Opening Act

by Sulheikha Snyder

  Saroj tangled their fingers in a sweet parody of how their bodies had just been entwined. “Sorry.” She laughed, not sounding sorry at all. “Six years, you know? I had a lot of pent-up energy to work out.”

  “You didn’t have to make up for it all at once.” He grinned, before realizing she couldn’t see it. He turned to face her, his cheek welcoming the coolness of the pillow. He was hot all over, practically sweating out of his skin…and loving every minute of it. Maybe the band could work a cover of “Fever” into their set list. “No need to rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Do we?” Even in the pitch-blackness of the bedroom, he could make out the bleak look in her eyes. The cynical edge in her voice twisted the rusty corkscrew he’d thought he removed from his chest.

  Jesus. “Of course we do. What are you talking about?” She couldn’t seriously think he would just walk out on her after this, could she? “Do you really think I’d—”

  “Stop.” She shushed him with two fingers pressed to his lips. “What I think is that you need to catch up to me. I’ve had years to want this, to want you. But you don’t know if this is real. Consider if you only slept with me because you were jealous of Johnny Ray. Think hard on that. I don’t want you to regret this.”

  “I don’t.” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into him. On to him. His body instantly went from zero to sixty, raring for round three, and he had to scramble for the condoms scattered across the sheets.

  “I don’t regret this,” he assured as he sheathed himself in protection and then in her. “I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.” He chanted it like a promise.

  She took his face between her palms, stroking his jaw with her thumbs. “I love you,” she said as she kissed her.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was saying it for the last time.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Stay,” Adam mumbled, drifting into slumber, hand splayed possessively across her hip.

  “I can’t.” Saroj pulled back, away from the warmth of his touch. Already cold. “I should get back to my place.” The last thing she wanted was to run into Johnny stumbling home from his postconcert carousing. Those were “I told you sos” and innuendos she wasn’t ready to deal with…not when all she wanted to do was hold onto the memory of this perfect night a little longer.

  Adam’s brows furrowed, and he followed her across the mattress, reaching out to catch her wrist. “Hey. You don’t have to sneak out of here.”

  “I’m not sneaking.” She sat on the edge of the bed, try-ing to finger-comb her hair into some semblance of order. “I just—”

  “Snuck,” he interrupted, enveloping her again, pulling her flush against his chest. “What’s the matter? You just want to dine and dash?”

  No, she wanted another helping. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. “I have brunch plans tomorrow,” she said. “By the time I get home, shower, change—”

  He kissed the hollow behind her ear. Sent a shiver zipping down her neck and spine. “So text ’em. Say you’ll be late.”

  Her phone was in her purse. Her purse was in the other room. If she left this bed, she probably wasn’t coming back to it. At least not tonight.

  So she stayed. Turning in his arms. Memorizing his face. Kissing him until all the “shoulds” and “need tos” drowned in how hot and sweet and sexy it felt.

  “I still can’t believe this,” he whispered, touching her cheek, her jaw, the tops of her shoulders. Like he was memorizing her, too. Convincing himself this was real. Earlier, when he’d wondered at her being an option, this same reverence had permeated his voice. And she didn’t know what it meant. Only that it was painful and wonderful and made her arch into his fingers when they slipped between her thighs.

  She couldn’t believe this either. So she clung to it. To him.

  She let herself have a handful of hours curled up with him. Laughing and snuggling and tickling and teasing. Falling into the shallow first stages of sleep. Then, she gathered her things—dressed back up in the proper black dress, the grown-up shoes—and crept out of Adam’s apartment before dawn while he was still out cold, flat on his beautiful belly, arms flung out wide. She’d done the Walk of Shame exactly once before, after her third—and last—sleepover with Harry Patel. And this time, it wasn’t so much shame as a wistful pang of remorse wrapped in cautious joy.

  She ached all over, in the most delicious ways, and when the cab dropped her home, she almost didn’t want to step under the hot spray of the shower and wash away Adam’s touch. But sense won out. She cleaned up, put on a fresh pair of pajamas, and crawled into bed…where she replayed the night’s events on the insides of her eyelids.

