Chapter Seventeen
After I’ve made sure that Riley isn’t going to be left out in the cold tonight, I settle in for a long, befuddled evening at Emerson’s place. The hours creep past as I try to process everything that’s happened, and what I’m supposed to do now. Emerson and I are both out of a job, I’m out of a home, and he’s bound for Europe at the end of the week. So much for that bright, shiny future I’d been so optimistic about.
Emerson spends about an hour on the phone with Cooper and the other Bastian partners when we get back to his loft. They argue incessantly, trying to hammer out a truce. No one at that company wants to see Emerson leave, least of all Emerson. But with everything that went down between him and Cooper this afternoon, I don’t see what other choice there is.
For my part, I spend the better part of the afternoon absentmindedly patting Roxie’s head and trying to work up the nerve to call my grandparents. Surely, they’re just bluffing. They don’t actually expect me to bend to their will and never see Emerson again.
Or do they?
“Well,” Emerson sighs, emerging from his bedroom having hung up on the hour long conference call. “They’ve backed off the whole firing-me front. Now it’s just a matter of whether or not I want to back off the I-quit front.”
“So?” I ask, as he sits down beside me, “What do you think you’re going to do?”
“For starters,” he says, brushing a lock of hair out of my face, “I’m going to open another bottle of wine. Helps me think.”
He offers me his hand and pulls me off the couch, towing me back to the kitchen island.
“Have you talked to your grandparents yet?” he asks me, selecting a bottle of Merlot to start with.
“No,” I say faintly, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t know what the hell I’d even say to them.”
“Say they’re a couple of assholes who should fuck right off,” Emerson shrugs, fetching a wine opener.
“I don’t want them to fuck off,” I exclaim, “They’re my family, Emerson. Why can’t you understand that that’s important to me?”
“Maybe because I know just how badly family can mess you up,” he replies, popping out the cork.
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask.
“If you do, you seem to have forgotten,” he remarks, taking two wine glasses down from the cupboard.
“Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on my family so easily,” I say without thinking.
Emerson pauses with his back to me, his shoulders going stiff. “What is that supposed to mean, Abby?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.
“Just that I’ve never been the type of person who cuts and runs on the people who care about her,” I say, wavering in my stance.
“And I am?” he asks, irate as he turns to face me. “I was my mother’s nurse for years while my father was away. I’d probably still be taking care of her if she’d ever gotten well enough for outpatient treatment again.”
“I know, Emerson,” I say, edging away from his rage. After the flare of anger I saw go through him at the office today, I don’t want to provoke him any further.
“For fuck’s sake, I had to raise my mother, rather than have her raise me,” Emerson fumes, clutching the edge of the counter. His knuckles go white with the force of his grip.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm, “I know how much you sacrificed for your mom. But you know better than anyone how painful it is, having your family not be there for you. Cutting my grandparents out of my life should be easy, but it’s not for me.”
“It’s not like they’re giving you much of a choice,” Emerson says.
“I just have to figure out a way to get through to them,” I say shaking my head, “Without this job, I’m going to need a place to stay, at least for a little while.”
“You have a place to stay,” Emerson replies quizzically, “Right here.”
“I know you’re letting me stay here tonight,” I tell him, “But I mean long term, Emerson.”
“Maybe I mean long term too, Abby,” he shoots back, his anger fading to determination.
“What are you talking about?” I ask him, “You’re not even staying here long term. You’re going back to London at the end of the week.”
“Only if I decide to keep my job at Bastian,” he says.
I stare at him, jaw hanging out. “You’re not seriously considering quitting?” I ask, “That job is once-in-a-lifetime. Bastian is the best in the field. You can’t walk away from that.”
“Sure I can,” he challenges me, stepping around the island toward me, “After the way Cooper disrespected us this morning? Why would I want to stay?”
“No,” I say, “No, Emerson. You can’t leave that agency on my account.”
“And why not?” he demands, placing his hands on my hips.
“Because,” I splutter, staring up at him, “I can’t...That’s too much pressure! I can’t be responsible for you losing your job.”
