“Give it a rest, Tomlinson.”
“Give what a rest?”
“Your mission to be my personal savior. I appreciate the concern for my future, but it’s not necessary. It’s frankly a bit condescending, coming from a guy who once agreed to swallow a goldfish on a dare.”
He groans at the mention of the koi incident. “Fine. Message received. No more life advice from me. We can just drink beers and talk about sports, like the hyper-masculine Neanderthals society expects us to be.”
“Afraid you’re on your own for that.” I chuckle. “I’m taking a hiatus from drinking.”
He looks at me in surprise. His mouth opens to comment, but he merely nods and shuts it when he sees the expression on my face. “Fine. I can deal with no beers. You still eat burgers though, right? Because going vegan is where I draw the line…”
THIRTY-ONE
josephine
The buzz of the front gate makes me look up from my laptop screen. My heart leaps inside my chest.
Archer?
I’m desperate to see him.
I’m also terrified to see him.
The last time we were in the same room, we nearly combusted in a supernova of lust. I couldn’t think straight through the haze of desire that clouds my mind whenever I’m in his presence. I thought time might help me sort through some of my messy emotions, thought space might let me better articulate my thoughts… but in the handful of days since our heated kiss, my blood has cooled only marginally — a low simmer of need that hums in my veins at all times. It will take no more than the brush of his fingers, the skim of his lips, to ramp back up to a rolling boil we cannot contain.
In this moment, I don’t care.
Abandoning the student housing application on my laptop, I jump to my feet and race for the front door. My heart deflates as I peer at the image projected from the front gate camera — a Pepto-Bismol-pink Land Rover idles in the driveway, with Odette and Ophelia Wadell grinning from behind the dashboard.
“Yo, Jo! Let us in!”
I buzz them in with a martyred sigh and head out onto the front steps to await their arrival. Music blasts from the rolled-down windows as they race up the driveway in a blur of bubblegum pink. The car is barely in park before they’re bounding toward me, platinum blonde bobs bouncing with every step. They strut up the front walk like they own the place. They’re dressed in matching neon bikinis and designer flip-flops, with sheer sarongs wrapped artfully around their willowy frames. Odette is carrying a beach bag with towels and sunscreen; Ophelia is toting a cooler that I know from experience contains all manner of alcoholic beverages.
“This is a surprise,” I say, holding open the door and allowing them inside. “Did I invite you over for a pool party and completely forget about it?”
“Nope. This is an ambush!” Odette informs me happily. “We had no choice. You’re not answering your phone.”
“It goes straight to voicemail,” her twin adds. “What is this, the Dark Ages? Are we supposed to send you a fax or something if we want to hang out?”
“Sorry.” I shrug. “It’s on silent-mode.”
“Why?”
“Dodging my parents calls.”
“We repeat — why?”
Oh, no reason… besides Oliver returning to Switzerland and promptly informing them about the broken engagement, not to mention my intent to attend Brown in the fall… thus eradicating everything they’ve ever wanted for me in a single crushing blow…
I woke this morning to the insistent vibrations of my cellphone on my nightstand. Even after I sent the call through to voicemail, it proceeded to buzz so many times, I thought it might dig its way down through the earth’s crust, all the way to the molten core. When I turned it off completely, like clockwork, the landline began to ring on five-minute intervals. I unplugged the damn thing, for lack of any better options.
Only a few more days, I console myself. Then I’m out of here.
“Hello?” Odette and Ophelia are blinking at me. “Anyone home in that head of yours?”
“Sorry.” I laugh. “Lately things in my life are… complicated.”
“Great! We love complicated. You can tell us all about it over frozen margaritas. Where’s your blender?” Ophelia doesn’t wait for an answer; she’s already headed for the kitchen.
“Go get your bikini on.” Odette bumps her shoulder against mine and pushes me lightly toward the staircase. “You look like you could use some sun. You’re pale as an old man’s inner thigh.”
“Thanks,” I say wryly.
“Oh, relax. I said, ‘You’re pale’ — not, ‘You look like you’ve been locked in your room watching reruns of The Great British Bake-Off for the past week like a sad little loser who’s allergic to sunlight.’”
“Ouch! That was harsh.”
“Go.”
I turn and head upstairs to find a swimsuit, too tired to argue with her. Mostly because she’s sadly correct in her assumptions — I have, in fact, been locked in my room watching reruns of The Great British Bake-Off like a sad little loser all morning. Something about watching strangers create delicious confections through a high-def screen has a calming effect.
My life may be spinning out of control, but damn, would you look at that beautiful five-layer buttercream cake?
In the kitchen, the sound of the blender flips on. I let the hum of crushing ice carry me down the hallway to my bedroom, and tug on the first bikini my hands land discover.
Over two rounds of frozen margaritas, the twins listen to my tale of woe. I tell them everything about Oliver’s proposal and my parents deception. I even tell them about Archer. By the time I’m done talking, the ice in my margarita has turned to water beneath the scorching midday sun and both of them are looking at me with fascination.
“Sorry,” I murmur, sipping the watery drink. The sugared rim of the glass hits my tastebuds with lip-smacking sweetness. “You guys came here to hang out and instead I’ve just spent an hour talking your ears off.“
“Oh my god, do not apologize.” Ophelia grins. “Your life is always so much more interesting than anyone else we know.”
“Seriously,” Odette adds. “You could have, like, your own reality show.”
I shudder at the thought of a camera crew following me around, documenting my every move. “Introvert, remember? That’s my version of Hell.”
“Lame.” Ophelia sighs. “We’d make great guest stars. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Oooh, yes!” Odette giggles. “The fabulous BFFs who sweep in to dispense advice about boys.”
“And occasionally, give fashion tips.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I laugh and set down my drink. “But I’m more interested in boy-advice than fashion at the moment.”
“Have you heard from Oliver since he left?”
I shake my head. “No. And I don’t think I will. Ollie isn’t the type to change his mind or circle back. He’s the quintessential businessman — by now, he’s already assessed the pros and cons, accepted the cause as lost, and moved into damage-control mode.”