Lost In Us (Lost 1)

"There are thirty-seven rooms in this house," he says with a delicious smirk. "How about a tour?"

"I can't believe you had sex with him," Jess says for what must be the hundredth time. She drops her copy of the Sixteenth Century Relics on the coffee table and stares at me, then picks up her tablet, her attention focused on me.

Maybe it's time to change tactics. I've brushed off every single one of her previous questioning attempts with a laconic I don't want to talk about it, but one week later, she still isn't showing signs of wanting to let go of the matter.

"Isn't that the purpose of a rebound?" I ask.

"For normal people, yes," Jess says, looking both pleased and alarmed that she finally got some other reaction from me. "I honestly thought you wouldn't get beyond first base. Maybe second if you were really drunk."

"Well, I wasn't the slightest bit drunk," I say, still not lifting my eyes from my laptop. I upload the spreadsheet and press send, relieved to be done with work for the week. Now I can concentrate on the oligopoly assignment for Monday. But instead of opening my assignments folder, I find myself browsing YouTube for mock job interview videos. They haven’t done much for my interview skills so far, but I feel more competent just by watching them.

“What are you doing?” Jess exclaims the moment the video starts.

“Trying to pick up tips so I don’t suck so badly at my next interview,” I say, searching for a notepad so I can jot down anything the on-screen fake interviewee does that might come in handy.

She whistles. “I still can’t believe you seriously want to work in investment banking. You do know you’re selling your soul to the devil?”

I smirk. It’s impressive how the (very true) rumors about the crazy working hours in banking have reached the ears of all the students, not only those studying Economics.

“I’m used to working hard,” I say.

“You won’t even have time to spend that ridiculous paycheck they’ll give you. And anyway, having money doesn’t mean your life will be perfect.”

I agree, it doesn’t. But having money will help. A lot. It might have saved Kate if my parents would have had enough funds to put her in a drug rehab center, where she would have received help. I heard the doctor reprimand my parents after her death for not sending her to one. I could hear my Dad tell the doctor they couldn’t afford it, between my mother’s heartbreaking sobs.

“Can you—“

“Jess, if you don’t let me concentrate, I’ll be getting my paycheck from McDonald’s. Or Wal-Mart.”

The second the video stops, she says, "So how was the sex?"

I turn bright red. "Don't you have anywhere to be?" I mumble. "You said you want to take more shifts in the cafe this month."

"I took everyone's shifts for the weekend so I'm free today. Please tell me something. Anything. How was it?"

"Fantastic," I say without hesitation. There is no other way to describe it. Especially when I compare it to what Michael and I were calling sex.

I have been trying not to think of that night for the past week, because every time I do I drown in guilt and shame. Not because I regret it, quite the opposite. I'd do it again in a heartbeat, but I can't because James hasn't shown any signs that he's aware of my existence. Why should he? He made it clear from the get-go that he wasn't committing to anything. I had just hoped this didn't automatically translate into a one-night stand. Several one-night stands, yes. But not one. That's just cruel.

After introducing me to true passion and all of its wonders, robbing me of them shouldn't be legal.

But there's another reason for the guilt.

It was the first time I lied to my mum. I told her I spent the day playing volleyball on the beach, like I'd planned. Telling her the truth, even only a part of it, would have upset her beyond words. Actually not beyond words. I'm sure she would've lectured me on my unethical and unacceptable behavior (something I would have whole-heartedly agreed with her a mere week ago) for at least half an hour before hanging up, leading to my first fallout with her.

And that would be one too many firsts in such a short time.

I look up and find Jess staring at me with an ear-to-ear smile.

"Must be really fantastic if you have that expression just from thinking of it. So are you two now—"

"I haven't heard from him since. I think that makes us exactly nothing."

"Have you called him?"

"What?"

"I think the next Zuckerberg needs a reminder," she says, turning her tablet. I can only make out the title of the Forbes article, which is indeed “The Next Zuckerberg,” and James's picture next to it. I refused to look up any info on him, thinking I'll forget the whole thing faster. "You do have his number, don't you?"