“I’m responsible for you losing yours,” he points out.
“Yeah. But,” I stammer, resting my hands on his firm chest.
“I was doing perfectly well before Bastian hired me,” Emerson says, “I can do perfectly well without them now.”
“But what if you start resenting me? You know...for making you leave?” I ask, unable to meet his gaze.
“That would never happen,” he says, turning my face toward his.
“You don’t know that,” I insist.
“Yes I do,” he says, his eyes flashing angrily. “I know myself, Abby. I know what I care about. And what I care about above all is you. I don’t want to work for any company that doesn’t value you as much as I do.”
“Then what are we supposed to do, huh?” I ask, taking a step away from him.
“Anything we want!” he exclaims, “I have enough money saved up from my first few app sales to last us two lifetimes!”
“And I’m just supposed to be content, living off your money?” I ask archly, crossing my arms. “Remember how well that worked for my dad? And your mom?”
“It’s not the same thing,” he says sternly.
“I don’t see any difference,” I say, shaking my head. “My dad never had any pride in himself, because he just lived off his parents’ money his whole life. I was already headed down that road with my grandparents, but Bastian was finally going to get me on my own two feet. I need to find another job, another way to be independent, not another meal ticket.”
“Is that what I’d be to you?” Emerson asks heatedly, “A meal ticket?”
“Of course not!” I cry, “I love you, Emerson. I loved you when you were a penniless eighteen-year-old and I love you now!”
“So what the fuck are we arguing about?” he shouts, slamming his fist down on the island. “It’s just money, Abby. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“No, it—”
“It means nothing,” he insists, “You sharing my life, my resources, wouldn’t mean that you were bound to me, or that you owed me anything. It wouldn’t mean I had power over you, it would just mean...that you we here. With me. That we were in this together.”
“Emerson, I don’t...” I whisper, trying to wrap my head around what he’s suggesting. “I don’t know how to think of money as anything but a bargaining chip. My family—”
“Your family is fucked up, pardon my saying,” he cuts me off. “Your grandparents use their money as a weapon. But me? I’d like to use mine as a gift. A way out, for both of us. Why won’t you let me do that for you? For us?”
“I’m just...I’m sorry...” I say, trying to blink back the tears that have sprung to my eyes. “I just need to think.”
“Fine,” Emerson says, his jaw set.
He turns on his heel, storms across the loft, and grabs up a retractable leash from the side table. “I know I should just be some alpha man idiot and storm out into the wind or whatever the fuck, but Roxie needs a walk.”
The Westie goes galloping over to Emerson when he whistles. Emerson attaches the leash to her collar and looks up at me. “I’ll give you some time to think everything over. Have some wine if you like. If you want to leave before I get back and find some other way...I won’t hold it against you. Just make up your mind, Abby. You know what I want.”
Before I can say another word, he wrenches open the front door and disappears with Roxie on his heels. I fall back against the kitchen island, letting the baffled tears stream down my face. With shaking hands, I fish out a bottle of Cabernet from the stockpile. Pouring myself a very tall glass, I let my warring thoughts pour out through my mind as well.
Emerson is willing to leave his job and share everything he has with me. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to abandon my job at Bastian, have no place to live, and hardly any money to my name. If he and I were to start a life together now, I’d be bringing nothing to the table. Shudderingly, I remember how I felt about Deb when she showed up on the scene. I thought she was desperate, and manipulative, and a helpless dependent. How would what Emerson is proposing make me any different from her?
As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been living off the generosity of my family for my whole life so far. Sure, I worked hard to get into a good college and paid most of my tuition with scholarships, but I have privilege coming out the wazoo. And now, what—I’m just going to marry rich and have that be that? How am I supposed to live with myself if I go down that path? I have to earn my own way through life. It’s what I’ve always wanted.
