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grimeysociety · 2 months

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I mean, I was the one that chose to see Dune: Part Two and then read this 25k+ part within the same 24 hours, it's my own doing

But goddamn

You Look Good: Chapter 10 (complete)

And for those who'd rather read in smaller pieces: Chapter 10.1 Chapter 10.2 Chapter 10.3 Chapter 10.4

Summary: Summer 2013

Rating: M

Word Count: 27k (don't look at me)

Warnings: M/E rating (no minors, please!) for language and for the fact that they do sex in this chapter. This is sex, folks. They are doing sex. A lot of sex, honestly. This one's pretty porny when you lay it all out together. So, if you don't want to read about them doing sex, I invite you to turn back now. Student/teacher relationships, older man/younger woman relationships, power dynamics, infidelity, and general poor decision-making.

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Your first summer in London was turning out to be pretty terrible.

It wasn’t supposed to be, of course. When you’d decided to stay for the summer instead of going home like your mother begged, it was because you had plans. You had a sweet, goofy boyfriend to hang out with. You had summer classes to fill your days. And most importantly, you’d booked a commercial for the first week in June.

Only, pretty much as soon as you signed your summer lease agreement, your sweet, goofy boyfriend decided that he was too busy to be in a relationship anymore and wanted to take a break for the summer.

And your summer classes were about as much of a cakewalk as could be while still being eligible for credit. You could pass them with your eyes closed and one foot out the door.

And the commercial you’d booked…

You didn’t want to think about it.

The sky above you rumbled with the ugly rumor of an impending storm, and you found yourself begging the rain to hold off at least until you’d made it onto the tube because in all your rushing around to get out the door for your 6 am call time, you’d forgotten an umbrella or anything that might keep you warm and dry on the way home.

Naturally, the rain didn’t hold off. The clouds opened up when you were still a block from the station and as the downpour flattened your hair and soaked your clothes, you let your shoulders drop with a defeated sigh and didn’t even bother to run.

No point.

You were squishing your way back to your apartment when your phone buzzed with a group text to you and Claire. Zorra. Plz don’t come home until after five—Lacie’s here; would like some solo flat time. PS: Hope the shoot went well, Yank 

In the middle of the sidewalk, you stopped and stared at the phone. It was only just after four. Again, you groaned and changed direction, wandering instead toward campus.

The main building was still open from the afternoon classes, though you barely noticed anyone still lingering as you made your way through the halls and toward the black box downstairs.

It was your favorite place to hide these days. Not in use at the moment, quiet and dark enough to feel like you could disappear inside of it. Not a tight space like a closet that would give you a panic attack.

It was just…

Nice and empty.

Just like you’d been feeling since Joe had unceremoniously pressed pause on your relationship three weeks ago.

I don’t want to break up, he’d said, dancing around your room, a whirlwind of anxious, fidgety energy. But c’mon. You’re in stuff, I’m in stuff. We’ve got classes. Other jobs. I just feel like I’m being a bad boyfriend because I never have time to spend with you.

It was bullshit. Utter bullshit.

Joe was a great boyfriend regardless of how busy he was. Over the spring he’d been in three shows, two short films, and balanced a full load of courses while managing to maintain your relationship just fine.

The only difference now was that after five months of monogamy, he’d clearly started to get itchy. He’d remembered that there were plenty of girls he hadn’t noticed before. Girls who could very easily be within reach if he could just slip out of the shackles of being someone’s boyfriend before he started reaching.

If nothing else, you had appreciated that he didn’t cheat on you.

Even if his reasons were bullshit—and even if the idea that he’d been too busy to stay in a relationship with you, only to bounce from new girl to new girl with alarming speed just a few days later was baffling—at the very least, he’d had the decency not to bother with infidelity.

That was something, at least.

You sank into a seat in the middle of the third row with a sound like someone dropping a load of wet laundry. Trying to run your fingers through your hair was a wasted effort—without a towel and a dryer, there was no salvaging this look.

A rush of feelings rose to the back of your throat. Exhaustion, self-pity, anger, frustration. All of it bubbled together until you were pretty sure you were going to start crying while, against your will, your memory started playing back the events of the day.

The comment from the director right at the top of the shoot. Christ, how much weight did you gain since casting?

Even though you hadn’t gained any weight—in fact, since your stomach flu last week you were actually down a few pounds—he only laughed when you tried to tell him that.

The critical eye of the AD after you’d been to make-up. The way he’d snapped his fingers at the make-up crew and told them to work some kind of miracle on the dark circles under your eyes.

Dark circles you didn’t even realize you had until today. Something new to be self-conscious about.

But all that was nothing compared to the actual shoot itself. When they’d put you in a plunging, low-cut dress that was just barely taped to your skin and told you to lean farther over the bar to pour the vodka.

And farther.

And farther over the bar.

Telling you again and again that you were in their star’s light. But if they would just shift the camera three inches to the left, you and this guy you were supposed to recognize from Coronation Street could cheat to the left and you wouldn’t have to be practically pouring the drink over his lap.

But no. No blocking changes. No camera changes. No lighting changes. Just you, fucking everything up.

Again and again; you felt yourself getting more frustrated every time you tried to give them what they wanted until finally, you’d cleared your throat and said, “If I lean over this bar any farther, I’m going to fall out of my dress.”

“Fucking finally, she gets it,” your co-star had muttered, shaking his head.

“Excuse me?” you’d looked at him, certain you had misheard.

“Don’t know how much clearer we have to be, poppet,” the director chimed in, popping his smug face out from behind the camera. “Nobody hired you for that,” he pointed to your face. “Or for you to play Lady fucking Macbeth, alright? We hired you for those,” his finger moved from pointing to your face to pointing directly at your chest. “Show your cleavage, say your line, and maybe we can all get the fuck off this set before we have to feed everybody dinner.”

Now, alone in the theater, you dropped your face into your hands and squeezed your eyes shut. Not going to cry, you told yourself. Not worth it. Just shake it off and get on with your day.

The side door opened with an unexpected clatter, and you jumped; startled out of your self-pity for a moment and ready to be shooed out of the space for an incoming rehearsal. But you stopped when you saw who it was and felt your shoulders drop again.

Of course.

“Sorry,” you said without prompting as you stood. “I’m going.”

Professor Martinez stopped a few feet from the door that had just swung shut and looked up from his phone. Even in just the glow of the ghost light, you could see his features twist in confusion as he looked around. “Someone say you have to?”

He was American too. From Texas, you thought you’d heard through the grapevine, though he didn’t have a Southern accent. It was still a nice change to hear—a difference that would have been comforting if he wasn’t such a dick.

Unintentionally, you sniffled and pressed the back of your hand against your nose. “I don’t want to get in your way if you need the space—” you said, hating that your stupid voice was wobbling no matter how hard you tried to keep it steady.

“I don’t,” he said with a shrug. “I was just passing through.” He waited another beat and motioned for you to sit back down. “Carry on.”

You swallowed hard and sniffed again as you nodded. “Okay,” you said in your small, self-pitying tone. “Thanks.”

Martinez had made it almost all the way across the stage and to the other door before he stopped. You weren’t watching him, but you could see from the corner of your eye how he reached for the opposite door handle and then dropped his arm before he turned around. “Uh. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically, trying not to roll your eyes. “I’m fine.” As if he cared.

There was another pause from the door. You waited for him to turn back around and keep going.

He didn’t.

Instead, he took a few steps toward you. “You…sure about that?”

“Yeah,” you said again brusquely. “I’m good. I just…” you stopped and swallowed again, subconsciously bringing your arms across your stomach, giving yourself a protective little hug. “I shot a commercial today.”

“Mm,” the professor hummed as he nodded and crossed back to the seats. He set his messenger bag down in the front row. “That’d bum anyone out.” You let out a joyless chuckle and shook your head. You didn’t want to look up from your wet shoes. Not when you could feel the way he was looking at you. Studying you. “Something happen on set?” he asked finally.

You shook your head. “Nothing I shouldn’t have seen coming,” you muttered. Worse than how they treated you and the things they’d said, were the things you’d said. Or rather, the things you hadn’t said. Because you hadn’t said anything. You’d just nodded like a meek little mouse and done exactly what they asked. Showed the cleavage, said the line, acted grateful for the opportunity.

You felt sick. Disappointed with yourself and unfairly ashamed that you hadn’t stood up and quit.

You sniffed again. “I feel stupid,” you said finally, unsure why you were telling him any of this. Except that he asked. And you knew if you went home and told Zorra and Claire there would be righteous feminist anger and threats of tire slashing and honestly, you didn’t want any of that. “I just…”

“You just what?” he asked when you trailed off.

You swiped at the space under your nose again. “I just wanted to be an actress,” you said quietly and chanced a look up at him with another sad laugh. “For them to like me because I was good, ya know?” Your eyes fell to the floor again and you shifted to rest your elbows on your knees. “Didn’t ever want to feel like this.”

He was still studying you and while you waited in the silence that fell, you braced yourself for some unsolicited pep talk. A shot in the arm about how the world was full of opportunities and you couldn’t let one douchebag with a camera upset you. But when he spoke, all he said was, “Do I know you?”

You looked up. “What?”

“You look familiar,” he said, his brow still crinkled in thought. He was a little too good-looking to be more than twice your age. Tall and fit with salt and pepper hair that was perpetually a little messy. Sharp, pensive dark eyes and a strong nose and chin offset by a surprisingly patchy beard that didn’t match his mustache. A mustache that had no business being so attractive when, on every other man in the world, it was second only to the soul patch for the title of worst facial hair ever.

“I took one of your weekend intensives in the spring,” you said flatly. “You didn’t like me.”

Two 12-hour days of a movement and dance course to get your credit. He’d made each day feel like 12 years.

Martinez looked surprised. “I didn’t?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

You didn’t bother hiding the roll of your eyes that time. “You said that if I knew what to do with my body, I could seduce anyone on any stage, but since I obviously didn’t know what to do with it, it was a waste of good hips,” you repeated, wishing you couldn’t recite his criticism word-for-word. But that’s how feedback worked, wasn’t it? Only the bad stuff tended to stick. “So yeah,” you said. “Pretty sure.”

