“I know,” I stopped him, because I did know.
He would never be the same, and neither would I.
If you asked three different whiskey distilleries what the best kind of whiskey is, you’d find three different answers. Some like their whiskey sweet, infused with honey or fruit and smooth on ice. Some prefer their whiskey bold, with sharp spices and mint. Me? Personally, I preferred whiskey that burned — slowly — in an all-consuming fashion.
And that night, I felt every inch of my body catch fire as I drained the bottle.
Jamie took his time, finding what worked for me and what didn’t. He explored my body, tasted my skin, and exposed me to a passion unfounded in my life before that night. I came first, tightening around him and fisting the sand at the edge of the blanket. Jamie followed closely, and I nearly lost myself again at the sound of my name on his lips as he fell apart.
He held me close as we climbed the stairs back to Earth. He was still inside me, and he kissed me softly, his eyes lingering on mine. I think Jamie was drinking me in that night, too. I wondered if I burned. I wondered if he liked it.
So you see, the addiction was born on a chilly February night in the soft sand of a private California beach. In that moment, wrapped in his arms under a woven blanket, I felt euphoric. But as we all learn at a young age, what goes up, must come down.
And oh how we crashed.
FOR THE FIRST THREE minutes of consciousness that next morning, I lived in complete and total bliss.
I lie in bed, stretching my arms high above me and flexing my toes as a sleepy smile moved in on my face. I was deliciously sore, aching both physically and yearningly. I wanted more, I wanted to relive last night, I wanted to stay in that memory forever.
After three minutes, my eyes shot open, and dread rushed in like a hangover.
I sat up straight, clutching my sheets in one hand while the other found my forehead. Gazing around my room, I tried to guess what time it was. Jamie and I had stayed out late — too late — the sun already rising when he dropped me off. We’d both been quiet on the ride home, and even though he held my hand the entire way, I worried what he was thinking. Was he feeling guilty about Ethan? Did he regret making the move? Or was he high off life like I was, even if what we had done was wrong?
I couldn’t tell, and since it was daylight when he dropped me off, we didn’t risk another kiss or even a hug. He simply squeezed my hand before letting it drop and I snuck back into my dorm.
Reaching for my phone, I groaned at the time — 1:42 PM.
I’d missed my Sociology class and I was about to miss English Comp I if I didn’t get my ass across campus in less than twenty minutes.
I jumped up, throwing my hair in a sorry excuse for a bun and rushing to brush my teeth before dressing in the first pair of jeans and long sleeve shirt I found. Even though I was in a hurry, it wasn’t enough of a distraction from the thoughts racing through my mind.
Adjusting my book bag on my shoulders, I pulled out my phone again, checking for a text from Jamie that still hadn’t come in. The dread I’d been feeling low in my stomach all morning made enough room for doubt and anxiety to slink in with it.
Last night had been amazing, and Jamie had seemed so sincere, but what if it was all an act? What if he planned that — the whole opening up to me thing before making his move?
Even as I thought it, I knew it couldn’t be true. But what could be was that Jamie felt like last night was a mistake. Or worse, that last night didn’t mean anything at all to him — that he wasn’t even thinking about me at all. That was probably why he hadn’t texted.
Or he could be sleeping still.
But he’s likely stripping off Melanie From Orientation’s bra.
Maybe he’s just in class. Did he have classes on Friday?
Nope. He was definitely putting another notch in his headboard. Right next to the one he carved out for me last night.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Wait, it’s Friday?
I smacked my forehead hard with my hand and dragged it down over my face slowly, biting my forefinger as it ran across my lips.
I don’t have classes on Friday.
Grumbling, I turned back toward the dorm but took the path that crossed past the coffee shop. Clearly I needed caffeine. I was losing my damn mind.
My pace slowed a little then, but the thoughts buzzing around in my head like wasps only zoomed faster. How was it that everything had felt so right last night, yet felt so wrong now? How was it that the safety of Jamie’s arms was somehow lost after a few hours of sleeping on my own?
I blew out an exaggerated breath, deciding to put myself out of my misery and text him first. But when my fingers hovered over the keys, I realized I had no idea what to even say.
— Wow. Didn’t even get me breakfast the morning after. What a let down. —
Lame. I deleted it.
— So… last night was fun. —
Ugh, too desperate. I shook my head, settling for one word.
— Hey. —
My throat tightened as I hit the send button, knowing I couldn’t take it back now. Part of me was convinced I was acting crazy and he’d text back in a matter of minutes, but the other, louder part of me said nothing is ever certain when it comes to Jamie Shaw.
I tucked my phone in my back pocket just as I rounded the breezeway that led to the coffee shop, desperate to get some caffeine in my system. But when I spotted Jamie walking out the door, I paused.
It wasn’t as cold at that time in the afternoon, and Jamie had already shrugged out of his jacket. It was draped lazily over one arm while his other arm rested easily around the shoulders of one of the girls he’d hooked up with earlier in the semester. I thought her name was Tina, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t care, honestly. All that mattered was that she was laughing, head tilted back as Jamie grinned down at her, his mouth too close to her neck.
I swallowed, trying to shake the icky feeling climbing from the tips of my cold fingers to the warmth of my neck. But when Tina placed her hand gently over Jamie’s chest, both of them still laughing, I lost any fight I had left to convince myself whatever I was seeing was innocent.
I was going to be sick.
Ducking inside the doors of the breezeway bookstore before he could see me, I sprinted to the first trashcan in sight and heaved, my stomach too empty already to cooperate. A few girls scurried away from me as one of the cashiers rushed over to see if I was okay, but I brushed him off, bracing both hands on the trashcan for a moment to steady myself before racing out the door again.
Each step vibrated from the sole of my foot up between my aching thighs, still sore from him, and I dug my thumbs into the loops of my backpack straps, pulling them tighter and tighter as I walked. I’d never experienced anxiety like that — the crippling kind, the kind that makes every rational thought literally impossible to grasp.
Jamie never did text me back, not in the time I walked back to the dorm or later that night when I stayed wrapped in my comforter, staring at the phone, hoping for something — anything — to prove my gut instinct wrong.
Reassurance never came, no one to break up the party dread, anxiety, and doubt were throwing in my stomach now. Guilt moved in next, and there was only room for one more. I curled in on myself, squeezing my eyes shut and rocking gently, holding out for hope. Finally, at just past midnight, I gave up on waiting. With a shaky sigh, regret slipped in, stealing the last spot.