I take a huge gulp of wine and feel it go straight to my head via my empty stomach. Getting trashed is not the solution here, but I have no other brilliant ideas. I wish that I had someone to talk about all of this. Riley’s probably furious with me for getting us evicted, and it’s not like I’m going to call my grandparents up. It’s times like this when I most keenly feel the loss of my mother. I wish more than anything that she was here for me to talk to. She’d be able to help me through this mess. But of course, that’s just a dream. I’m all alone in this, as ever.
“Well, Self,” I mutter, raising the wine glass to the empty apartment, “It’s just you and me again. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do.”
I nearly lose my balance on the bar stool as a loud knocking rings out from the front entry way. That’s weird. Emerson just left five minutes ago, and besides, he has a key. We didn’t order any food, and there’s no way Riley’s swinging by to say hello after what I’ve done to her. So then who could possibly be knocking at this hour?
Cradling my wine glass, I stand and cross to the front door. Probably it’s just Emerson’s dry cleaning, or something. Billionaires have things like dry cleaning delivery, right? I step into the entryway and unlock the front door, swinging it open with my free hand.
There’s a man standing on Emerson’s front steps. He wears a dated but clean sport coat, a fair amount of stubble, and scuffed shoes that must once have been very expensive. His hands are clasped nervously in front of him, and his hunched shoulders give him a look of preemptive defeat. There are red splotches across his nose and cheeks, signature features of an alcoholic. The man is staring at shoes, and for a moment I can’t place him. But then, he lifts his face to me, and I feel the wind rush out of my lungs.
“Dad?” I breathe, paralyzed in the doorway.
“Hello Abigail,” he replies with heartbreaking formality. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. Well. I know it is, but...Can I come in?”
“Oh. Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in.
My dad shuffles past me into Emerson’s loft, looking as frail as I’ve ever seen him. I stare after him, utterly baffled by his sudden appearance here. I haven’t seen him since my masters program graduation ceremony, and even then he barely said hello before disappearing into thin air again. He’s not exactly an active presence in my life, so what the hell is he doing here, on one of the most intense nights of my life?
“Dad,” I begin, watching as he stands awkwardly in the middle of Emerson’s loft, “Why are you here?”
“Your grandparents. They told me what was going on,” he mutters, “I figured you might be in a tough spot, so I thought I’d come and try to...I don’t know. Help?”
“But how did you even find this place?” I ask.
“Your friend. Roommate. She mentioned you were with Emerson. This address wasn’t too hard to find,” he shrugs.
I take a nervous sip of wine and immediately feel horrible for doing so as my dad shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t,” I murmur, setting down my wine glass.
“No, it’s OK,” Dad assures me, “I’ve been sober for a solid six months.”
I bite my lip. Six months is always about how long he lasts between relapses. I don’t want to set him off. What I do want is to understand what possessed my father to track me down tonight. We haven’t had a real conversation in years. Really, not since his falling out with Deb. His endless cycle of relapses and recoveries has broken him own. He looks feeble, now. Broken. I hate to see him like this.
“So?” I prompt him, “Are you here to save me from the evil Emerson Sawyer? Are you going to tell me that Grandma and Grandpa are right, and that I should steer clear of him if I know what’s good for me?”
“No,” my dad replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“No?” I reply, taken aback. “But—”
“I’m not here to save you from Emerson,” my dad goes on, “I’m here to save you—try and save you—from yourself.”
“You’re gonna have to drop a few more bread crumbs if you expect me to follow this,” I tell him, crossing my arms.
“I know this is going to sound insane, coming from me,” my dad says, struggling with his heart-to-heart dynamic. “But when your grandpa told me what the situation was, it’s like I knew what you’d be thinking. You’d be thinking, ‘I should just give up on Emerson,’ and ‘It’s too hard,’ and ‘It’s not right to let someone help me, I need to go it alone’.”
I stare at him across the room, flummoxed by how spot-on he is. My dad and I have never once understood each other. He’s never even made the attempt to understand my experiences. We don’t talk. We especially don’t listen. But here he is now, speaking to what I actually have been thinking and feeling. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“Dad...” I say slowly, “Are you telling me that I should stay with Emerson?”
