’t altogether surprised when Amber cornered me at a party late one night and asked if wanted to get together sometime.
“I have a girlfriend,” I said a little defensively. A little regretfully.
Amber shrugged and smiled, a delicious, sexy, confident smile that would have brought far stronger men than myself to their knees. “I like girls, too,” she whispered, running her finger around the edge of my ear. “Bring her along.”
“What, are you serious?” I asked in a hoarse voice.
“Yeah, I’m totally serious. Monica’s hot. I could get into both of you.”
And that’s what put the idea into my head. Sure, male fantasy stuff was a huge part of it. I can’t deny that the thought of my beautiful, quiet Monica being kissed and touched by this sexy blonde—who could give the average Victoria’s Secret model a run for her money—was a huge turn on.
But behind that was something darker. She wanted me to be more adventurous? Fine, I could do that. She wanted to show me that she could live without me? Two could play at that game.
I started dropping hints to Monica, building her up to the idea gradually. At first, she thought I was joking. Then she thought I might have thought I was serious, but would never really go through with it. And gradually, she began to believe me when I said this was something I wanted to try, and to fall for my carefully placed hints and insinuations that if she really, really loved me, this would be a way to prove it.
Which is how, late in the spring, after Monica’s trip had been finalized, the three of us found ourselves in my dorm room. Awed at what I was going to attempt, my roommate had made himself scarce. Amber, who was twenty-one, had listened carefully to my instructions to buy vodka and some quality mixers. Monica liked fruity, girly drinks, and I knew that beer wouldn’t go far in seducing her.
Monica was nervous and reserved at first, but got giggly and more outgoing after a couple of drinks. I made sure the two girls sat on my bed while I took the chair. Amber kept the conversation lighthearted and mildly flirtatious, then, when Monica was almost done with her third sex on the beach, she reached over and pushed Monica’s long hair over her shoulder.
“You have the prettiest hair,” she said to Monica.
“Thank you,” said Monica quietly. I could tell she was nervous, and trying like anything to hide it.
I held my breath.
Amber leaned in and gently kissed the bare skin she’d exposed on Monica’s neck. Monica literally trembled at the touch, then closed her eyes and went still. Amber continued to kiss down her neck, and when Monica didn’t object, she lightly traced a finger down the other side of her neck, across her shoulder and down to her small, firm breast.
I could see Monica shiver under Amber’s touch. Her eyes were still closed, but her head was tipped back and her mouth was open. Her lips were wet and her breathing was shallow.
I’d never been so turned on in my life. I wasn’t sure at what point I should try to join in, or what would happen if I did. I might have simply sat there and stared with my mouth hanging open for the rest of the night, but Monica still held her drink in her left hand, and it was starting to tip. I reached over to take it from her before it spilled, and at the touch of my hand, her eyes opened and she looked directly at me.
And that’s when I realized how badly I’d fucked up. She wasn’t turned on; she was terrified. Her big brown eyes glowed with embarrassment and confusion. She didn’t belong in this scene, and she knew it. She was just a sweet girl from Minnesota trying desperately to make her asshat boyfriend happy. She was drunk, desperate, and way out of her depth. I wasn’t literally forcing her to be there, but I might as well have been.
She blinked as if she was coming out of a trance. “I have to go,” she mumbled, groping for her sweater and purse. “Sorry … I’m just … I have to go.” And she stumbled out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.
I’d like to say that I ran after her and begged her forgiveness—or, at the very least, made sure that my drunk and unhappy girlfriend didn’t walk home by herself across a dark campus late at night.
But I didn’t. Instead, I just sat there staring at Amber.
“I’m sorry,” said Amber, and she did sound genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”
I just sort of shook my head, u
nsure of what to say.
There was a long silence, then Amber spoke again. “So I guess that just leaves us.” She leaned back against my pillow, stretched her long, tan legs out on my bed and smiled at me. “What do you think?”
*****
Monica managed to avoid me for the rest of the semester. I could have made more of an effort, of course, but I really didn’t know what to say. She didn’t return my calls. When I did get through to the landline in her room, she had her roommate answer and tell me she was busy: exams, packing, stuff.
