“Yes,” I breathe against her mouth, the scent of wine and woman warm and wet against my lips, “I do.”
I breathe deeper, brush my lips just slightly above hers, “but not tonight.”
“Oh,” her breath catches, her eyes on mine, dark and deep in the moonlight.
I brush my lips against hers again, closer this time, feeling their soft texture beneath my own. Her lips part, a soft sigh coming from her mouth and I remember the wine, two bottles between us, and lift my head.
I reach for her hand, the soft skin bright in the moonlight, fingers curled around a thick volume entitled Burn the Patriarchy. I caress the back of her hand, her skin satin and silk beneath my touch.
“Goodnight, professor,” I whisper, the words barely audible between us, seeming to linger in the summer evening air, caught in the lilac scented moonlight.
I take two steps back, watch her turn the door handle and step inside, stumbling slightly on the doorstep and glancing briefly at me before shutting the door.
I step down the stairs, glance at the stars and swear under my breath.
It’s a long walk home.
14
Jane
Oh my god, I’m so hungover.
Well, no. Actually. Not hungover. Not hungover at all, actually. Just mortified.
Mortified.
I wake up and the sun is pouring down on me through my windows. Staggering to the bathroom, I see the front door is locked, my bag is on the table where I usually leave it, and, I give myself a mental pat on the back. I even managed to brush my teeth before going to bed last night.
And it’s not like I blacked out.
Oh no.
I remember everything.
Specifically, I remember going to Dory’s, drinking and eating well into the night, walking home with David, complaining about my shitty childhood, getting to my house…
And inviting him in.
Which I would never normally do.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is remembering what he said.
“No.”
Well, actually, he didn’t say no.
He said, “Yes, but not tonight.”
Which is what beautiful men say when they want to gently let down plain women. It’s up there with, “I value our friendship too much,” or “I’m not in that space yet.”
I mean, he couldn’t exactly have said, “Dinner was great, conversation was fantastic, and I like you as a friend.”
I shake my head. Of course, I’ve heard those exact words before, from other men. Well, from one man. One time. Years ago. But it still stings.
I strip off my t-shirt and step into the shower. The water is cool and I welcome it against my flushed skin. He did kiss me, which was unexpected. A pity kiss, probably. A token gesture to tell my friends about.
I grab the shampoo and lather my hair, aggressively scrubbing my scalp.
He’s probably done this dozens of times. Let women down gently. How could he not? I can’t imagine the number of panties, phone numbers, and evening invitations that are thrown his way.
And he’s not a jerk.
I tilt my head back under the flow of water, my eyes closed beneath the gentle pummel.
He’s not a bad guy, despite all my assumptions and expectations.
He’s kind and funny and often very sweet. A great listener.
Jesus. I shake my head, rubbing my hands over my face beneath the water, shampoo dripping down my shoulders.
The world’s most eligible bachelor.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around myself as I head into the kitchen and turn on the coffee pot.
No wonder I fell for him. I was destined to fall for him. He was designed to make women fall. Perfectly engineered to ruin my life.
My mother’s voice runs through my head. Some people were born lucky, Jane. Not women like us.
Some people were born gorgeous, and successful, and fun, and smart, and lovely.
And then there are the rest of us.
I peer into my fridge and see its barren shelves. I walk to my closet, preparing to throw on some clothes and head to the grocery store when it hits me.
My car is still at his house.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I don’t even have a day or a week or however long I can get away with not seeing him again to collect myself, to develop my casual laugh. Ha ha ha. Dinner was great. Sorry I hit on you. Drunk me is a big slut, ha ha ha. I’m not in love. Everything is fine.
Damn.
I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, throw my hair in a ponytail and reach for my phone.
The only way I can pick up my car is if I bring a buffer, and I know just who to call.
15
David
My phone wakes me and I know it’s Angelo. No one else, not even my mother, would call me at this ungodly hour.
“Hello?” I mutter, one arm draped over my face, blocking out the sunlight. The duvet is wrapped around my legs and the warmth of the light streams through my windows. I notice that I didn’t shut my drapes last night, a first for me. I can’t remember the last time I left my curtains open when I was in the house. My paranoia over photographers taught me from an early age to make sure they had no access to private images.
“Why the fuck aren’t you returning my calls?” It’s Angelo alright, loud and irritated and sounding very, very busy.
“When did you call?”
“I called three times last night. Where the hell were you?”
I rub my hand over my face, early morning beard prickly against my palm. “I was out.”
“Out? Out where? Did you drive down to Boston?”
“No. Out in town.”
“What town?”
I turn my head, watching the tops of the trees sway in the morning breeze, light blue sky filtering through their tips. “Out in Midnight.”
A pause. Angelo is digesting.
“What the fuck is there