“I think I am,” he says, as if surprised by the conclusion.
“But you hate Emerson,” I remind him, “You two nearly killed each other that day—”
“Please,” Dad says, holding up his hands for me stop, “let’s not go there.”
“Sorry,” I backtrack, “I’m just a little confused, here.”
“I never knew how to do right by you, Abby,” my dad says quietly, lifting his eyes to mind, “but that’s not your fault. It’s on me. When you were growing up, I never gave your needs the same weight as mine. Never thought about how things would effect you. I was totally blindsided by how much Emerson came to mean to you back then. I didn’t even stop to consider how wonderful it was that you’d found someone you could talk to, share things with. God knows I wasn’t helping you on that front.”
“Don’t say that,” I reply, a knot forming in my throat. “I’ve always loved you, Dad. You have to know that.”
“And I love you,” he says, crossing the room tentatively toward me. “I’ve just been pretty terrible at letting you know that.”
With great care, Dad takes my hands in his. He looks at me intently, and for the first time in my life I feel like he’s actually seeing me.
“Abby,” he says, “Do you love Emerson as much as you did when you were a kid?”
“No,” I whisper hoarsely, “I love him so much more, now.”
“Then don’t run away,” he says, squeezing my hands, “Stay and work through this with him. Don’t refuse him out of pride, or some idea of propriety. It’s OK to let people help you. Especially the people who love you more than anything.”
“But what if something goes wrong?” I ask earnestly, “What if we start to resent each other, or feel tied down, or change our minds—”
“Then at least you’ll know for sure where you stand,” my dad cuts me off. “I know you’ve been in pain since you and Emerson were forced apart. It was my fault that happened. Mine and Deb’s. But can you honestly tell me you haven’t spent the past decade wondering what would have happened between you and Emerson ‘if only’? I can’t let you spend the next ten years wondering. Hurting. I need you to hear me now, Abby.”
“I hear you,” I tell him, and it’s true.
“I know it’s scary, sweetheart,” Dad says, resting his hands on my shoulders, “But you’ve got to jump, now. It’s time.”
“OK,” I whisper, “OK, Dad.”
“OK, you’ll jump?” he presses.
“I’ll jump,” I tell him, “But I may fall, you know.”
“There’s always that chance,” he says sadly, “Trust me, I know. But you know what’ll happen if you don’t fall? You’ll fly.”
He kisses my forehead and wraps his arms around me. I hug him back, ferociously. I think this might be the first honest moment we’ve ever shared together. And all I had to do was let my life get almost entirely derailed to bring it about.
Life’s funny, isn’t it?
My dad and I both look up as the front door swings open and a small bundle of fur bounds into the loft. Roxie runs right up to me, whiny with delight to find me still here. When Emerson steps into the loft after her, the same look of relief floods his eyes. He was worried I’d be gone by now. That relief gives way to surprise as he recognizes my dad standing next to me.
“Bob?” Emerson says, looking back and forth between us.
“Hi, Emerson,” my dad replies, going to shake Emerson’s hand. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, I just needed to have a word with my daughter.”
“Oh. Sure,” Emerson says, giving my dad’s hand a firm shake.
“You guys have a lot to talk about. I’ll get out of your hair,” Dad says. “But, Emerson...I know I have no right to ask anything of you, given how I’ve treated you in the past. It’s just—be good to her. Be better to her than I ever was.”
“I intend to be,” Emerson says, training his eyes on my dad. “Whatever she decides that means to her.”
My dad smiles, faintly but resolutely, gives me a final wave, and sees himself out. Emerson and I stare after him as the door closes quietly in his wake. For a moment, the only movement in the room comes from Roxie’s exuberant tail-wagging. When Emerson finally swings his gaze my way, his eyes are full of cautious hope.
“So...” he begins, “Did your dad have any good advice?”
“You know what?” I laugh softly, “He really did.”
“Did that advice involve getting as far away from me as humanly possible?” Emerson asks, taking a step forward.
“Not at all,” I tell him, countering his step, “In fact, it was just the opposite.”