When I ran into her on campus, I’d try to strike up a conversation, but it never went well. She was never rude, just distant and distracted, and she’d always think of something she had to go do right at that minute.
I didn’t pursue her. I felt too embarrassed and guilty. It was clear she’d given up on me, and I couldn’t blame her.
She was in France the entire next year. She sent a postcard in response to the handful of short, awkward emails I sent her, but it didn’t say much. I dated a few other girls, but never got serious about anyone. I immersed myself in swimming and studying and became as active as I could in the fraternity—in other words, I kept busy enough that I was able to convince myself that I’d forgotten her.
Senior year I really was busy. I was still swimming and, just as I’d planned, was also president of the fraternity by then. I was interning at a local corporation and applying for jobs, in addition to taking a full load of classes. Monica had come back, but she’d dropped out of her sorority and moved off campus. I ran into her a few times. One of us would always say, “We should really get together sometime,” and the other one would reply, “Yeah, that would be great!”
But neither of us ever made it happen.
These were the days before social media had hit its stride, when you still had to make an effort to stay connected to someone. We didn’t. Spring came, our graduating class scattered to the winds, and I lost touch with her completely.
And that was how it ended.
BOOK TWO
Chapter 1
Jason
It was a bitter January day in Chicago. I stomped the snow off my boots as I walked into the cozy, wood-floored coffee shop and made my way to the counter. I was going to be late to work, but my days there were numbered anyway, and I preferred to start the day with a decent cup of coffee, rather than the crap they had at the office. It was the only indie coffee shop left in the commercial district where I worked. It wasn’t the best service in the world, but I liked to feel that by patronizing it, I was doing my bit for small businesses.
I ordered, and took off my gloves to dig my wallet out from underneath layers of clothing. I rubbed my hands together while the barista collected my change, cursing my luck at ending up in a city as freakin’ cold as Chicago. I was dimly aware of the front doorbells ringing as another customer came in, bringing a brief blast of cold air.
Almost unconsciously, I began thinking of ways the coffee shop could improve its business—reward cards, specials, a friendlier barista. It was almost automatic for me now to assess every business I came in contact with, and think about ways to improve it. This shop had some good things going for it—excellent coffee and a nice atmosphere—but I didn’t like its odds for staying in business for the long haul. I thought about asking the barista for the owner’s contact information, but there was another person in line behind me now, and I didn’t want to take up too much time.
The barista handed me my change and told me my coffee would be ready in a moment. I turned to get out of the way of the customer behind me, then I saw her face and froze. It had been seven years since I’d caught a glimpse of her at graduation, but I would have known her anywhere, even bundled up as she was against the harsh wind and snow.
“Monica.”
Those big brown eyes turned to me, blinked, then widened in surprise. “Jason!” For a split second, I wondered if she’d just turn around and walk out, but to my relief she said, “Wow! How are you?”
I couldn’t look away from those beautiful eyes. Still the same deep brown, bright and clear and fringed with thick, dark lashes that stood out against her creamy skin, now flushed and rosy from the cold. A wisp of chestnut brown hair had escaped from beneath her wooly winter hat, but I couldn’t tell if it was still as long as it had been in college. I found myself hoping that she hadn’t cut it short. It had been so long and beautiful in college.
“You look great!” I said. Not terribly original, but definitely true. We managed an awkward little hug before I remembered my manners. “Here, let me buy you something. What are you having?”
“Oh, small mocha,” she said to the impatient barista, “but please don’t worry about it,” she said to me, groping in the pocket of her backpack for her money.
“No, no, please let me.” I fished a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to the barista before Monica could extract her cash. “Wow! You look great! It’s so nice to see you!” I knew I was grinning like a total dork. Even with a pink nose and flushed cheeks, she looked beautiful. Her top half was encased in a down parka, but she wore skinny jeans, and I could see that her legs were as long and shapely as ever. She smiled bashfully.
“Do you have time to sit down and catch up for a bit?” I asked. Now I’d be really late to work, but now I cared even less.