“Oh, yeah.” To your surprise, and only making you dislike him more, he smiled and nodded with recollection. He let out a little laugh. “That sounds like some bullshit I’d say to try and cover my ass.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Cover your ass?” you repeated. “How so?”

“I, uh,” he coughed quietly. “I tend to protest a little too much,” he admitted and rubbed the back of his neck, almost looking embarrassed. “So that nobody ever accuses me of playing favorites.”

“Favorites…” you said the word slowly. “So, you mean—you did like me?”

He offered an exaggerated wince that shouldn’t have been anywhere near as adorable as it was. “Sure sounds like it.”

You sat back with a squish of wet clothes. “Could’ve been less of a dick about it.”

He laughed again. “I’m not your Scout leader, I’m your teacher,” he reminded you. “If I was a dick about something it’s because I liked you and I wanted you to improve so you could be successful.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So, you think I…am wasting my hips or whatever with my lack of seduction skills?”

Martinez softened with a real, genuine smile that made him look younger and did something inconvenient to your stomach. “I think you had a shit day,” he said plainly. “I think you should go home and try and forget about it.” His smile didn’t fade as he continued. “From one expat to another? Most of the shit heels who run the business in this town wouldn’t know a good actress if she bit ‘em on the dick.”

You couldn’t help your snort that fell into a real, albeit tired, laugh. “Wow,” you shook your head. “That was very Texan of you.”

He grinned. “Can’t shake it, New York. You oughtta understand that.” He leaned over the row between you and gently swatted your knee. “Go home,” he said again. “Get high, take a bath and…I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Do women still watch Sex & the City?”

You laughed again. “Jesus, you are old.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I’m gonna let that slide,” he said as he motioned for you to get up. “Because you had a bad day.”

“And because it’s true,” you shot back, gathering your things.

He was still smiling when you made your way to the end of the row. “You feel even a little bit better, kid?”

Normally, you hated it when someone called you that. Especially men. Especially older men. But you didn’t hate it then. “Yeah,” you nodded. “A little.”

“Good,” he waved for you to follow him as he started walking toward the door again. “I’ll walk you out. I think the rain stopped.”

He was right. As he held open the door and allowed you to go ahead of him back onto the street, the sun was just starting to shine again.

***

You’d already gotten started working when AJ arrived in his usual flurry of self-contained chaos. Bag open, bagel held between his teeth, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, backs of his shoes showing evidence of being trampled down.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully as he kicked his office door shut behind him. Although, with his mouth full of his breakfast, it sounded more like Oodhoring! You couldn’t help but chuckle as you got to your feet and crossed the small office to take his keys and coffee from his hands. “Thank you, darling,” he said easily, setting his bagel on his desk. Shrugging off his bag, he bent to adjust his shoes. “Alarm didn’t go off this morning.”

“That makes…what? Five years in a row?” you joked, setting his coffee and keys in their usual spots.

“At least,” he quipped in return before he looked around the room. “And what part of this sty did you decide to improve upon today?”

This part-time job of decluttering and organizing AJ Quinn’s office was one of the only good things about your decision to stay in London. Not only was it simple, mindless work that actually relaxed you, but it was also the chance to work for one of your favorite professors and one of the best directors you’d ever watched up close.

The office itself was a nightmare, but you’d been making progress.

“Your filing cabinet,” you said, folding your legs back underneath you as you returned to the corner where you’d been going through a mountain of unorganized paperwork.

“Have I got one of those?”

You snorted. “Sure do,” you reached behind you and gave the metal block a rattling pat. “And when I’m done today, you might even be able to use it again.”

When you glanced up, AJ was smiling again. “Bloody brilliant, you are,” he said warmly. “Did you eat this morning?”

“I had a granola bar,” you assured him. “I’m good.”

He studied his desk. “This is all…different,” he said cautiously. “What have you done?”

You got up again and approached the desk. You placed your hand on the largest stack of papers. “This you need to go through—keep or toss.” You pointed to the other three piles in order. “That’s new mail, those are your lesson plans and class notes, and that’s your show binder and honestly, everything that should go in a script bag, so you don’t lose it.”

He looked up, halfway amused. “And have I got one of those?”

“If you do,” you glanced around the room with a smile. “I haven’t found it yet.”

“Well, keep me posted, will you?”

You gave him a little salute. “Aye-aye.”

AJ let you return to work while he began sorting the papers you’d left for him. He held up one. “Straight in the bin? Or do we need to shred?”

“Should be alright to just toss,” you shrugged. “Anything sensitive is staying filed for now.”

“Lovely,” he said under his breath, returning to the pages in his hand.

You worked in companionable quiet for almost an hour before the door to his office flew open and Joe practically skidded in, out of breath. “Dad, hey,” he huffed before his eyes fell to where you were camped on the floor. “Oh. Uh. Hey.”

“Hey back,” you said, not looking up from your work. If you didn’t look up, you could pretend he was just another student who didn’t knock and not one you weren’t supposed to be thinking about anymore.

“Assuming you need something, my boy?” AJ asked, his eyebrows lifted in curiosity.

“Yeah,” Joe nodded and came the rest of the way into the office. He ran a hand absently over his messy curls. “I need your key to the AV shop.”

AJ blinked. “Why?”

Joe hesitated. “Uh…special project?”

His father stared up at him. “Henry’s making another film?”

“What?” Joe let out a shocked scoff. “No, obviously,” he added with a forced laugh. “I know how mad you got last time we used school property for—”

“Oh, just take it,” AJ held out his key ring. “But I swear it, Joseph, if you damage anything—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said hurriedly, slipping the key he needed from the bunch. “All on us to pay for it, never getting the opportunity again—” he looked up with a bright smile. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Joe sprinted from the room without another word, leaving his father shaking his head as he pocketed his keys again. “Speaking of,” AJ said carefully. “And knowing it’s none of my business,” he added. “But I’m going to assume my son is still being a bit of a knob where you’re concerned?”

You tried to smother a smile between your lips before you looked up. “Pretty much full-time.”

He let out a little sound of disappointment. “Truly thought I’d raised him to be smarter than that,” he said quietly.

“No, don’t blame yourself,” you shook your head. “There’s only so much you can take credit for. Question,” you changed the topic and pointed to the top of the bookshelf behind his desk. “Those two boxes up there—do you remember what’s in them?”

AJ followed your point and then turned back with a smile. “Oh, nothing is in them.”

You lifted your brow. “So, you just keep empty boxes around for the fun of it?”

“Not for the fun,” he corrected. “For the day that this place pushes me over the edge, and I want to quit.” He paused and caught your expression. “Come now, darling, you never want to ruin a dramatic exit by having to come back for your things.” He tutted quietly and shook his head. “Always make them wonder how you managed to leave so quickly.”

You snorted and returned to your work. “I always learn so much from you,” you muttered.

There was more than a few full days’ worth of work left to do in turning AJ’s office into something that resembled an actual workspace, but the school only allowed for four-hour shifts at a time for their work-study program. It was just after one that you found a good stopping point and gathered your things.

“I’ll walk out with you,” he said, setting aside the sketchpad where he’d been drafting staging ideas. “Need a bit of a brain break anyway.”

He’d just locked the door behind him when someone called his name from down the hall. You turned with him to see Professor Martinez making his way down the hall. AJ brightened. “Javi!” he called back. “Haven’t seen you,” he said as they met for a handshake. “Wasn’t sure you were still in town for summer term.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” Martinez—Javi, you corrected yourself. The knowledge of his first name zinged unexpectedly around your mind—said with a shrug. “Last minute course change.” His deep brown eyes moved from AJ to you, and he smiled again. “Hey there,” he said in a voice like warm honey. “You feeling better?”

“Uh, yeah,” you said, glancing down as you tucked your hair behind your ears. “Better. Thanks.”

AJ glanced in your direction with concern. “Oh no. Were you ill?”

“No, no,” you shook your head. “Nothing like that.”

To your relief, Javi didn’t seem to be planning on divulging any more of what he’d witnessed of your pity party. He fell into step beside AJ and began discussing agenda items for an upcoming meeting. You lagged just slightly behind, wondering why you weren’t just splintering away from them and getting on with the rest of your day alone.

But for whatever reason, you didn’t, and you managed to trail behind them all the way outside.

Once you reached the sidewalk, however, AJ’s phone began to ring. He frowned down at the screen. “Sorry,” he said, more to Javi than to you. “Gotta take this.” He looked up once more to point in your direction. “See you Thursday, my dear?”

You smiled and nodded. “Thursday morning.”

He was gone a moment later, leaving you and Professor Martinez in the path of a small army of musical theatre majors. You stepped into the grass just in time to avoid being trampled by a girl your age humming ‘I Have Confidence’ from The Sound of Music under her breath. It took a moment for the quiet summer morning to return, but once it did, you looked at Javi and smiled. “Twice in a week I’ve seen you now,” you commented lightly.

He had dimples too, you noticed. His patchy beard hid them, but in this light, they were almost as obvious as Joe’s. “Yellow car,” he said with a shrug.

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” he nodded toward the busy street on the other side of the green space. “You always spot a yellow car when you’re looking for a yellow car?”

You frowned slightly as you studied him. “That implies that I’ve been looking for you.” And you hadn’t been. You definitely hadn’t been. You almost definitely were pretty sure that you hadn’t been looking for him.

He lifted his eyebrows once and hitched his shoulder bag up again. “Glad you’re feeling better, kiddo,” he said and gave you the quickest wink you’d ever seen before he turned and started walking in the opposite direction.

On your walk home, you spotted three different yellow cars.

***

One of the biggest problems of dating within a very tight circle of friends was that it eliminated the possibility of a clean break. There was no chance of just not seeing Joe because he was still stitched in too tightly with the rest of your life. If your world in the summer of 2013 was a tapestry, Joe would have been a spilled glass of wine staining everything it touched—it may look terrible now, but there was no getting it out, only living with it.

And even if you’d never wanted to see him again—which wasn’t really the case—you still wanted to see all the idiots he lived with. And you still did things like lend them your immersion blender when Henry wanted to make smoothies and hadn’t gotten around to replacing the stand-up blender that they’d broken last winter.