“Huh,” Emerson replies, as we slowly move toward each other in a dance of barely-contained desire. “Does that mean...you’ve come to some kind of decision? About what you want to do happen next?”
“It means that I’m ready to ask for what I’ve wanted for the last ten years,” I reply, as we meet in the center of the loft. I take his hands, take a breath, and take that final leap. “I want to be with you, Emerson. Now and always. I know that what we have is unconventional, and that it’s not going to be an easy journey. But there’s no one else I’d rather be on my journey with. So if you’ll still have me, I’d like to stay here. With you.”
“If I’ll still have you?” Emerson breathes, taking me into his arms, “I’d give up everything to still have you in my life. Not that I’m suggesting that as a game plan, but...”
“We’re really going to do this?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“We are,” he replies, circling my waist, “No one can stop us, Abby. Not like before. There’s no one we need to apologize to, nothing we have to explain. We’re free.”
I press myself to him, bringing my lips to his. Our kiss is searing, binding, full of promise and hope. Roxie runs circles around us as our mouths move together, making up for lost time. I grin as I kiss him, happy tears running down my cheeks. As we finally break apart, Emerson brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, gazing at me with great purpose.
“There’s just one last thing we have to figure out, then,” he says, his voice rasping with emotion as he takes my right hand in his.
“What’s that?” I ask, wiping the tears away.
He looks down at my hand, rubbing his thumb over the single pearl glimmering on my finger. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I guess his meaning.
“Would you rather be wearing this...on the other hand?” he asks, his blue eyes gleaming as they drink me in.
“Are you...do you mean...?” I stammer, all my composure going right out the window.
Emerson’s face breaks into a gorgeous grin as he slowly lowers himself onto one knee before me. I laugh with confounded elation as he slips the pearl ring off my right hand.
“What do you say?” he asks, holding the ring up to me.
“I say...Let’s jump,” I breathe, staring down at him.
His smile grows impossibly wide as he slides the band onto my left ring finger. Turns out that I chose my engagement ring when I was just seventeen years old. And you know what? I chose the person I wanted to share my life with when I was seventeen, too. It just took us both a while to realize it.
Emerson stands and scoops me up into his arms as we both burst into ecstatic laughter. This has to be the least conventional relationship anyone’s ever heard of, but it’s ours. No one can take us away from each other, no one else gets the final say. But there is one last thing I have to ask him, now.
“Are you going to take me to bed now or what?” I grin, running my hands along his impeccably cut chest.
He slips an arm under my knees, and carries me toward the bedroom like a bride on her wedding night. We’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves, maybe. But we’ve always done things out of order, Emerson and I. Only now are we catching up to where we left off at eighteen. But if there’s one thing I’m sure of now, after all these years, is that what we have has always—always—been worth the wait.
Epilogue
One year later...
I push down on the top of the french press and pour the delicious-smelling coffee into three generous mugs. Two excited voices banter behind me, and I turn toward them with a smile.
“Here we are,” I say, setting the three mugs down on the kitchen island, “We can’t plot brilliant business strategy without coffee.”
“That, my dear, is a fact,” Riley says, gratefully taking her cup.
“Here, here,” Emerson replies, grabbing one for himself.
I settle down at the island beside them. The entire surface is covered with outlines, graphs, and ideas. A flurry of excited butterflies rally around my stomach as I look over all our hard work.
“This is really happening, isn’t it?” I grin.
“Sure is,” Riley replies, “You guys are ready to launch.”
“I just have one more feature I want to add to the app, and we’ll be golden,” Emerson says, stepping my way and slipping his arm around my slender waist. “You feeling good, Ms. Founding Partner?”
“Good and ready, Mr. Founding Partner,” I laugh, clinking my coffee mug to his.
For the past year, Emerson and I have been hard at work developing a suite of new applications to take the world by storm. The suite will be the centerpiece and first project of our two-person creative collective: Treehouse. We’re the founding partners, CEOs, and only employees—save for our PR consultant, Riley, and our de facto mascot, Roxie. But though we may be small, I feel very good about our operation.
