Then there were the swoony ones. The embarrassingly detailed ones that never ended. There was no climax to them because they were just us, always together. Sharing all the small, daily things that people share. They were punctuated by things like Will bringing me my favorite flowers (not that I knew enough about flowers to have one), or buying me a Valentine’s Day stuffed animal (not that I could imagine real-life Will ever doing such a thing), or planning an elaborate surprise for our one-year anniversary (this was always hazy, since my only exposure to anniversaries was my parents, who exchanged cards from the grocery store over breakfast on their anniversary like clockwork).
I found myself suddenly furious with Will, not just for not wanting me, but for, with one sentence, wrenching away the fantasies that I’d been playing on a near continuous loop for more than a year. I had needed them just to get through the day sometimes, especially this past year. And now he had burned them to the ground.
I shuffled backward and grabbed my skateboard, determined to get out of there before Will saw me cry. I plastered a smile on my face and nodded.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. No problem. Cool. Um, thanks for”—I gestured around searchingly—“the water and all. I’ll uh, I’ll see you around, okay, night!”
I thought he might’ve said my name as I slammed out the door, but he didn’t follow me. I didn’t wait for the elevator, just stumbled down the stairs and out onto the street. I wanted to be swallowed up by the noise and the heat and the thick air and everything that didn’t care I was crying as I picked a direction blindly and walked, my fantasies joining my well-intentioned resolutions in dissipating around me like smoke in the evening breeze.
Chapter 2
September
THE NEON plastic cup slipped out of my hand where I sat slumped against the wall of the stairwell and plinked on every step on the way down when someone kicked at my shoe.
“Are you alive?”
With one eye slitted open all I could see were black skinny jeans terminating in expensive-looking black ankle boots. One of those boots nudged my sneaker again.
“Quit it.”
Skinny Jeans dropped into a squat one step below me, and I immediately tried to focus because he was wicked hot. He was black, about my height, and everything about his posture said he knew how hot he was, even squatting in a stairwell under fluorescent light. His white T-shirt was almost transparent and it was shredded in places in that artsy way that super expensive stuff sometimes is, so you could see smooth, taut skin through the fabric. He had permanent dimples and a mouth that turned up slightly like he was smirking at everyone.
He crossed his arms, making the deep V-neck of his T-shirt gape even wider and smiled knowingly when my eyes darted to his chest. His smile held no shadows. It was as bright and inviting as a sunrise, and I wished I could return it.
“You’re drunk alone in a stairwell, my friend,” he said, his voice light and warm and tinged with a New York accent. What I thought was a New York accent, anyway. “It’s only day one. You’ve gotta pace yourself.”
He winked at me, and I couldn’t find anything to say. I wished I’d had another one of those Jell-O shots. I could still taste the bite of artificial cherry in the back of my throat. But when I tried to stand up to go get one—and get away from the pretty guy who looked as happy as I was miserable—the whole stairwell tilted.
“Whoa, whoa. You’re toast,” Skinny Jeans said. “Here, sit.” My ass hit the step, jarring my whole spine, and I dropped my head to my knees. The guy sat down next to me, every movement graceful.
“Omigod, kill me,” I groaned.
“How are you this drunk? The party only started an hour ago.”
“I don’t drink really ever.”
He laughed. “Oookay, so, what, you’re newly away from home and feeling your freedom and independence or what?”
I squeezed my eyes shut trying not to replay the epic fail end of my hangout with Will in my head. Trying not to relive our first—and what was clearly going to be our only—kiss.
“Uuuggghhh,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
“What’s the problem, sugar?” Somehow Skinny Jeans made that ridiculous endearment sound friendly and casual, and suddenly I was close to tears. “Hey, hey, it’s cool,” Skinny Jeans crooned. His hands were on my face, and I tried really hard not to map every distinction from the sensation of Will’s. “Whoa, boy, what the hell happened to you?” He swiped his thumbs under my eyes and they came away wet. Oh god, I wished the stairs would turn into a slide like in the cartoons and a trapdoor would open up at the bottom of it and swallow me.