Your key turned in the lock, but you still knocked as you pushed it open. “It’s just me,” you yelled into the seemingly empty flat. “Just need to grab something and I’m out of here.” No response, but after a moment, you heard the telltale sound of someone rummaging in the refrigerator. Through the pass-bar, you saw the door open and the light on, but whoever was digging was hidden from view.

No matter, you told yourself. Because Henry had left your blender out on the bar for you and all you had to do was grab it.

Which is exactly what you were doing when the person who’d been in the fridge popped up. A thin, blonde, fake tan-sporting person with messy hair and black eyeliner smudged below her eyes.

And absolutely no top whatsoever.

“Jesus, fuck,” you blurted out, mostly in shock, averting your eyes out of politeness. “I, uh, I’m just here for my blender,” you said and held it up as proof.

“That’s yours?” she asked in a voice that practically punched you in the face from the heart of Essex. “Hope you don’t mind, I used it for a cake last night.”

“Uh, no,” you shoved it into your bag, still keeping your eyes downcast. “Whatever.”

“Oh,” she looked down at herself and let out a high-pitched laugh as she tossed a casual hand over her small breasts. “Pardon my tits.”

“Who’re you—” Joe’s voice preceded his appearance in the hallway. Also shirtless and wearing just a pair of boxers. “Oh, fuck,” he stopped as soon as he realized the answer to his question. “Yank—”

“I was just leaving,” you said shortly and turned to go, your stomach churning. You didn’t even know why. You knew he was sleeping with other people. That was the whole point of breaking up with you—because he wanted to fuck other people.

But it was one thing to know it tangentially. It was another to be staring the reality straight in the tits.

“Did you need—”

“Yep,” you clipped and took the blender out of your bag to wave once. “Got it. Sorry to have interrupted.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” the blonde chirped cheerfully.

You couldn’t help but let out a joyless laugh, uncertain if it was thoughtless cruelty and she knew exactly who you were and why you would have rather set yourself on fire than spend another second in that flat, or if she really was that oblivious.

It didn’t matter. You closed the door behind you and made it down to the street before the urge to vomit finally passed. When you took out your phone, Claire had sent a text to you, Zorra, Meg, and Christian with a picture of herself, red-faced and sweating, still sitting atop a spinning bike at the gym.

Fuck this being fit shit, her message appeared a moment later. Who is free tonight? Can we drink?

You laughed, relieved that someone else had suggested it, and tapped back an immediate agreement.

Normally, you drank at the Queen’s Arms. It was closest to your building and boasted the cheapest drinks in the neighborhood, and as such, was always flooded with students and other young, broke Londoners who didn’t mind the taste of cheap beer and greasy, fried food.

But since May, Claire’s older brother had been working as a general manager at The Free Spirit—a much nicer cocktail bar closer to campus that none of you would be able to afford if it wasn’t for a nice, generous 50% family discount.

“No, seriously, fuck him,” Zorra said firmly, reaching for the second bottle of wine of the night.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s what she was doing all afternoon, Z,” you grumbled. “Or last night. After she used my fucking immersion blender to bake his skinny ass a cake.”

“Which is not even what it’s for!” Christian added with a definitive point of his finger.

“Thank you!”

“And who the fuck bakes a cake for someone they barely know?” Meg asked sourly. “Who is she, Mary Berry?”

Claire, who’d started earlier in the evening when she’d come down for dinner with her brother before everyone else had arrived and was looking a little more glassy-eyed than the rest of you, nodded toward your phone lying face down on the table. “Has he said anything about it?”

“No, of course not,” you shook your head once. “And y’know what? I don’t want to say anything more about it either. I’m fine,” your hand sliced through the air. “Let’s talk about something else.”

There was a brief lull as it seemed like the rest of the table tried to think of a new topic all at the same time. Finally, Claire opened her mouth. “I’m pretty sure I pulled my—”

“It’s just—why her?” you demanded, cutting your friend off and making yourself a liar in the process.

Zorra shook her head with a fond smile of exasperation and started pouring everyone another round. “Who would you rather it be?” she asked.

“Not her!” you exclaimed childishly. “Not someone so…” Your mouth folded into a frown. “Little.”

Claire—already having forgotten that she’d been interrupted—tilted her head to one side. “Was she like...a little person?”

“What?” you demanded. “No. What? I mean like. She was so…” your hand gesticulated in a wild circle while your slightly drunk mouth tried to keep up with your thoughts. “Cute and little and thin but not skinny with her cute perky little tits that she could cover with one hand and like—” you stuck out your tongue. “Ugh. Could she be any less like me if she tried?”

Beside you, Christian mirrored Claire’s head tilt of confusion. “Would you…want him to be screwing around with girls who look like you?”

“Yes!” you said immediately before you shook your head. “I mean. No, I don’t want that, but like. You know when you break up with someone and the next person they date is basically your clone? And then you can look at it and go A-HA! You do still want me, and you are still thinking about me because if you weren’t you wouldn’t have found my long-lost twin as a rebound—”

“Has this happened to you?” Zorra asked, bewildered.

“Yes!”

“How many times?” Meg asked.

“Twice!” you exclaimed. “Both of my ex-boyfriends have only dated girls who at least looked like they could be related to me after we broke up, and even though I was heartbroken, I could still look at them and go Fuck you, I’m your type now! Good luck getting me out of your head. Sucks to suck, bitches.”

“Okay, well,” Claire pressed her lips into a straight line. “That’s not…really the universal experience you seem to think it is, babe. And I don’t get why that would be less upsetting than who you saw today.”

You swallowed hard and felt your lips pout. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “It was just like a smack in the face, I guess. Like, wow you really don’t want me anymore, do you?” You reached for your wine glass. “And then my scumbag brain is like, what if he always wanted someone who looks like her, and I was just standing in until he found one and—”

“Hey!” Christian snapped his fingers in front of your face. “You are not talking about my friend, Yankee like that, alright?”

“Our friend,” Claire chimed in.

“Our friend who is mad fuckin’ fit,” Meg added. “And does not deserve to be compared to some bint prancing around the boys’ flat with her tits out!”

“Drinking to that,” Zorra muttered, shaking her head again.

“And I don’t care how perky her tits are,” Christian continued. “Yours are phenomenal. I look at them all the time. Disrespectfully.”

“Me too,” Meg admitted with a shrug.

You snorted and leaned your head against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you said, addressing the rest of your friends with a sweep of your eyes around the table before you glanced up at Christian and smiled. “I don’t believe you, but I appreciate it.”

“Why?” he asked, defensively. “Because I’m gay?”

“Yeah,” you laughed again. “That’s the biggest reason.”

“Oh please,” Christian waved your words away. “Nobody’s that gay.”

“Wait wait, what are we drinking to?” Claire asked, looking like she was having difficulty keeping track. “To Yankee’s tits?”

You couldn’t help your cackle as you shook your head. “While I appreciate the gesture,” you held your wine glass aloft. “I’d much rather drink to a life in the theatre—”

“And all that entails!” They chimed in with the usual response to the toast and clinked their glasses with yours.

After that, you did stop talking about Joe and who he was spending his time with and let the conversation turn to Claire and her pulled hamstring, then to Zorra and her unexpected love triangle, Christian’s horrible supervisor, and Meg’s horrifying realization that she may be developing a crush on Wes.

It was a full night.

You weren’t drunk by the time everyone started gathering bags and jackets, just a nice, pleasant buzz that would likely dissipate by the time you made it home. “I’ve still gotta cash out,” you told your friends when they waved for you to follow them. “Go ahead, the bar’s swamped. I’ll get a ride home.”

It was ten minutes just to get the bartender’s attention. You’d settled in to wait for the man to return with your credit card when someone spoke from your right. “Well, this is just getting ridiculous now.”

You blinked and looked, surprised to find Professor Martinez had slid up to the space beside you. A shot glass clutched loosely between his finger and thumb tapped lightly on the bar’s glossy surface. “I’m just living my life,” you reminded him with a smile. “You’re the one who keeps finding me.”

He grinned. “Maybe that’s because I keep looking for you.”

You swallowed as a flutter of excited nerves swirled in your stomach. “Sure that’s the kind of thing you should be saying to one of your students?”

His smile didn’t falter. “One of my students?” he repeated. “No, absolutely not. But one of my former students?” He rolled a shoulder. “That’s a whole different ballgame.”

You were grateful for the dim lights that hid most of the blush his words brought to your cheeks. “What are you doing here, anyway?” you asked, changing the subject. “Drinking alone?”

He laughed. “I was having dinner with some colleagues,” he said with a glance over his shoulder to a darker corner of the room. “But someone’s kid is sick so they’re all taking off.” He turned back to you. “Figured I’d have one more and head out myself.” He looked around. “Can’t help but notice that you also seem to be drinking alone.”

“Not at all,” you answered smoothly. “My friends just left; I’m waiting for this very distracted bartender to return with my credit card and then I’m heading home.”

“They left without you?” he asked, sounding slightly scandalized.

“I told them to go,” you corrected. “I hate making people wait for me.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” he said with a small smile.

“Yes,” you nodded. “I’m a very nice girl.”

“Well,” he inhaled steadily and lifted his hand like he was hailing a cab. “Would a very nice girl like to have one more drink with me and save us both from anyone thinking we’re drinking alone?”

And you knew that you should say no. You knew that no matter how he joked, or what your status was as a current or former student, this was a bad idea. A completely inappropriate, bad idea. You knew that. You knew that the smart thing to do would be to say, ‘No thank you’, wait for your card to be returned, and go home as planned.

But somehow, when you opened your mouth, all that came out was, “I suppose one drink won’t hurt.”

In your defense, it was only one drink.

You watched in amazement as he was able to grab the bartender’s eye and order two shots of tequila as if there wasn’t a swarm of people on the other end of the bar demanding his time and attention.

“And the lady will be needing her card back,” he added when he handed over three twenties, seemingly covering his tab.

“Oh, right,” the bartender looked at you like he’d completely forgotten you were there. Typical. “Won’t be a moment, love,” he promised with a smile.