Our first batch of apps is targeted at friends and family of people struggling with substance abuse. There are resources, information, and support available through this modest suite of applications. There’s even a way for individuals to get in touch with each other, share the burden of living with and loving someone who’s self-destructing. Basically, it’s everything Emerson and I wish we had as kids, everything we were eventually able to give each other...only in app form.
Hey, it’s 2015, after all.
“All you need to do is press ‘publish’ and you’ll be good to go!” Riley says excitedly.
“Would you like to do the honors?” Emerson asks, sliding a tablet my way with the suite of apps pulled up, ready to be launched.
“We’ll do it together,” I say, taking his hand in mine. I feel his wedding band brush against my hand and get a little thrill. We only just said “I do” at a small City Hall ceremony last month, so seeing his wedding band is still new.
“Together,” Emerson agrees, “Naturally.”
“Get on with it, lovebirds!” Riley says excitedly, “I want to put out the press release!”
With hands clasped, Emerson and I each lower a finger to the “big red button,” and introduce the world to our latest idea. After months of tireless effort, it feels wonderful.
There may have been a time when starting my own business, launching a brand new product, and subjecting myself to the crazy world of the internet may have been terrifying. But as I look up at Emerson, I realize that I’ve already taken the biggest, best risk of my life. Nothing can stop me now.
Scratch that, I think, as Emerson scoops me up into a celebratory kiss. Nothing can stop us, now.
THE END
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If you enjoyed “Stepbrother Billionaire” be sure to read below for an excerpt from Colleen Masters’ next book—coming January 2015.
UNTITLED
By Colleen Masters
The night air is warm for the spring as I walk across campus to meet Cara and her friends. I pass other students heading out for the night and feel happy to count myself among them. I go over my rules for myself as I near the crew house, which is just across the street from campus. No more than three drinks. No talking about classes. No weirdness around Nate Thornhill.
"Brynn!" Cara yells from the opposite sidewalk. I wave as I head over. "I can't believe you got a Lawn Room! That's amazing!" I lean over to give her a hug. She's an effortlessly cool, petite brunette – the kind of girl that everyone considers to be their friend.
"Thanks!"
"Holy shit! You got a Lawn Room? Are you, like, a genius or something?" her friend Rachel asks, her jaw dropping.
"I wish! Then all those papers would have taken me way less time," I reply with a laugh.
"Cara says you've never been to a crew party?" Marie, the knockout of the group, asks.
"Nope…just never made my way over here I guess," I reply, downplaying the situation.
"Well, they have the best parties," she assures me. "And the hottest guys."
"Lacrosse guys are hotter," Rachel argues.
"Of course, if you can get a combination of the two…" Marie murmurs, and they burst into laughter. My ears prick up – were they talking about Nate?
"Hey, you look great, by the way," Cara says to me as we walk up the front steps of the house. "Love that top."
"Thanks," I say, trying not to glow. A couple guys chilling on the front porch greet the other girls by name, and I blush as I feel their eyes glance over me. I tug my hair self-consciously as one of them grins at me. Two girls hurry past us in the opposite direction. One leans over the railing as her friend barely manages to pull her hair back before she retches into the bushes.
Sweat and the scent of beer greets us as we walk inside. The lights are dim, barely illuminating the mass of people crowded into the main room, and I feel my heels sticking to the sticky floor.
"Cara, the love of my life!" a tall, brawny guy says, sweeping her up into a hug. I recognize him from the crew team. Not that I've studied their roster photos or anything…
"Oh, ha, ha," Cara says, rolling her eyes, though something about the gleam in her eyes tells me she likes the guy.
"Can I get you ladies a beer?" he asks, nodding to the keg behind him.
"Yes, please," Cara says. "Hey, Foster, this is my good friend Brynn. This is her first Crew party so treat her nice."
