And there's still a part of me that wants to promise her it's going to be okay.
Chapter Sixteen
Leighton
It flashes in my head for the hundredth time—
Penny's French-manicured nails digging into Ryan's tattooed forearm. Her laugh filling the air as she leans closer. Whispers some memory about old times. About how thoroughly he fucked her. How much she misses his lips, his fingers, his cock.
I suck the last drop of Grey Goose from my straw. Unscrew the cap on the bottle. Fill my glass to the brim.
That's enough to knock me out all afternoon.
This is complete hypocrisy.
It's pathetic, drowning my feelings in booze.
But I don't care.
I need these awful mental images gone.
The two of them in this bed, him tearing off her pretty cardigan, her unzipping his tight jeans. Sliding them off his hips. Trailing her lips down his stomach.
His hands in her long, dark hair.
It's so long. And dark. And pretty.
She's gorgeous. In that striking way. In a New York City kind of way. In a she had nine years in his bed, and she's already a cheater, she's probably not going to keep her hands off him kind of way.
I suck vodka through my straw. It's crisp. Clean. Clear.
But it fails to ease the tension in my shoulders.
I drain the glass. Leave it—and the bottle—on the black dresser.
Ryan hasn't lived here for nearly a decade, but this room still screams of him. Posters for gritty thrillers and indie bands cover the black walls. White string lights line the ceiling.
When I pull the blackout curtains—black, of course—the sun disappears.
The room goes dark.
I flip the switch and the string lights glow like stars.
Mood lighting.
Lighting to fuck by.
Or fuck yourself by.
I press my eyelids together. Attempt to destroy my mental images of Penny and Ryan with much more appealing ones.
It doesn't work.
I see them. Here. There. Everywhere.
The room spins as I fall onto the black bedspread. It smells like him.
It's not him.
But it's warm and comforting all the same.
I wrap myself in the blanket, close my eyes, try to convince myself to stop imagining Ryan and Penny's conversation.
I fail.
Light floods the room.
The door presses closed.
"Fuck, Leigh." Ryan's voice flows into my ears.
I wipe my eyes. Pull the blanket tighter.
"This is healthy."
"Fuck off."
The weight on the bed shifts as Ryan sits behind me. His fingers trail my upper arm. My shoulder. "What are you doing in my bed with a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose?"
"You're out of Belvedere."
"That's why you're trying to destroy your liver?"
No, I'm trying to destroy my mental images of the two of them together. "It's a party."
"You look like you're having fun."
"Are you here to berate me?"
"No."
"What do you want?"
His voice gets soft. "I was looking for you."
"Why?"
He makes that what the hell noise.
His fingers curl into my shoulder. He tugs at my skin. Turn around. Look at me. Offer me everything you have to give.
My breath is shaky. "I don't feel good."
"Wonder why." He nudges me again. Look at me.
I don't. "If you want fun, let's go outside. Swim. Why don't you swim?"
"The chlorine fucks with my contacts."
"Take them out."
"Nobody sees me in my glasses."
He's right. Somehow, he's spent the night at my place a dozen times, and I've still never seen him in his glasses.
"Okay. Fine. We can dare someone else to skinny dip," I say.
"Dare?"
"What's wrong with a dare?"
"You Dean all of a sudden?"
"Good idea. We'll get Dean to start a truth or dare game. You can ask Penny if Boat Shoes has a bigger cock—"
"I don't give a fuck about his cock."
"What if that was why she left?"
"It wasn't."
"How do you know?"
"Really?"
"Yeah." I hug the blanket. Every petty, immature impulse rises in my throat. I'm a teenager again, crying at a party because the guy I like is never going to like me back.
Because there's no one waiting at home to wrap their arms around me and promise it will be okay.
I grew up taking care of myself.
I can do it again.
But it feels so good, letting Ryan take care of me.
Letting him in.
I can't give that up.
He brushes a wet hair behind my ear. "You need to know something, Leigh."
"Yeah?"
"I have an exclusive on crying in this room."
"Is that right?"
"I'm the only person allowed to be miserable in here."
"Scribble no one understands me in your sketchbook?"
"Exactly."
"Draw I hate my parents on your arm?"
He shakes his head. "Angry lyrics."
"Linkin Park?"
"Everybody my age screamed Linkin Park at some point."
"You're forty, right?"
He chuckles. "You want to know a secret?"
"Of course."
"I'm a vampire."
My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders. "Is that right?"
"Yeah. I'm four hundred."
"Is that why you avoid the sun?"
"People would see me sparkle."
"You do sparkle."
"That a compliment?"
"Yeah."
His fingers skim my neck. Shoulders. Arm.
His touch is impossibly soft. Impossibly sweet. Impossibly loving.
But he doesn't love me. He's still wrapped up in her. It's obvious in the way he looks at her.
"Leigh." He tugs at the blanket. "Look at me."
"I'm not sure what that could accomplish."
"I'll tell you what Penny said about Frank's cock."
"She didn't tell you anything about his cock."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Ryan?"
"I'm making a face. You can only see it if you look at me."
"You don't make faces."
"I don't have facial expressions?"
"That's not the same."
"You want to see, you have to look at me."
Fine.
I force myself to turn around.
He's sitting there—now in black jeans, only black jeans—his piercing blue eyes fixed on me.
"She did not say anything about Frank's cock."
He nods.
I shake my head.
Again, he nods.
"We're going in circles."
"Yeah."
"What did she say?"
"He's not bigger." His lips curl into a half smile.
"I knew you cared." My gaze fixes on the hollow of his neck. His bare shoulders. His chest. His stomach. Those soft hairs beneath his belly button. "You're such a guy."