When I reach the car, I check Drew’s social media again, though I really shouldn’t, and find she’s posted a photo from the night before. There are ten of them sitting at a long table in what appears to be a crowded bar: her and her husband, his friend Hayes and Hayes’s wife, Tali, two men who seem to be a couple...and, at the very end, Ben, with his arm around Juliet Cantrell, a gorgeous singer I’ve seen in Drew’s photos before. She’s tucked into his side, her hand resting on his chest.
The caption reads Three bottles of wine later…and @julescantrell was already having way too much fun BEFORE the wine arrived.
My stomach starts to fall. He’s never even mentioned her, but why would he? It’s not like he owes me an explanation. We’re not even a couple.
I start to scroll back through Drew’s feed, driven by terror and also certainty: I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know when I find it.
And then I do. It’s a picture from Drew’s wedding—her and her husband slow dancing, and behind them, standing just as close, and looking into each other’s eyes—Ben and Juliet.
With shaking hands, I turn the phone facedown on my lap, breathing through my nose. My eyes sting and I fight it, hands clenching into fists.
I knew this moment would come. I did. And I’ve dreaded its arrival every day since this thing with Ben began. As hard as it is, as sick as I feel right now, at least I get to stop waiting for it—the moment is here. Now I just have to put the pain—and him—into my past, where they belong.
I text Keeley and tell her I’m coming to the party after all.
The rain has ended by the time I reach the mansion. The bass is thumping, a strobe light is flashing, and scantily clad girls are dancing by the pool and drinking something too blue to be natural.
“You made it!” Keeley cries, throwing her arms around me. I suspect she’s had plenty of the blue drink, and that it’s probably extremely strong.
One hour later, I’ve had two of them myself and Keeley is insisting I have a third. I showed her the pictures of him and Juliet—she was already inclined to think the worst of him, thanks to me, and that sealed his fate. She’s now determined to get me laid, while I’m simply determined to become more numb than I am.
“Your phone is ringing,” says a girl on the other end of the hot tub, grabbing it from the table behind her and handing it to me.
The phone is no longer ringing by the time I take it. The screen says I have two missed calls from Ben.
“Ignore him,” says Keeley. “No, wait. Don’t ignore him. Let’s video call good ol’ Ben.” Her face stretches into an absolutely evil smile as she grabs the phone from me.
“What are you doing?” I demand. Talking to him is not a part of the plan. Not talking to him, actually, is my entire plan at present.
“Giving him a taste of his own medicine,” she replies, handing me my phone just as Ben’s face appears on screen. For a moment I’m struck by how much I miss him. How much it hurts that he didn’t invite me on this trip, that he took someone else instead. I want to beg him to explain, but even drunk, I’m ashamed of the impulse. He owes me nothing, and even if he did…it would be pathetic.
He frowns, two matching furrows between his brows. “Where are you?” he demands, sounding a little pissed. Keeley just to my left, giggles.
“At a party,” I reply, civil and nothing more. “Some gamer’s mansion.”
Keeley leans into the frame, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Commander Shane,” she brags, as if he’s going to be impressed by this or even know who the fuck Commander Shane is.
“I thought you said it was a little get-together.” And now there’s no mistaking how irate he is. “And why the fuck are you wearing a bikini?”
“Plans change, Ben!” Keeley shouts helpfully, before she slides away.
I take a sip of the blue drink someone’s put in my hand. “It’s a pool party, obviously.”
“Did you just accept a drink from a complete stranger?” he asks, nostrils flaring. “And how are you getting home?”
I hitch a shoulder. “No idea. I’ll figure it out.” I want to keep him on the phone, suspended in this moment where an us still exists, but it’s painful at the same time. Every second just reminds me more and more of how much I liked him. And I did. I really, really did.
A female calls to him from another room, and my stomach drops so hard and fast I feel sick from the sudden change. “It sounds like you need to go.”
“They can wait,” he growls. “So you’re in the mansion of some gamer you don’t even know, drunk, and you have no idea how you’ll get home.”
The female voice is approaching, insistent and possessive.
“You’d better go, Ben,” I reply. “Before your date sees you talking to someone else.”
And then I hang up the phone.
For the next two hours I continue to drink, but I can’t numb myself enough to not be upset about the conversation.
All I really want to do is go curl up in the room Keeley’s staying in here and weep, but I suspect she and the guy she’s seeing already had sex in the bed, so I remain in place, perched on the edge of the hot tub while she persuades two guys to rub our shoulders and two other guys to rub our feet.
I guess I am drunk because there’s literally no way I’d go along with this sober.
“I liked him,” I whisper. It’s possible I’ve said this several times since I ended that call.
Keeley leans her head on my shoulder for a half second. “I know, babe. Pick someone here instead. Anyone. Sleep with Jason if you want. I really don’t mind.”
I laugh miserably. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone. Not even Jason, but I appreciate the offer.”
“More alcohol, then,” she says, raising my empty glass and hers. “We need two more boys to fetch us fresh drinks!”
I laugh again and close my eyes, wishing I could just have this whole day behind me. And then Keeley says, “uh oh”, and I open them again…to discover Ben standing on the other side of the hot tub. He’s wearing jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a t-shirt, looking better than any man ever has…aside from the fact that he is very, very angry. Although that looks sort of good on him too.
The rubbing stops.
“Thought you were in Palm Springs,” I call over the music, and for the first time I hear myself. It turns out I am drunk.
“Gemma,” he says, eyes narrowed, “can I speak to you?”
I get the feeling he’s not actually asking. I climb out—my feet no longer working as well as they did when I climbed in—and he pushes through the crowd to wrap a towel around me.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m celebrating Jesus’s birth, obviously.”
The DJ chooses this moment to put on “Talk Dirty to Me.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re drunk. Let’s go.”
I stiffen. I’m not doing this again. I’m not letting someone else hold all the cards and dictate how I lead my life while refusing to invite me into his. I’m not letting someone convince me I’m the issue.