You doubted it, but when he returned to set up two shots, a shaker of salt, and two wedges of lime, he also brought with him your card and slip to sign. With a reluctant smile, you glanced to your right again. “Thanks for expediting that,” you muttered, tucking both the card and receipt back into your purse.

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugged again and looked from you to the filled shot glasses and back again. “Ready to do this?”

You took in a breath and nodded. “Sure.”

He reached for the saltshaker and then hesitated. “I assume you know how to do this?”

“What—a shot of tequila?” You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, I’m not twelve.”

You had, in fact, only done it two times in your life. But he didn’t need to know that.

He watched, amused, as you licked the back of your hand between your thumb and forefinger and dashed the salt onto your skin. You picked up your lime and shot and waited for him to salt his own hand before you held up your glass. “Cheers?”

He grinned. “Cheers.”

Salt.

Liquor.

Lime.

Try not to vomit.

Very narrowly succeed.

“Oh yeah,” he laughed, dropping his lime into his empty shot glass. “You’re a pro.”

“Fuck off,” you retorted, swiping a drop of liquor from the edge of your bottom lip. “I don’t know how tequila even caught on. No one likes it.”

“Plenty of people like it.”

“They do not,” you insisted. “If they did, we wouldn’t have to dress it up with all our little rituals to make it palatable.”

He was still grinning. “I’m going to assume that means you don’t want another?”

You let out another laugh. “I absolutely do not want another. But thank you very much, Professor Martinez, I really should—”

“Javi,” he said, interrupting you.

You looked up from where you’d been about to grab your bag again. “Sorry?”

“My name,” he clarified with a quiet chuckle. “You’ve gotta stop calling me Professor Martinez.”

You bit your lip and felt like you were sliding one foot out onto a frozen lake. If you kept your other foot on the snowy bank, you’d be fine. It wouldn’t be flirting. It would just be talking. “Well, if you don’t like me calling you Professor Martinez, maybe you should have thought about that before you became a professor, hmm?”

Again, that chuckle. A deep scratchy kind of rumble that did inconvenient things to your stomach as he shook his head. “I, uh,” he coughed lightly and ran a hand over the bottom half of his face. His palm scraped on his stubble. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Oh no. You were definitely slipping all the way onto the ice now. No pretending otherwise.

“I—um—” you stopped, your brain going unfortunately blank as you felt your cheeks burn again. “I should probably be going.”

“Yeah,” he nodded right away and stood up. “That’s a good idea.”

No, you thought as you hitched your purse over your shoulder. I should be going, and you should be staying here. But you didn’t say that out loud because you were pretty sure if you did, he would stay there.

And you didn’t want that either.

Your heart was doing a rather impressive tap routine in your throat as you followed him toward the front of the bar. You paused by the doors and tried not to bite your lip.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

This wasn’t a date. There was no reason for you to be feeling this kind of anxious, excitement. The little rush of nerves that fluttered up when it felt like anything might happen.

Only nothing was going to happen except that you were going to go in one direction and Professor Martinez—Javi—no, Professor Martinez—was going to go in another and that would be that.

“How are you getting home?” he asked, interrupting the roaring discourse running circles in your head.

“Oh,” you shook your head. “I’m just going to walk. It’s not far.”

“You sure?” he raised his eyebrows and glanced down at his watch. It was an old-fashioned kind with heavy silver links and multiple dials on the face. Not a smartwatch like everyone else seemed to have. “It’s pretty late.”

“Um, it’s fine,” you lied. “I do it all the time.”

He nodded slowly, looking like he was going to accept this for a few seconds before he shook his head. “Yeah, no. I can’t do it.”

“You can’t do what?”

“I can’t let you walk home by yourself. C’mon,” he spoke over your groan while you rolled your eyes. “It’s late. You’re a student so you probably live in some shitty neighborhood—”

“What a rude assumption!”

“I couldn’t live with myself if something happened,” he went on as if you hadn’t tried to interrupt him. He took out his phone. “Let me get you a ride.”

You scoffed. “I’m not making you pay for a ride for me!”

He looked up from his screen, eyebrows raised. “You’re not making me do anything, honey. I’m making sure you get home safely one way or another.”

“And how are you getting home?”

He smirked. “I’m driving my car, is that okay with you?”

“Fine,” you shrugged. “You can drive me home if my safety means that much to you,” you said before you continued, unable to help your smile. “I mean, unless you’re scared of getting car-jacked in Chiswick.”

His smile widened as he laughed quietly. “Y’know what?” he tucked his phone back into his pocket. “I think I’ll take the risk.”

His car was a block from the bar and unsurprisingly nondescript. Two-door, dark windows, no bumper stickers. It was clean inside when you dropped into the passenger seat—the only thing of interest was the gym bag in the back seat and the energy drink can in the cupholder.

“These things’ll kill you, ya know,” you said, giving the empty can a little shake.

“Those things can get in line,” he muttered as he started the car and navigated out of his parallel parking spot.

It was just a short drive to your block, and you found yourself wishing you lived just a little further away by the time he pulled up into a spot across the street from your building. He peered through the windshield and looked around at your deserted side street. “Seems safe enough,” he determined, glancing over with a smirk.

“Yeah,” you countered. “I think I’ll make it to the door alright.”

“I’ll watch just in case.”

“Well,” you smiled again and pushed your hair away back. “Enjoy the view then,” you said, feeling just a little cheeky as you added, “Javi.”

You had just reached for the door when you felt his hand on your arm. You turned back, about to ask what he wanted when his lips met yours.

It was a quick kiss. Little more than a brush of his mouth over yours, but it was more than enough to make you freeze.

“Shit,” he said as he pulled back. “That was…not okay of me.”

And maybe it wasn’t.

Okay, it definitely wasn’t.

Shameless flirting was one thing but—

Whatever journey your thoughts were about to go on—rolling over hills of ethics and power dynamics and rebound psychology—was abandoned when you leaned in and kissed him back.

His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers sliding into your hair to keep you crushed against him. Your mouth opened easily, welcoming the warmth and taste of his tongue over yours. He tasted like tequila—thrilling and unfamiliar—and suddenly being this close wasn’t enough.

He was pulling you closer, reaching down to move his seat back with one hand while the other helped you clamber over the center console. And then you were straddling his lap and your hands were free to roam over lean sculpted muscle and broad shoulders that were nothing like you were used to.

Your pulse was racing as he moved his lips down your neck, you had to smash your lips together to keep from moaning when you felt the light graze of his teeth against your skin.

He pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, and tipped your head down to meet his dark eyes.

“What?” you demanded breathlessly. “What is it?”

His thumb brushed along the dip beneath your bottom lip. “You sure you want to do this?”

Your whole body was thrumming with desire, heat had spread from your belly through the tips of your fingers and down to your toes and you were fairly certain that if he didn’t touch you soon, you were going to implode. “What do you think?” you asked, leaning to seal your lips to his again.

But he pulled away before you could reach him and said your name firmly. “I’m serious,” he said, forcing you to look at him again. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said, sinking lower over his lap until you could feel him pressing stiff and insistent between your thighs. “And I don’t think you want to stop either.”

The corner of his lips twitched into a little half smile as he pulled you back in close. “Thought that was obvious,” he said against your lips and a thrill spiraled down your spine.

His hands were large and rough when they slipped under your shirt and palmed your breasts over your bra. He returned his attention to your neck, sucking on the spot just below your ear while you rolled your hips impatiently over his. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said into the crook of your neck. You felt him smile as he gripped your hip, forcing you to stop. “I’m gonna give you what you want, don’t worry.”

He grabbed a handful of your skirt, bunching it in his fist, hiking the fabric up and around your hips. He teased the inside of your thigh for what felt like an eternity before you felt him stroke two fingers over your panties. You clenched your teeth and were just about to whine when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers into your slick folds.

“Oh fuck,” you heard yourself say around a stuttering exhale when he dipped into your center and spread your arousal over your throbbing clit.

His lips were on your ear, his tongue tracing the edge of your earlobe. “So wet already,” he murmured, sounding appreciative.

Before you could say anything—although you weren’t sure you could say anything with him working your clit like that—a pair of white headlights turned onto the street. Javi leaned back in his seat even further, pulling you with him so you were lying on top of him, safely under the beam of light that washed over the car.

You waited, letting out a quiet, guilty giggle until you heard the other car turn at the corner. Then you pushed yourself up on one hand and looked him in the eye. “You need to fuck me before we get caught.”

He snorted a quiet laugh and held your face to kiss you again. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

You sat up again and undid the buckle and zipper of his pants. He shuffled to get them down just enough and he groaned when you rolled on the condom he’d produced from his wallet.

There was something feral about the way he just kept your panties pushed to the side to bring you down onto him. Like he couldn’t wait; like he wanted you too badly to make you take them off.

Your breath left you as you sank down onto his cock; a little moan you couldn’t help that he swallowed down when he kissed you again. Rough and filthy, all tongue and teeth while he curled his hand tightly in your hair. He pulled your head back, exposing your throat while he started to move inside you—holding you in place with one hand to thrust up. A fast, desperate pace that had your eyes rolling back in your head.

“S’that what you wanted?” he asked, his voice a low growl against your skin.

You closed your eyes, not sure you’d ever been stretched and fucked quite like this before, and dug your nails into his shoulders, holding out tighter. “Yeah,” you breathed out. “Yeah, this is what I wanted.”

“For how long?”

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, trying not to cry out from how good it felt—every time he moved, his cock hit you in just the right place. “Since you told me to watch Sex & the City,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Javi’s laugh was a quiet rumble that you could feel with your chest pressed against his. And it wasn’t just that you’d wanted him, it was that you liked the way he made you feel like he wanted you too. Like there was something about you he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t shake. Had to have.

You weren’t sure if anyone had ever made you feel like that.

A few more strokes of his talented fingers was all it took to push you over the edge. Your orgasm rushed over you unexpectedly, dragging a rough moan from the back of your throat while he sped up to chase his own release.

His heart was still pounding against your chest when you lifted your forehead from the crook of his neck. You were going to smell like him all night, you realized with a silly little thrill. You moved to push your hair off your sweaty forehead and managed to give him a smile. “Thanks for the ride, Professor.”