  I know what I want. You. Okay? I want you.

  We’ve got plenty of time.

  I don’t regret this.

  When she woke up, midmorning light streamed through the windows, and there were a zillion unread texts waiting on her phone. The first four were from Anu: wondering where she went, asking if she was okay, and concluding she was with Adam because Anu’d texted both him and Johnny Ray. And Johnny had, apparently, replied. Be careful, said the last text, infused with Anu’s trademark practicality. So much for that. She hadn’t been careful at all; she’d just jumped into Adam’s arms, shouting, “Take me now!”

  Bleary-eyed, she clutched the phone and shuffled into the living room to start her coffee ritual while continuing to read. The next message was from Becca, of the “you go girl!” and “get your freak on!” variety—Anu hadn’t wasted any time spreading the tidings, it seemed—and all of the rest were from Adam. Sent between four and five a.m.

  Why’d u leave?

  I miss you already.

  Meant what I said. I don’t regret any of it.

  Call me, baby.

  Saroj didn’t trust herself to write back until she had at least one cup of coffee. So she curled up on the couch with a mug, deleted shows off her DVR, and fast-forwarded through an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Only then did she type out I miss you, too. Short, simple, to the point…and not even one-tenth of what she actually wanted to say to him. Most of which involved asking “why?” and “how?” and “when can we do it again?” Because she really wanted to do it again.

  God, she’d actually slept with Adam. After years of imagining, it was a reality…and no fantasy would ever suffice again. She still felt the shadow of his mouth and his hands all over. Her skin was dotted with bruises and hickeys and light abrasions from his beard stubble. She cherished each mark, because it corresponded to some peak they’d reached, some absurd thing they tried while laughing and blushing. “Jesus,” he’d panted against her throat during the third time…when he’d been so frantic, so desperate to convince her he wanted it as much as she did. “You make me crazy.”

  He’d been making her crazy forever. It was only fair. There was a hollowed out place between her ribs, because she’d left a good chunk of her heart behind at his place. Of course, there was no hope of reciprocity for that—because he didn’t love her. Care for her? Sure. He’d taken incredibly good care of her last night. But making love and being in love were two different things. She wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise.

  She still wasn’t the kind of girl he dated. Wasn’t the kind of person he was normally attracted to. She’d practically railroaded him into seeing her as a pretty, available girl. As a woman.

  And for what? A scratched itch? A curiosity sated? A little curry to spice up his otherwise-bland diet?

  Would he have ever noticed her, if Johnny hadn’t kissed her in front of him?

  There was no way of really knowing.

  She drew up her legs, resting her forehead on her knees, as she tried to blink away pointless tears. And then her phone vibrated against the couch cushions, the display lights visible even through the little cave she made of her body.

  Adam. She knew instinctively, even though there was any number of people who could be texting right now.

  Have 2 be @ McAllister�
��s at 12. Come by?

  How romantic. He’d just proven her cynicism completely warranted.

  And then the phone danced again.

  My sheets still smell like you. Didn’t want to get out of bed.

  The hollow in her heart expanded to her lungs, and air rushed out in a gasping whoosh. God, he was such a guy. So normal and wonderful and infuriating and sexy. Her fingers flew across the keypad, typing out I’ll see you soon while she was still trying to marshal her jumbled feelings. Adam finally wanted her as badly as she wanted him. It would have to be enough for now.

  Saroj left well after noon. She didn’t bother dressing for him. As if her favorite ripped jeans and worn hoodie were a talisman against getting her heart broken. Like a pair of Chucks would guard her from illusions of a happily ever after. They certainly didn’t do the job when she was a stupid nineteen-year-old, seeing Adam in a cover band that played Friday nights in a dive bar just off campus. During all those years, she’d gone from dorm acquaintance to groupie to a friend. Now? She wasn’t sure what word applied. “Lovers” was too melodramatic and “sweethearts” too twee.

