Carrying it back, she places it in my hands.
“Convenient,” I say.
“Poignant.” Indie shrugs. “Anyway, read it.”
“I wrote it; I don’t need to read it.”
Looking me up and down, she sniffs. “Yeah, no. I think you do.”
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT ONE-NIGHT STANDS
by Elle Napier
That girl you took home the other night? The one with the witty comebacks and stunning hazel eyes? The one who flirted with you for two straight hours at the bar while somehow playing hard to get? The one who tossed back a shot of liquid cocaine before debating whether or not to bite the bullet and have a good time with you? The girl whose kisses made your head spin and whose body got you harder than you’ve ever been? The girl who casually cleaned up and let herself out when it was all over because God forbid a woman in this day and age suggest seeing you again after the two of you shared an intensely intimate night together?
Yeah, her.
You felt it too, didn’t you?
You felt the sparks.
You thought about asking for her number—until you realized you’d forgotten her name.
Or maybe you never asked for it in the first place.
So instead, you watched her go. You thought about all the humblebrags you were going to share with your buddies the next time you saw them—about the hot chick who couldn’t take her hands off you. You proudly added another tally mark to your “number.” And then you promptly tucked her into the back of your mind with the intention of telling yourself she was nothing special.
But the truth is, one-night stands are overrated.
And if you ignored a spark, you’re an idiot. (I say that with love, by the way. You guys know I love you.)
The thing about sparks is that if you don’t blow on them, if you don’t keep them lit and kindled, they extinguish. And once they’re snuffed out, maybe you can light them again someday, but it’s never the same. That’s why I’ve never been a believer in second-chance romances: because they never hold a candle (pun definitely intended) to the first time around.
That girl who made you feel alive that night? Chances are you made her feel alive too. And while she slipped out in the early-morning hours, odds are she thought about you on the walk home. She probably thought about you again when she grabbed a coffee, washed you out of her hair, and folded a load of laundry that night. Maybe she thought about you the next day, wondering what you were up to or if you were thinking about her too. I bet she thought about you a week later, completely out of the blue. Maybe she was reading a clever line in a book, and a word reminded her of something you said that night, and she paused, looked up, and pictured your face.
And then there’s that question.
That glaring, never-to-be-answered question.
“What if?”
She’ll think about you again someday. A week, a month, even a year or so later. Maybe when she’s on the phone with a chatty aunt or watching a sappy movie on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
And you’ll think about her too, when you pass the bar where you first spotted her chatting up some stranger about her love for the Mets—the very thing that caught your attention long before you lost yourself in her captivating whiskey-hued gaze.
You’ll think about her again, when you take someone else home—someone who lacks the blazing-hot connection you first felt with the girl whose name you’ll never know and whose number you’ll never have, all because she was a one-night stand.
Yours in truth—
Elle Napier
I fold the magazine and toss it on the counter.
“So tell me, Elle—is there a spark?” she asks before adding, “And don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
A tickling flutter spreads through my chest before settling in my middle at the mere thought of seeing West again.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “I wish there wasn’t.”
“How much of that article was supposed bullshit, and how much of it was you?” Indie asks.
Twisting my mouth to the side, I slink onto a barstool and rest my elbows on the counter.
“That one was . . . pretty solid,” I say. I wrote it before meeting Matt, after I’d gone through a phase of embracing my young, single, city-girl persona and convincing myself everyone else enjoyed one-night stands, so why shouldn’t I?
But at the end of the night, I’d always feel empty.
And I’d be haunted by those what-if guys. The ones I sparked with, the ones I could close my eyes and picture something more with. Those guys were rare, but when it happened, it would always be like a punch to the gut. Nothing stings like wasted potential of the amorous variety.
“So West makes you feel alive?” she asks.
“He makes me feel a lot of things.”