Javi laughed again and shook his head. Those surprising dimples on full display. “You’re exactly as much trouble as I thought you’d be,” he said, pulling you in for another kiss.

Your phone buzzed just as you slipped inside the door of your apartment building. You looked down, expecting it to be from one of your friends, demanding to know where the fuck you were. Or from the man whose number you’d just saved before getting out of his car.

But it wasn’t. It was from Joe.

Short and sweet.

Sorry, he’d sent. And then followed it immediately with another message. About earlier.

If you were honest, you’d nearly forgotten about Joe’s new fling and her lack of inhibitions and her unauthorized use of your immersion blender.

You paused by the mailboxes, your thumbs hovering over your phone. You could tell him it was fine. That you weren’t bothered. That you didn’t care what he did and he didn’t have to apologize for anything anymore.

But you didn’t. You slid the screen over the keyboard, dropped your phone back into your purse, and let him wonder if you were going to forgive him.

****

Claire’s long fingernails combed soothingly against your scalp while you sat on the floor in front of her a week later. Meg’s small living room was full of all the usual suspects, gathered round for a long-overdue movie date. You tried not to move your head as Claire began pulling your hair into a French braid and Meg studied her shelf of movies.

“How do we feel about a period film, friends?” she asked over her shoulder.

Collectively, the group let out a vaguely positive sound that translated to something like, ‘Sure, why not?’

“Next question: Regency or World War II era?”

You couldn’t help your groan. “Are you going to put on Pride & Prejudice again?”

Meg turned with the Blu-ray box already in her hand. “But it’s the 2005 version…” she stuck out her bottom lip. “I know you hate it but pleeeease?”

“She doesn’t hate it,” Joe scoffed from across the room.

You blinked and turned your head, Claire’s hands going with you, not stopping her braiding. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve never met a girl who hates Jane Austen.”

“That’s actually a total lie,” you informed him, trying to ignore the nervous glances Wes and Henry exchanged. “Because you’ve met me. And I hate Jane Austen. I hate the whole Regency period.”

“No, you don’t,” he repeated himself, casually reaching for the bag of chips on the coffee table.

“Joe…” Danny warned from the other sofa.

Joe paid him no mind as he continued. “I mean, you can tell yourself whatever you want, but deep down, every girl in the world gets all frothy for Mr. Darcy and you’re no exception.”

“Y’know, we don’t have to watch—” Meg started quietly.

“Okay, first of all,” you gently shooed Claire’s hands from your hair as you turned to face him fully. “Where is the confidence for this entirely wrong opinion coming from?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Zorra muttered.

He rolled his eyes and your blood boiled just a little more. “It’s the truth,” he said with another shrug. “Every girl—”

“Mate, just let it go,” Wes begged.

“The only thing every girl does is have a body that’s 80% water,” you snapped.

To further your fury, he just let out another chuckle. “Why are you so offended?” he asked. “I’m just telling the truth as I’ve observed.”

“But you’re not,” you said firmly.

“Yank,” Claire put her hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re literally sitting over there making sweeping generalizations about ‘every girl in the world’ based on your extremely limited observations. Which, as we’ve already pointed out, are flawed.”

“So, you’re saying that—”

“I’m saying,” you cut him off, unwilling to listen to any more of his bullshit arguments. “That the only thing all women everywhere get all ‘frothy’ for, is the lie that Ms. Austen sold us so many years ago.”

He lifted his brow expectantly. “And what lie is that?”

“The lie that somewhere, someday, a man might care for us so much that he would willingly, repeatedly offer to shut the fuck up, Joe.”

There was a brief, heavy silence before Wes broke it with a snicker that turned into a genuine laugh that was enough to break the tension that had settled and thickened between you and Joe. “I dunno about the rest of the judges,” he said with a grin. “But I’m givin’ that point to Yankee. Megara,” he motioned to your hostess with a flourish of his hand. “The film.”

From her place by the television, Meg looked conflicted. “I don’t think we should—”

“Oh, just put it on, babe,” you waved a hand. “You love it, it’s your house. I should’ve just kept my bullshit to myself.”

“You’re not the only one,” Zorra muttered, shooting Joe an icy glare that he missed. His head was down, his attention on whoever he was texting.

“Wait, we need more snacks,” Meg said and got up to go into the kitchen.

You followed her, feeling guilty for losing your temper so quickly over something so stupid. You paused in the doorway and watched her stand on her tiptoes to grab a bag from the top shelf of her pantry. “Sorryyyy,” you said quietly.

She retrieved her quarry—a bag of chocolate kisses—and closed the door. “You know, I should be a good friend and tell you not to let him get under your skin like that.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “But…”

She tried to smother a smile between her lips and lost, shaking her head. “But it’s pretty funny when he finally runs out of stupid shit to say.”

You giggled. “Still,” you crossed the room while she turned back and opened another cabinet door. You wrapped her in a loose hug from behind and rested your chin on her shoulder. “You know I’ll always watch your favorite movies with you, right?”

You heard her smile as she reached up and squeezed your forearm. “Even Pride & Prejudice?”

You sighed dramatically. “Even that. I’ll sit and listen to them all wring their little hands about Oh heavens however shall we maintain Pemberley on 20,000 pounds a year with only a staff of 15 servants! We must marry off our daughter to save her the sting of wearing last year’s dress in front of company.”

Meg laughed at your horrible accent and smacked you lightly. “That is not the plot of anything, and you know it.”

You opened your mouth to respond when the door to Meg’s flat opened and a sickeningly familiar voice called out, “Oy! Sorry I’m late!”

“No problem!” Meg called back. You dropped your arms and stepped away from her like she’d burned you. “Grab a seat, we haven’t started anything yet.” She caught sight of your face and frowned. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s just hanging out with us now?”

Her expression wrinkled further. “Who?”

“Okay, y’know what,” you dropped your voice to a whisper. “I’m taking my apology back. I cannot believe you invited Joe’s new fuck buddy over without warning me.”

Meg’s hazel eyes nearly doubled in size. “Mercedes is Pardon My Tits?”

You stared back. “Her name is Mercedes?” You dropped your head back and sighed. “Oh, I fuckin’ quit.”

“Wait, wait,” she held your hand as you tried to spin away. “Don’t be mad at me, I didn’t know. She’s a friend from the gym—we do spin classes together, with Claire. I thought she was nice.”

“I don’t give a fuck if she’s nice,” you snapped petulantly.

“I’ll never make you guys hang out ever again,” she said with a pleading look. “Just don’t be mean.”

“Me don’t be mean?” you pointed to yourself incredulously.

“You know what I mean,” Meg sighed. “Just…pretend she’s not here.”

You stared at one another, unblinking, for a long time before you sighed again. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m doing it because I love you and I know you hate drama.”

Meg smiled and leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose. “I know,” she said and grabbed her chocolates. “I love you too.”

When you returned to the living room, the newcomer was squeezed into the armchair with Joe, practically on his lap. “What are we watching?” she asked, oblivious to the way you were fighting the urge to grab her new boy toy by the hair and shake him until his fillings popped out.

“Pride & Prejudice,” you said flatly. “It’s Meg’s favorite.”

“Ohh, mine too!” she squealed excitedly.

“Of course it is,” you said under your breath. You were about to return to your seat on the floor, but Wes and Henry moved in opposite directions, clearing a space on the couch between them.

“Sit here, my darling,” Henry said with a charming smile, patting the seat while Wes reached out and grabbed your hand to pull you over.

“Thanks, boys,” you said, fighting a smile as you looked from one to the other. “Nice to know chivalry isn’t dead.”

Across the room, Joe coughed very loudly, just once.

While Meg was battling with the settings on her Blu-ray player, Mercedes cleared her throat and said your name. She offered a smile when your eyes snapped over to her. “I, um, I noticed your accent,” she said. “Are you American?”

“No.” Zorra snickered as Meg looked up and glared at you. You forced a smile. “I’m kidding,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m from New York—which is really like its own country anyway so…”

“I’ve got an aunt that lives in New York,” she said, still maintaining an astonishing level of cheeriness.

“That’s funny,” Joe spoke up. “Yankee’s got an aunt who lives here.”

“What a funny coincidence!” Mercedes exclaimed.

Zorra grinned. “Wow, you two have so much in common, you’re practically—”

“Movie’s starting!” Meg called out, just a little too loudly.

You had promised Meg you would not be mean. That you would act like she wasn’t there.

And God help you, you tried.

It was just that, not only was this interloper worming her way into your social circle, sitting in the lap of your ex-boyfriend, rummaging through his fridge topless, using an immersion blender for a cake mix of all things—

She was also the kind of person who talked through movies.

You ignored it for the first few comments. It was mostly trivia facts you’d heard a million times. A comment on Kiera Knightley’s bone structure. Nothing that was detracting from the plot you didn’t care about.

But by the time the Netherfield ball scene rolled around, you were well on your way to breaking your promise to Meg.

When Mercedes audibly sighed at the sight of Matthew Macfadyen, you felt Wes’ hand on the back of your head, scratching your scalp like a dog he was trying to keep from biting the vet.

“Does it get any better than Mr. Darcy?” she asked, sounding dangerously close to swooning. You clenched your teeth. “I mean, I just feel like that’s the shared, universal female experience, yeah? We all want a Mr. Darcy in—”

“Okay, I’m gonna go,” you said and stood abruptly.

“What?” Claire looked up from her end of the couch, voicing the surprise written on the faces of all your friends.

“Yeah, sorry guys,” you said, bending down to retrieve your purse from the pile by the door. “I’d stay but I, uh,” you stood up, your eyes falling on Joe again, and you were seized by the inappropriate urge to laugh. What the fuck was wrong with you? “I just don’t want to.”

“Yank, are you okay?” Zorra asked, her expression knit with concern.

“Fine,” you lied. “I’m just not feeling well, and I don’t want to bring down the vibe.” You washed your hand over the room, addressing them all. “Enjoy the universal female experience of lusting after Mr. Darcy, everyone.”