  All she was sure of was that walking into McAllister’s and seeing him in manager’s dress casual—khakis and a white button-down—made her heart stop. And when his eyes lit up, her heart started again, beating double time. He was so damn handsome that it hurt.

  “Saroj!” He wasted no time in crossing to her from the hostess’s station and sweeping her into a hug. All her armor be damned…she clung to him and breathed in. His lips were warm and teasing against her ear, and he repeated her name in a bedroom whisper before he set her back on her feet. “I’m glad you came.”

  You and me both. The double entendre was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back, sure her cheeks were as scarlet as her coloring would allow. Suddenly, she didn’t know what to say, how to be. Because everything led back to last night, to urging Adam to pin her wrists to the mattress and fuck her till she couldn’t walk…and to telling him she loved him.

  The hostess, tall and blonde and aspiring actressy, stepp-ed around them to grab a few menus. The way she slapped them against her palm was a little too emphatic. And it matched the look in her eyes, assessing Saroj as some short, scruffy brown girl who’d just climbed out of bed. Out of Adam’s bed. “Sorry,” she trilled, sliding past them again. “Carry on, kids. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  Kids. Like they were two dumb twentysomethings hook-ing up.

  “You’re not interrupting, Camille.” Adam laughed.

  Saroj knew he didn’t mean it like it sounded, that his laugh was just perfunctory, polite. He wasn’t laughing at her. But she stumbled back a step anyway.

  And then Camille leaned forward, metaphorically inserting herself into that gap, if not physically. “Good!” she said, with a smile somewhere between sincere and calculated. “Then don’t forget that Dave’s birthday is at Joker’s tomorrow night. I just got a text that Courtney’s in town, so she’ll be showing up. I bet she’d love to see you!”

  “Courtney?” The polite smile slipped from Adam’s face. “You know we broke up months ago, Cam. She’s a nonissue.”

  “A nonissue?” Camille scoffed, one hand on her hip. “Are you telling me you’re actually swearing off girls? You? Mr. Serial Monogamist?” Her gaze, gray and cold like winter slush, cut to Saroj. “Or are you taken?”

  There were a dozen ways to answer that question. “Yes.” “Sort of. ” “Well, we took each other at least three times last night.” And Saroj’s personal favorite, “None of your fucking business, you tall, nosy bitch.” But the seconds stretched by…going from awkward to downright embarrassing as Adam looked at Camille and then at her and back again. Saroj waited for him to say anything, do anything, to maybe acknowledge that bringing up exes was so not appropriate at this particular moment, while he was in this particular company.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He just swallowed and rubbed the back of his head. He watched Camille shrug and say, “Your loss, Harper!” before she moved toward the tables in the back.

  It was like having cold water splashed all over her warm and fuzzy afterglow. Because, even now, she didn’t rate. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t an option.

  It was way, way too late to be any of those things.

  She’d fooled herself, thinking that sleeping with him changed anything. Thinking this was going to work as any kind of relationship. He was big, doofy, all-American Adam. She was Saroj “where are the twenty gold wedding sarees” Shah who said stupid things while drunk and did even stupider things while totally sober. No one looked at the two of them and thought, Yes, they should be together. That makes sense. But, more than that, he hadn’t looked at her like she made sense until yesterday. And that was the worst…that he’d never even seen her before.

  This wasn’t real. This couldn’t ever be real.

  “Saroj, what is it?” Even unsmiling and suddenly worried, he was gorgeous. Still like the fantasy she could never really have.

  If even Camille the hostess could see that, did she really need a two-by-four? Wasn’t she the one being clueless now? Adam could barely tell a coworker that they were friends. What would happen when they weren’t? When this all crashed and burned?

  “I…” Her hoodie was no shield, and the only thing her Chucks accomplished involved pivoting her toward the door. “Adam, I think I have to go.”

  “No.” He grabbed her hands, circling her wrists in an unintentional echo of the night before. “Don’t run out on me again.”