“Oh, actually, I’m meeting a client here in a few minutes …”
If it was a hint, I didn’t take it. “Well, just a few minutes, then,” I said, barely looking as the barista handed me my change. “It’ll be a few minutes before the coffee’s ready, anyway. This place is pretty slow,” I added in a whisper.
We sat at a table and smiled at each other for a long moment. I thought she was happy to see me, but apparently neither of us knew what to say. Then we both started to speak at once.
“Go on, you first,” she said with a light laugh.
“So how are your parents?” I blurted, not knowing where else to start.
“They’re fine,” she said. “Thanks for asking. Still in Minnesota. My sister’s expecting a baby.”
“Lauren? The pesky fourteen-year-old?”
She laughed. “No, my older sister, Charlotte. But Lauren’s engaged. Hardly pesky at all anymore.”
I shook my head, thinking of the freckle-faced kid who’d followed us around during my visit to Minnesota, teasing Monica about me and spying on us when we tried to make out. She’d be in her twenties now. “Hard to believe,” I said, smiling.
“So what are you doing these days?” she asked.
“I’m an accounts manager for a PR firm up the street.” I didn’t add that I expected to be fired any minute, and that the chances of that happening were improving every moment I sat there talking to her. “How about you?” I was genuinely curious, and I wanted to deflect the conversation away from my job. “When you say you’re meeting a client—?”
“Your coffee’s ready!” announced the barista from behind the bar.
“Faster than usual today,” I mumbled, for once wishing that the barista had been her normal, inefficient self. I jumped up to retrieve the cups and placed Monica’s mocha in front of her.
“Thanks,” she murmured. She unzipped her coat, took off her hat and began peeling off her gloves. Her hair wasn’t quite as long as it had been in college, but I was happy to see that it still tumbled well past her shoulders. “I do a lot of things. Mainly, I’ve been working as a travel writer, but I also just started a little business, sort of a travel agency for women going abroad by themselves.”
“Wow, that sounds interesting!” I said. My marketing mind kicked on instantly—how did she advertise? What kind of women were her clients? What kind of travel did she arrange?
She nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, it’s a lot of fun.” She looked distracted. I wasn’t sure if she was thinking about her client, or maybe she just felt uncomfortable with me. There were so many things I wanted to ask her, but I was afraid of coming on too strong, so I groped for a way to
break the ice.
She picked up her cup and took a sip of her mocha. I was about to make a joke about how at least she was still left-handed—some things don’t change—and I glanced reflexively at her hand. The room seemed to give a weird lurch that made my stomach roll over, but I pulled myself together.
“Hey, congratulations! Who’s the lucky guy?” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
She looked at me blankly. I looked significantly at her left hand. She put the cup down and looked at the ring, as if she were surprised to see it.
It was beautiful. An enormous, square-cut emerald, surrounded by tiny diamonds. A knock-out of a ring that might have cost as much as I made in several months. A big, goofy smile spread over her face as she looked down at it. “Oh! This is—it’s kind of a long story, actually—”
The bells on the coffee shop door rang again, and an elegantly dressed woman who looked to be in her early forties walked in.
“Oh, there she is,” said Monica, waving to the woman. “I’m going to have to—”
“No worries, I’ll get out of your way,” I said, getting up. I took a deep breath. “Look, can I get your number? I don’t want to be inappropriate, I know you’re engaged and all, but I’d love to catch up with you properly sometime.”
She gave me a quick glance that conveyed her hesitation, but to my relief she nodded. “Yeah. Yes, I’d like that, too,” she said, fumbling in the pocket of her backpack again. “My business cards are in here somewhere—” She gave up, clearly in a hurry to get rid of me. “You know what, I’m on Facebook, Monica Prescott. I have a page called Adventuress Travels.”
“Adventuress Travels,” I repeated. “And it’s not like I’ve forgotten your name.” I grinned. “I’ll message you. Great to see you!” I leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. I grabbed my coffee and smiled briefly at the elegant woman, who gave me an appraising look as I passed her.