You had made it to the first intersection before your phone buzzed in your pocket. You took it out, bracing for a message from Meg or Claire or—god forbid—Joe, telling you what an idiot you were being.

But it wasn’t.

Doing anything important?

You stopped on the sidewalk and inhaled steadily. You hadn’t seen or heard from Javi since the night he drove you home—not that you’d expected to. That whole thing had very much felt like a one-time deal, even if he had asked you to save your number in his phone before you got out of the car.

No, you texted back, letting your bottom lip slide between your teeth. Just on my way home. You considered it for just another second and added. What are you doing?

Trying to organize my office, he wrote. Didn’t realize what a mess it is.

Your head tilted to one side as you studied his message. Did he know that’s what you were doing for AJ? Was he trying to get you to offer to come over and help him too?

Years of trying to guess what men were thinking, reading into every little word, and text, and molecule of attention had you feeling like a detective with every new interaction.

Would it be weird if you offered to come over and help? And did he actually want your help organizing his stuff? Or was that just an excuse to see you? Did you want to organize his stuff? What if you offered and he accepted, and then you had to help him clean his office?

And then your phone buzzed again.

You should stop by if you have the afternoon free, he wrote. I want to see you.

“Oh,” you said out loud. “Or he could just say that.”

Like a grown-up.

Javi’s office was in the same hallway as AJ’s, just on the opposite end. The door was slightly ajar when you approached and you knocked twice before pushing it open, expecting to see a mess of bankers’ boxes and files and books all over the place.

But there was nothing. Nothing was out of place when you stepped cautiously inside. Javi was lounging on a small leather couch pushed against the wall, his feet hanging over the edge, doing something on his phone.

He looked up with a smile when you cleared your throat, announcing your presence. “Hey.”

You smiled back slowly, glancing around. “Hey…” you reached behind you and shut the door. “This is…not a messy office.”

He sat up, set his phone on the nearest bookshelf ledge, and offered a quick, guilty wince. “Uh, no. It’s not.” He looked around as well. “I’m almost never in here,” he admitted. “So, there’s no reason it should be a mess.”

You nodded as a little twist of nerves and excitement tangled in your belly. “So…you’re a liar.”

His smile returned as he got to his feet. “Yes,” he nodded once. “Yes, I am a liar.”

“Luring me here,” you went on as he came toward you. “Under false pretenses.”

Javi took your purse from your shoulder and tossed it on the couch. “Right again,” he said with an unrepentant shrug. “But I only lied about the mess,” he said, stepping in close to put his hands on your hips. “I didn’t lie about wanting to see you.”

You smiled, tilting your chin up to meet his lips in a kiss that started slow and sweet and quickly turned into something more. He pushed one hand up into your hair and gripped your hip tight with the other while you opened your mouth and sighed audibly when he stroked his tongue over yours.

Yeah, alright, you thought. This could be a two-time thing.

He reached behind you to twist the lock on his door, sending a thrill down to your belly before you felt him pulling you toward him while he walked backward. Bringing you further into his office until he reached his desk. He spun you around, so your tailbone pressed against the wooden ledge and shifted to slot one of his legs between yours.

You let out another sound when he let one hand slide confidently under your shirt to squeeze your breasts, teasing your stiffened nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. His mouth moved down to your jaw and your knees weakened when he licked a long stripe up the side of your neck. He pushed your t-shirt up and over your head, dropping it to the floor behind him, and let his eyes travel slowly over your chest, drinking you in with a simmering hunger that made your stomach flip.

Javi kissed you again, sucking your tongue into his mouth while his fingertips trailed long, slow strokes over your bare skin. They stilled at the button of your shorts. He waited just long enough for you to nod before he undid the button and zipper, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to pull them off at the same time he pushed the denim down your legs. His hands went under you, lifting you onto his empty desk.

But the warm, hungry thrill that had been stirring just below your skin turned to a slither of unwelcome anxiety when you opened your eyes and saw Javi getting to his knees. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you said quickly, reaching for his face to coax him back up.

He frowned in confusion but stood and stepped between your knees again. “I don’t—have to?”

That uninvited unease simmered at the back of your throat as you shook your head, trying to be casual. “It’s just…um,” you shrugged trying to figure out how to say what you needed to say without saying what you actually needed to say. Trying to figure out why you’d opened your mouth at all. “I’m good,” you said after a moment. “I don’t need you to…”

The fine lines on the corners of his eyes deepened as he tilted his head to the side and studied you like you’d just said something in Greek. “You don’t want me to go down on you?”

You opened your mouth and closed it again, then settled for another shrug that didn’t come close to appearing casual. “I mean, you can do whatever you want,” you said and immediately regretted it when he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I just…” You stopped and looked down wishing you’d just kept your mouth shut and gone along without saying anything.

Because how were you supposed to explain that you were much better at giving head than receiving it? That every time Joe or anyone else had ever tried to return the favor, you’d ended up bored and staring at the ceiling, pretending it felt good and not understanding why it didn’t? Usually faking an orgasm to move things along to something you were better at.

Javi’s hand went to your cheek, his little finger tucked under your chin to lift your eyes back to his. “You just what?” he asked softly. “I told you—you tell me to stop, and I will,” he reminded you. “But I don’t know what’s going on here.”

“It’s nothing dire,” you said, forcing a laugh. “You can go down on me if you want but it’s not going to…um…” you bit your bottom lip. “Work? I guess? There’s something wrong with me. I’m like…broken, or something. I never…” you scrunched your face and brought your hand up to cover your eyes. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have said anything. This is—”

Whatever you’d been about to declare this, the thought died on your tongue when he leaned in and covered your lips with his. A long, slow kiss that silenced all the anxious thoughts in your head. His tongue swept over yours while his hands trailed down your neck and over your arms. “I don’t think you’re broken, sweetheart,” he said, pulling back just enough to brush the words across your lips in his low, smooth voice. “I just think you’ve been dating boys who don’t know what they’re doing.”

You let out another soft, embarrassed laugh. “So what?” you asked, pulling back a little more to meet his eyes. “Are you going to fix me?”

His smirk should have been too arrogant to be attractive. But it wasn’t. “I wanna try,” he said, pulling you back to nip a quick kiss on your lips. “If you’ll let me.”

Your inhale was just a little shaky as you felt yourself nodding, still trying to play it cool. “Sure,” you rolled your shoulder. “You can try. If you really want to.”

Javi shook his head just a little as he laughed quietly. His thumb brushed over the dip beneath your bottom lip. “You have no idea.”

You leaned back, resting your weight on one hand as he knelt in front of you again and pushed your legs apart. His hands hooked around the backs of your knees, pulling you to the very edge of the desk. You inhaled steadily, waiting for the brush of his tongue or the scratch of his beard, but it was his lips you felt first. Soft, gentle kisses that would have been almost chaste had they not been delivered to the side of your knee and started a slow trail up along the inside of your thigh.

Your chest rose and fell with another steadying breath while you listened to your heart pounding loudly in your ears. He reached up and took hold of your hand, feeding your fingers into his hair before he looked up from the tender kiss he delivered to the freckle on your left thigh. “I want you to tell me what feels good, okay?”

You swallowed hard and nodded. Already this was more consideration and communication than you’d ever had before.

Javi’s kisses continued, peppered with little love bites and flicks of his tongue as he moved slowly—almost painstakingly slowly—toward your center. When you finally felt his breath hot against you, you were close to squirming from the anticipation. He kissed your cunt like he was kissing your lips, slowly and with patience, teasing his tongue just slightly at your opening.

Enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

He pushed your legs a little farther apart, at the same time licking you open with one long swipe of his tongue. You mashed your lips together and muffled a quiet hum of interest. He kissed your clit gently—once, then again—but didn’t linger there. His tongue moved in a slow circle and then flattened against you, warm and wet and accompanied by a little sound of pleasure that buzzed through you and had you curling your fingers in his hair. He did it a second time, testing to see if you liked it.

And you did.

You really, really did.

“Fuck,” you breathed out when he dipped his tongue inside you. Your nails scraped over his scalp. “Can you do that again?”

You felt him smile as he pulled back and kissed your thigh again. “I’ll do this all day if you’ll let me,” he said, looking up to meet your gaze. His eyes were darker than before. Glassy with lust. “You taste so good, sweetheart.”

That tense anxiety stopped twisting quite so hard in your stomach. No one had ever told you that before.

He did as you asked, thrusting his tongue into you again before he flicked a series of quick little kitten licks over your clit. Just enough to tease you, humming against you again when you tugged on his hair.

Javi’s large hand curled around your hip, his thumb pressed down firmly on your pubic bone, sending an unexpected jolt of pleasure through your body. You were breathing hard, flushed and just on the verge of frustrated, when he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, drawing a deep moan from somewhere in the back of your throat.

Probably too loud for this office, but you were a little past caring by then.

He kept going, kept doing more of what you liked, listening to every clue and cue you gave him, until you were panting and trying to keep your legs from shaking. You forgot all about being self-conscious when he took hold of your ankles and pushed your feet up onto the edge of the desk, spreading you open as far as you could stretch.

He pushed one finger into you, then another, pumping them slowly while he flicked his tongue over your clit again. Your body was humming, your skin felt like it could crackle with the tension he was building.

You heard the way you whined—absolutely pathetic—while you squirmed against his face and tugged on his hair. “Please,” you all but whimpered. “I’m so close, can you—”

You didn’t get the chance to ask for what you wanted. You didn’t have to. Javi crooked his fingers just right and sucked hard on your clit at the same time. All the pent-up frustration and tension dissolved, and you felt like something cracked inside of you and flooded your system, shooting sparks to the tips of your fingers and toes and bursting spots behind your eyes. A rush of relief so intense you almost sobbed as it crashed over you.

By the time you were able to breathe again and blink the world back into focus, you were staring up at the ceiling, unsure of when you’d stopped being able to hold yourself upright. Your legs felt like jelly and your knees fell together, unable to hold themselves open any longer. Javi stood and swiped a hand over his beard, wiping his face before he leaned over you, letting his hands rest on either side of your head. “That’s what I thought,” he said with another smirk. He shook his head as you let out a low, dazed laugh and leaned down to brush his lips over yours. “Not a damn thing wrong with you, honey.”