"I'm always nice!" Foster says indignantly, then bows in front of me and offers his hand. "M'lady," he says as I place my hand in his and raises it to his lips. Marie and Rachel giggle and then head over to another group as Foster hands them their beers. Cara and I follow Foster over to an old, mysteriously stained, couch in the corner. We weave around other scantily clad co-eds, and for the first time in my life, I feel like one of the cool kids.
I perch nervously on the far left cushion as Cara sits next to me, with Foster on her other side. I slowly sip my beer as he whispers in her ear. I've had beer before, even gotten tipsy a few times with Allison and Miriam when we first turned twenty-one and tried out some wine bars. I just want to make sure I don't overdo it tonight and end up like that girl we passed on the way inside.
"Where's Nate tonight?" My head whips around as I hear Cara ask Foster the question. My heart stops for a second. I have to admit I'll feel crushed if he's not even here.
"He's somewhere around, probably getting crushed under a pile of women," Foster replies, rolling his eyes, and Cara laughs. I down half my beer. I can't believe that actually makes me feel jealous. I've never even met him!
Cara and Foster keep chatting, and though Cara makes an effort to include me, I'm feeling too nervous to contribute much to the conversation. By the time I finish my beer, I really have to pee.
"Be right back," I murmur to Cara, and go looking for the bathroom. I weave through the sweaty throng to a hallway along the stairs. I see a line of five girls outside of what I assume is the bathroom, and with a sigh, I step behind the last one. The door opens and a guy darts in front of the front girl.
"Hey!" she protests.
"Sorry! Emergency!" he cries, and shuts the door behind him. I lean back a little and glance up the stairs. There are several people hanging out on the landing, but it's definitely quieter up there, and I'm sure there's more than one bathroom in this place. Holding my legs close together, I turn around and hurry up the stairs.
I bypass the first couple rooms with open doors and come to a couple closed ones. I can see a room at the end of the hall that looks like a lounge, with a pool table in the middle of the room. One of these two rooms must be the bathroom. I lean toward the nearest one and press my ear against it. I can't hear anything. I knock softly and wait for a reply, and when I don’t hear one, I slowly turn the knob and open the door. I gasp as it's pulled open and out of my grasp.
My eyes fly up and into the eyes of Nate Thornhill.
"I…I…" I stammer. His pupils dilate as he stares at me in amusement. I let my gaze fall down his body. He's naked but for a pair of pale blue boxers. Good lord, his body is ridiculous. The line down between his six-pack abs looks like it was etched in stone. It's suddenly very difficult to breathe.
"See anything you like?" he asks drily. I snap my gaze back up. A brown curl of hair hangs just over one of his eyes. I clear my throat as I try to think of something to say. I feel his gaze travel over my body in return and desire pools in my stomach.
"Oh, no, I was—"
"You wanna join us?" he says, pulling the door open a little more. I glance over his shoulder and see a naked girl in bed covered in rumpled sheets.
"Nate!" the girl says with a giggle, and pulls a sheet up over her breasts.
"Come on. If I weren't already naked, I'd say you were undressing me with your eyes," he says smugly to me. I feel my cheeks turn scarlet.
"No, sorry," I murmur, and rush down the hall and back down the stairs as I hear the girl dissolve into laughter behind me. I run straight out of the front door and down the front steps before I stop on the sidewalk.
Ugh, I'm such an idiot. I raise my hand to my mouth and wipe the back of my palm across my lips, smearing off my lip gloss. I don't belong at parties like this, and I certainly don't belong with Nate Thornhill. I've never been so embarrassed in my life. And his arrogance! Asking me to join him and that girl as though I actually would!
Hot tears build up behind my eyes and threaten to spill over. I had such high hopes for tonight, such high hopes for him. And he ended up being so crude.
I pull my phone out of my wristlet and shoot off a quick text to Cara: Hey, just got a terrible headache. Headed back to my dorm. See you later!
I head back across campus and to the safety of my dorm room. My phone buzzes and I pull it back out to see her response: Feel better!
I envy Cara. Everything seems to come so easy to her. She can fit in anywhere, make friends with anyone. I guess I'm just not that kind of person, much as I'd like to be.