Two years ago, he stopped showing up.
He sends money sometimes. Sometimes enough to cover most of our expenses. Sometimes enough for a week of groceries. But I never know how much is coming. When it's coming. If it's coming.
Now… with this money from Ian…
I can tell my father to fuck off. To keep his bullshit apology cash. To swallow it along with his next drink.
I never have to take his help again.
That's worth so much.
My shoulders ease. "And my scholarship came through. So we don't have to worry about that."
"Oh my God, Eve, way to bury the lead! Let's celebrate." She jumps off the bed and holds out her hands come here.
I take them. Let her pull me up.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I heard something about cookies." My eyes flit to the window. Still afternoon. "Or maybe ice cream and coffee. A new dress from that place in the Village. And dinner. At that vegan restaurant by NYU."
"With the veggie meatballs?"
I nod.
"You sure? We can do Indian."
Mmm. Tantalizing options. But this place is Addie's favorite. And the meatball sandwich is surprisingly good. "Tomorrow. Tonight, veggie meatballs."
"You really are in a good mood."
"Life is good, kid." I motion to the makeup piled on my desk. "Just give me ten. Uh. Twenty. I'm going to savor the I'm done call."
"You don't want to do it in person?"
"I never want to see that place again." I pick up my lipstick. Cheap stuff. I can toss it now and replace it with something premium. The twenty-dollar-a-tube lipstick that lasts for hours.
"Okay." She moves to the door. Looks back at me with a smile. "When does your new gig start?"
"After the beach trip."
"You're coming?"
"Mm-hmm."
She bounces back into the room. Throws her arms around me. "Thank you."
"It's not for you. It's a free beach trip."
Addie beams.
It makes my heart warm. Ice, what ice? I'm a freaking puddle.
My sister is everything. The only family I have left. The only person in the world I trust. Seeing her happy and healthy… it's overwhelming.
Lying to her… not as much. But better than saying guess what, my hymen is worth six figures. Who knew? "I'll be busy once I start. The boss is very demanding."
"What are you doing for him?"
"Whatever he wants." Technically true.
"So you're like… his assistant?"
"Something like that." I don't want to come up with any more half-truths, so I motion to the door. "Give me twenty."
She hugs me again then she moves into the main room.
I press the door closed. Pick up my cell. Check the number one more time.
It's still there. Fifty grand in my checking account. The beginning of the end of all my problems.
Maybe fairy tales do come true.
Or maybe I'm about to find out Prince Charming is a very wicked man.
Chapter Fourteen
Eve
Original Sin
Thursday, June 11
Two p.m.
Have I answered the question? Brave or foolish? Careful or cowardly?
Is yes an answer?
Maybe all of the above.
It's right here. On my desk. A large manila envelope disguised as junk mail. Because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome thinks of everything.
And I don't think anymore. I'm not sure how I'm writing this, because I'm no longer in touch with my brain.
Only the free fall in my chest.
I'm doing it. Taking the leap. Accepting an offer that promises to erase all my problems.
And in exchange…
I'm still a virgin.
In a month and change, that's unlikely to be the case.
Maybe I should say more. State it explicitly.
Normally, I'm not afraid of the harsh truth.
I don't mince words.
I don't beat around the bush.
But why do I need to make a big deal of this? It's my virginity. Why can't I make use of it instead of losing it at a hotel after prom?
Does that actually happen anymore? Or just in old TV shows?
It's a silly idea. The thought of saving it for someone special. If you asked me two months ago, I would have laughed at you.
Am I saving it? No. There's no "do not cross" line on my panties. No "only the worthy may enter" tattoo on my inner thigh. No "insert six-figures before you insert six inches."
Look at me, making jokes about dick size. As if I care. As if I'm another bro at school who needs to turn everything into a measuring contest.
Newsflash asshole: no one cares if you're five inches or six inches or seven inches or twelve inches.
And the more you discuss it, the more we think you're on the smaller side.
I guess I'm contradicting myself here. How can I consider it if I don't care? And how can I say "women don't care about dick size" when my only female confidant prefers pussy?
I really have no idea.
And no way to handle all the thoughts racing around my brain. The thoughts of him. How I'll handle him.
I don't believe in "big dick energy." Why am I sure he's ample? Besides the stereotypes from old TV shows?
I don't know.
But I do.
I guess, if I'm here, I want to contemplate something. But it's still in soft focus. Distant. Blurred by the big, bright sky.
Life is good. No clouds. No drunk assholes. No bills to pay.
Just a new black bikini in a new purple suitcase. Because black suitcases are impossible to pick out of a lineup and I can't buy teal.
I can't take another person telling me my outfit matches my hair as if I don't own a mirror.
A weekend away from my problems. Lying in the sun. Splashing in the Atlantic.
Then I come back to the city and I dive into the deep end.
Which is scarier? Two and a half days in a ritzy suburb—with my sister's girlfriend's family—or thirty with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?
Both. In different ways.
Family is hard. The words Mom and Dad make me cringe. I lack the ability to smile and say thank you, I so appreciate what you're doing for my sister.
I'm too busy looking at the cracks. Wondering when shit is going to finally hit the fan.
Is it an affair? Drug addiction? Drug overdose? Suspicious circumstance surrounding a death?
I know it's something.
There's always something.
It must be true for him too. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is far too, well, handsome.
Too rich.
Too successful.
Too enticing.
The way he issues dirty demands—
There must be women everywhere ready to fall to their knees.
Fuck knows I am. Even though I have no idea what comes next. Yes, I know the general concept. I have a few articles with, ahem, tips. Instructions even. But there's nothing like practical experience.
And I'm lacking there.
But if that's what he really likes about me…
There's got to be a catch. Something wrong with him. Something behind the cool expression and the soulful eyes.
What is it?