****

You twirled your pen through your fingers like a baton while you waited for Joe at the little wrought-iron table outside the school’s coffee shop. With your book and notes spread out in front of you, it was easier to keep from checking your phone.

If you checked your phone, you knew what you’d find. A missed call from your mother. An email about registration for a guest lecture series from some of LAMDA’s more famous alumni. And a text from Javi asking what you were up to that you’d purposefully not responded to.

You weren’t trying to be coy or play hard to get—you were, it seemed, ridiculously easy to get where he was concerned—but you were testing yourself. Seeing how long you could go without texting him back and finding an excuse to meet up. Right now, the record was three days and if you could keep that streak up, you could keep convincing yourself that you didn’t care if you saw him again.

If you couldn’t—if you caved and told him exactly where and when to find you—then it would be harder to keep telling yourself that you didn’t have a problem.

A…mild addiction to fucking your former professor kind of problem.

It wasn’t your fault. If he hadn’t fucked you stupid and turned your brain to mush from so many orgasms, you’d be perfectly able to just return to your regularly scheduled programming. But that wasn’t the case. And now every time you slipped out of his office or his car or a random empty classroom or—just once—the costume shop, you couldn’t help but feel like you were just watching the clock until you heard from him again.

You sipped your iced coffee and twirled your pen again, tapping it harder on your open notebook.

“Sorry,” Joe muttered as he dropped into the seat across from you.

“You’re late,” you said plainly, grateful for the distraction even if you were more than a little irritated.

“Yeah, I know,” he huffed, hauling his backpack up into his lap so he could unzip it. “Said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes and flipped the page in your notebook to where you’d written down the assignment. “What part do you want?” You waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, you looked up to see him staring at you, unimpressed. “What?” you asked. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he said shaking his head a little. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t ask,” you reminded him cheerfully.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Because I don’t care.”

He let out a sound of frustration. “Are you going to make this weird?”

You blinked. “Am I going to make what weird?”

“This,” he motioned to the space between the two of you. “This having to do a project together. Because I bet we can trade partners—”

“I don’t need to trade partners,” you said quickly with a roll of your shoulders. “And I’m not making anything weird. I asked you what part of the project you wanted. You’re the one who responded like I hurt your feelings by not starting with small talk.”

“Look,” he groaned. “Clearly you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not, actually,” you said without thinking about it. You paused in your head for a moment to consider. Were you mad at him still? Maybe a little. But you had to admit it was much easier to forget about being mad at him when you were tangled up in your own unhealthy distraction.

“Well, then why haven’t you been around lately?”

“Around where?”

“Around…anywhere,” Joe said, sounding irritated. “You’re always busy lately—you never hang out with any of us anymore.”

“I had breakfast with Claire and Zorra this morning,” you said. “And Henry roped me into doing makeup for his film in a few weeks so…” you shrugged. “It’s not like I haven’t been around.”

“No,” he argued. “But you’re always running off like you’ve got something better to do.”

You lifted your eyebrows and felt a smile pulling at the edge of your lips. “And what if I do?”

“Well, that’s what I’m asking,” he said like it should have been obvious. “What have you been doing?”

You stared back, willing your face not to do anything that would give you away. “Why do you care?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I…don’t,” he said after a moment.

You couldn’t help your smirk that time. “Very convincing.”

“No, I—”

He was cut off by the sound of someone calling your name.

No, you realized as you looked across the small courtyard, not someone. Javi. Javi had called your name and was raising a hand with a friendly smile when you looked over.

“Hey,” he said, still smiling as he jogged the last few yards to stand by your table.

“Hi, Professor Martinez,” you said, biting back a smile as you tucked your hair behind your ears. “What’s up?”

“Glad I ran into you,” he said and then glanced across the table, seeming to only realize then that you weren’t alone. “Oh, hey Quinn,” he said casually.

Joe offered a tight smile. “Professor…”

Javi’s smile was still easygoing and didn’t move as he asked, “Planning on being on time for class tomorrow?”

You swallowed hard, willing your eyes not to go wide. Joe was taking his class?

Joe had the decency to look a little chastised and offered a wince. “That’s always the plan, I swear.”

“Well, like father like son,” Javi said, looking dangerously close to ruffling his hair. “Can’t say you don’t come by it honestly.”

You cleared your throat. “You were…trying to run into me?” you asked, bringing his attention back to you.

“Oh, yeah,” he shook his head like the thought had escaped him. “Speaking of AJ—I talked to him this morning, and he said he’s willing to wrangle you a few extra hours a week if you feel like organizing another office on the days he doesn’t need you.”

You blinked. “Wait—really? You want my help?”

He grinned and you felt your stomach flip at the little sparkle you caught in his eye. “My office is a disaster,” he lied. “An extra set of hands a few days a week would make all the difference.” He coughed lightly. “If you want, I mean. I don’t know how busy you are with the rest of your classes.”

“She’s pretty busy,” Joe spoke up.

You looked at him once for one long beat and then looked back at Javi. “I think I can manage a few extra hours a week,” you said, biting back a smile. “When’s a good time for me to start?”

He looked at his watch. “Four o’clock today work for you?”

You hoped the blush on your cheeks was light enough to blame on sitting in the sun as you nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.”

The hell with trying to fight your addiction.

This was officially school-sanctioned hookup time.

“Great,” he reached out and briefly touched your shoulder, sending sparks all the way down your arm when he took his hand away. “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

“Okay,” you nodded again. A thought occurred to you as he turned to leave. “Oh, um, what’s the office number?” You shouldn’t know it, after all.

“Oh, right,” he turned back with a laugh. “It’s 331,” he said. “On the opposite end of the hall from AJ.”

“Okay,” you offered a thumbs up. “331 at four o’clock then.”

He mirrored your thumbs up with two of his own. “See you then.” He glanced over at Joe. “And I’ll see you tomorrow at nine, Mr. Quinn.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed slightly but his polite smile stayed in place. “Here’s hoping.”

You bit your lip again, watching as Javi retreated through the courtyard on his way to the main campus building. It took longer than it should have to realize Joe was staring at you again. You looked back, widening your eyes for innocent effect. “What?”

He only stared harder before his mouth opened in disbelief. “Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

“About…?”

His dark eyes flicked from you to the space where Javi had just stood and back again. “That,” he practically spat. “You’re fucking one of your professors?” he asked. “Seriously?”

And you could have lied. You could have driven him crazy with a whole round of I don’t know what you’re talking about. But he looked so genuinely pouty—like a kid who didn’t realize that someone would play with his toys if he left them lying out—that you wanted to laugh. “Well, technically,” you reached for your iced coffee and took a long sip. “It looks like I’m fucking one of your professors,” you corrected with a smile before you shrugged. “But it’s all the same to me.”

His eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected you to tell the truth. You felt like you’d scored another little victory. He let out a shocked, choked laugh and shook his head. “I can’t believe you…”

“You can’t believe me?” You scoffed. “What can’t you believe?”

“I thought you hated him!” he accused.

You shrugged. “I got over it.”

“When?”

You let your head tilt to one side as you took your time studying him. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t!” he said again, much too fast. “It’s just—"

“It’s just what?”

“How old is he?”

“Who?” you asked innocently with a glance over your shoulder. “Javi?”

Joe’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Javi?” he repeated, like you’d just told him he had three months to live. “You call him Javi?”

“Not always,” you said, fighting not to be a smartass for all of three seconds before you lost and added, “Sometimes I put on a Catholic school uniform and call him ‘Daddy’, is that what you want to hear?”

“Lalalala,” he said loudly, putting his hand over his ears. “That’s gross. You’re disgusting. I can’t believe you put that thought in my head. What is wrong with you?”

“You’re one to talk,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“What did I do?”

At that, you really did laugh. “Too busy to be with me, remember?” you raised your brow expectantly. “Too busy for me but not too busy for Little Miss Pardon My Tits.”

“Hey—”

“And I’m sorry Joe,” you went on, speaking over him. He’d kicked this beehive, after all. It was only fair he got stung a few times. “But she. Is. Gross.”

Joe looked offended. “She is not!”

“She is gross,” you said again, emphatically. “And she’s orange. Tell her to lay off the sunless tanner.”

He squeaked in indignation. “She is not orange,” he spluttered. “She’s tan!”

“Ha!” you swirled the ice in your coffee as you shook your head. “Zorra is tan, babe. Your little slam piece is orange. Which is not a skin color found in nature, I will remind you. So she’s obviously part Muppet.”

“Okay…”

“A gross, orange, Muppet-hybrid, running around with her tits out—”

“Jealous, are you?”

“Do I sound jealous?” You laughed again. “I was hoping this was coming across as concern. But no, I’m sorry,” you held up your hands. “It’s none of my business. You do whatever you want. You’re the one who’s going to be scrubbing your dick with lemon juice and baking soda to turn it back the right color.”

Joe sat back, looking annoyingly smug. “Been thinkin’ about my dick, have you?”

Okay, you walked into that one.

You sighed and shook your head. “Only in comparison,” you said and gave an exaggerated wince. “And I’m afraid it just doesn’t.”

The smugness faded slowly as he narrowed his eyes again. “Doesn’t what?”

“Compare,” you closed your notebook. “I’ll do criticism and history of performance,” you said, remembering that you’d scheduled this little tete-a-tete for a reason beyond sniping at one another. “You can take structure and plot analysis. Good?”

He blinked. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Doesn’t compare to what, exactly?”

You flipped closed the other books and stuffed them all back into your messenger bag before you looked up with a smile. “To someone who understands the meaning of the word reciprocity.”

He looked blank for a moment before he snorted. “Joke's on you, I can’t even spell that.”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” you said as you zipped up your bag and tossed the flap back over. “Turns out there’s a lot you can’t do. I just had no idea.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

You grabbed your coffee and stood, throwing your bag across your chest. “I’ll see you later, Joey,” you said with another smile. “First draft has to be uploaded by noon tomorrow—don’t forget.”

“What can’t I do?” he demanded, raising his voice while you started walking away.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, waving over your shoulder before you bit back a smile. “Just enjoy your Muppet!”