  “I’m not running,” she protested. “I’m trying to make this easier on us both.” There was no point in prolonging the awkwardness, right? If she got out now, maybe she could at least salvage their social circle…pretend it didn’t hurt to run into him at the bars.

  His gaze narrowed, the guileless blue of his eyes sharpening. “No, I think you’re trying to make it easier on you.” He pulled her to the side, against the bar, nudging aside stools with his hip. “Something changed in the last two minutes. What happened? Was it her bringing up Courtney? Because, I swear, that’s so far past over. She’s not in the picture. She’s not even in the album.” There was a note of pleading in his low voice, and a flag of surrender at half-mast in his eyes. “Talk to me.”

  Talk to him. Hah. Aside from a few blissful hours last night, all they had was talk. And she needed more than that. She needed hope. “It’s not Courtney. Or Camille. It’s you. I don’t think you’re ready for any of this.”

  “Ready for what? Come on, Saroj, it’s barely been a few hours,” Adam said. “Give me a chance here. Give yourself a chance. Let us have a good day.”

  That wasn’t possible. Not if she wanted to walk away from this with even a shred of sanity. “No. Because the longer I let myself be happy, the longer it’s going to take to get over you. Again.” He winced, and she stroked his cheek—as if to soothe the sting of the imagined slap. “I can’t do this. Don’t you get that?”

  “No,” he admitted. And equal parts hurt and confusion filled his voice. “Was last night a one-time thing? Is that it? Curiosity satisfied? You’re done?”

  She’d asked herself those very same questions about him, and she knew full well that her curiosity was far from satisfied. She could spend days, weeks, years learning to make love to this man. “I loved last night. I loved it too much,” she said. “And, right now, in the broad light of day…no matter how much I want to do it again…I can’t stop thinking that it’s a disaster waiting to happen. A mistake. For both of us. I think it’s too late to turn this into anything.”

  “You’re wrong.” He brushed his lips against her fingers, kissed her palm. It was too intimate for public. This conversation was too intimate for public. But she couldn’t pull away just yet. “You don’t get to make that call for me,” he told her. “You don’t get to decide if it’s my mistake.”

  “Why not?” she asked. Better her than him, right? Before she turned into a “nonissue,” too. “I pushed you into
this. And I lived out my fantasy…when your reality is that you’re not in love with me, and you would never have looked at me twice if Johnny hadn’t made you. But it’s okay. Last night was perfect. I can take that with me. Just don’t make this more than it is.”

  “Saroj.” She heard his sharp intake of breath like it was her own. His mouth tightened, and his entire body went stiff. Like his white shirt and khakis were his suit of armor. “Are you kidding me? After all this, that’s your line? I don’t buy it. You’re just trying to talk yourself out of this,” he accused. “You’re the one who keeps saying it. Over and over. You’ve been trying to get over me. For years. And, hey, now that you know what it’s like to be with me, you can.” She’d never heard him be so cruel, so flippant. “Congratulations, you banged the bass player you’ve liked since freshman year. Now you can go back to a guy like Harry fucking Patel.”

  She flinched. He was the one lashing out now. She was the one taking the hit. And it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. “Adam—”

  “No.” Her cut her off. “Don’t put this on me. I wanted you here this morning. And I wanted you last night. And now you’re running away? Acting like it’s already over? You can’t be serious.”

  “N-no. I think we can’t.” The problem was bigger than that, though. Deeper. Made of prolonged silences and drunken confessions that went nowhere and Johnny Ray’s scheming. And she only knew one way to solve it. “I think we can’t be real. This whole thing was a dream.” Conscious of all the eyes on them, she used her words as an exit line, jerking her arms from his grip and walking back out the restaurant’s front door. Her chest hurt. Everything hurt. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. She barely heard the bell chime over the sound of her first ugly sob.

  Making love and being in love were two different things…and as much as she wanted to forget that, she couldn’t. She didn’t dare.