****

“Can I ask you something?” Javi asked one sticky July afternoon as you reached for the bra he’d discarded earlier.

Before he’d bent you over the back of the couch in his office and made you come so hard you nearly bit through a pillow trying to be quiet.

“What?” You reclasped your bra and pulled your tank top back over your head.

Still shirtless, he dropped down onto the couch and pushed a hand through his dark, sweaty curls. “You and Quinn’s kid—”

You rolled your eyes. “What about us?”

Javi raised his eyebrows. “There was an ‘us’ there?”

You sighed and finished buttoning your denim shorts. “There was,” you admitted. “There was an on-again, off-again us there since I met him last fall but…”

“But…?”

“But, I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I guess he got bored or restless or something…whatever it was,” you moved your shoulder again. “I didn’t hold his interest anymore.”

He was smiling faintly when you looked over at him. “I find that hard to believe.”

You snorted quietly. “Well believe it, pal. Not everyone has your stellar taste in women.”

“C’mere.” He held out his hand and beckoned you to come back to the couch where he pulled you into him until you were kneeling over his lap. His arms wound around your waist. “You want me to fail him for you?”

You giggled and shook your head. “No, that’s no good. He’d blame me.”

Javi moved your hair off your neck and over your other shoulder. “Well,” he said slowly, leaning in to press his lips to your collarbone. “It’d be your fault.”

You hummed contentedly, tilting your head to the side and letting your eyes close. “I couldn’t live with the guilt,” you decided. “And if you failed him, you’d probably just have to teach him again next term.”

It was his turn to hum, a quiet buzz against your skin while he worked his way up your neck. “Good point.”

“What class is it?”

“Body Alignment II,” he said, letting his teeth scrape your earlobe.

You squirmed, wanting to be closer despite the sweat still clinging between your shoulder blades. “Is that the one that’s like, half Pilates?”

“Mmhmm…”

“I was going to take that,” you said idly, raking your fingers into his hair.

“Why didn’t you?”

You laughed, breaking his focus on your neck, and making him look up. “Because you were mean to me during the last class of yours I took.”

“Fair enough,” he grinned again. “But now that you know why, would you consider taking another of my classes?”

“No,” you laughed again. “If you were that mean to me before when you only kind of liked me a little bit, I don’t want to know what you’d be like if you tried to teach me now.”

“Insufferable,” he promised, sliding his hand up to the back of your neck to pull you in close again.

Your lips had only just touched when his phone buzzed loudly on the desk behind you. You groaned but got up without him having to ask. He zipped his jeans the rest of the way up as he crossed the office and grabbed his shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head before he picked up his phone and squinted at the screen.

“Hang on a second,” he said, holding up a finger as he tapped it and put it to his ear. “Hola, mi hija,” he said switching smoothly to Spanish. The words stuck in your brain like a lightning rod. “¿Qué pasa?”

Without another glance in your direction, he stepped outside his office and continued his conversation. He spoke quickly, with no trace of an accent, but you could pick up certain words from your rudimentary knowledge of Spanish. Escuela. Mamá. Abuelo. Te quiero cariña.

You felt an unpleasant twist and tangle in your stomach. It sounded like he was talking to a kid. And wasn’t hija the word for daughter?

You swallowed hard and got up from the couch, wandering slowly over to his desk. You weren’t sure what you were looking for. You already knew there were no photos in frames or printed on mousepads. Nothing saved as a background on his desktop.

Before you could decide if you wanted to open the drawers of his desk, the door squealed open and Javi returned, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” he said with another easy smile.

You returned the smile, wishing you could will away the slithering feeling worming through your belly. “Who was it?”

“My daughter,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders like his answer didn’t bowl you right over. “She does a summer school thing,” he added. “They had a field trip today. Wanted to tell me about it.” He picked up the two throw pillows that had landed on the floor and reset them on the couch.

Your throat was dry when you tried to swallow. It wasn’t a big deal, you told yourself. It made total sense that he had a kid. An ex-wife. Plenty of complications tended to pile up for people in their thirties and forties. “I…didn’t know you had a daughter,” you said finally.

He glanced over and gave you a look like you were missing something that should have been obvious. “That’s…because I didn’t tell you.”

You nodded, not sure what kind of answer you’d been expecting. “How old is she?”

“Angie?” he asked. Angie, your brain fizzed with this new information. His daughter’s name is Angie. Did that matter? You didn’t know she existed ten minutes ago, you reminded yourself. It probably didn’t matter. “She’s nine.”

I was only ten years old when she was born.

The thought flew through your brain before you could stop it. As soon as it did, you almost ran the heel of your hand into your forehead. Why did you think that? What was wrong with you?

“Do you have any other kids?”

If you could have hopped out of your own body and clamped your hand over your mouth, you would have. Why were you asking these questions? What good was going to come of it?

Javi looked like he agreed with at least one side of your brain. His smile was just on the other side of bemusement. “Does that…make a difference?”

You swallowed again. “No,” you lied. Or maybe you didn’t lie. Maybe it didn’t make a difference. You didn’t know. “I just…realized I don’t know anything about your life outside of school.”

His face didn’t change. “Likewise,” he said with a shrug and motioned to the space between you. “Kinda…why it feels like this is working, doesn’t it?” You opened your mouth and then closed it again when you realized you didn’t know what you were supposed to say to that.

He was right, wasn’t he? This wasn’t a relationship. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You didn’t need to know anything about him outside of who he was here.

Javi stepped up in close to you and rested his hands on your hips. “Don’t look so worried, kiddo,” he said with a half-smile. “I like to keep my work and home separate, alright? I try not to cross the streams.”

Your throat bobbed again, and you felt yourself nodding. “Got it,” you said quietly. “No more questions, then.”

“Thank you,” he said softly and leaned in to kiss you again.

No more questions out loud.

Plenty of questions running around in your head.

****

You didn’t know where Henry came up with this stuff. How he talked people into staffing a whole film crew for free in the span of a few weeks. How he wheeled and dealed favors for costumes and props, and nudged and nosed his way into locations he shouldn’t have been able to afford on his nonexistent budgets.

Like the house you found yourself set up in on the last Saturday in July. One of the few old stone workers’ cottages that hadn’t yet been gentrified into luxury housing. Just on the right side of being condemned, it had broken windows, holes, and graffiti decorating the walls, a few stairs that needed to be skipped for safety, and a habit of groaning when the wind swept through it.

It was the perfect place for Henry to shoot some of his latest horror movie.

It's possible he could have afforded this, you considered as you sent Claire off and out of your makeshift makeup studio, but you had no idea how he managed to get permission.

You heard Joe chatting with Claire in the hallway, giving you plenty of time to get your face into a neutral expression before he shuffled sideways into the tiny upstairs bathroom with you.

You pointed to the counter. “Toilet is not structurally sound enough to sit on,” you warned. “It’s easier if you just hop up there.”

“Up here it is,” Joe said quietly with a nod and did as you asked.

You hadn’t needed your little stepstool with tiny Claire as your canvas, but Joe’s height made looking at him straight-on impossible without it. He waited patiently while you set up, opening the tubes and palettes you’d need to give Henry the look he wanted.

Joe was uncharacteristically quiet while you brushed on a base layer of foundation and started playing with shadows and highlights to hollow his cheeks more. You’d nearly finished half the job before he cleared his throat lightly. “So, I uh—” he coughed again into his fist, turning his face away from you for a moment. “I looked up what ‘reciprocity’ means,” he said.

You paused with a glob of dark beige cream on the tip of your middle finger and huffed out a surprised half of a laugh. “Oh yeah?” You pushed his chin gently to the right.

“Yeah, apparently it’s when you return a favor.”

You smothered a smile between your lips and nodded. “That’s what I hear,” you agreed in an even tone and waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, you reached for your sponge and started blending in the darker color. “Are you going anywhere with that?”

“No,” he said, not moving his face at all while you worked. “Just wanted to thank you,” he added. “For y’know. For educating me.”

“Mmm…” you nodded again, unsure of what to say to that.

You’d finished one side of his face and turned his chin to the other side before he spoke again. “And I, uh, I used some context clues to figure out what you might have been referring to. That day at the café.”

“He Googled and he used context clues,” you mused lightly. “What have you done with my idiot ex-boyfriend?”

There was something hollow in the way he laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said while you blended his right cheek. “He’s still very much an idiot.”

“Close your eyes,” you commanded, reaching for your palette of blues and purples. “And stop moving so much.”

Joe’s lips twitched into a smile that looked a little more genuine. “You sound like Dr. Ballikova,” he said, invoking the name and memory of the intense Russian woman who’d taught one of the first acting classes you had taken together.

She had a thing for freezing the action in the middle of a scene, posing and repositioning her actors like mannequins around the stage to show how staging could change the context.

But she had to be the one to move them. Otherwise, she wanted them as still as possible.

“Choo move,” you heard yourself repeating her most favorite threat at the same time as Joe, “I smack.”

The sound of his quiet laughter—real laughter—made something twinge in your chest. You swallowed hard as you brushed the darker colors over and around his eyes, telling yourself you weren’t going to fixate on anything stupid.

Like his stupid eyelashes.

Or his stupid full lips.

Actually, you finished his eyes and tilted your head. No, you could fixate for a moment on his stupid full lips.

“Here,” you said, reaching into your pocket for your lip balm. “Use this. If I try and put color on that sandpaper mouth of yours it’s going to flake right off.”

Joe opened his eyes and took the tube from you while you searched for the right paint. He mashed his lips together, opening his mouth again with a quiet pop before he handed it back. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way the tip of his tongue brushed his bottom lip. “Mango.”

You tucked it back into your pocket, still selecting the right shade. “Best flavor there is,” you agreed with a shrug. And the only flavor of lip balm you’d been wearing since seventh grade. You didn’t want to think about what you’d do if they ever stopped making it.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “I miss that.”

Your hand stopped an inch from the lip palette you needed, and your mouth ran dry.

I miss you too.

The words rose to the tip of your tongue too quickly and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying them. Did you miss him?

Yes, you answered your own question. You missed the way things were in the spring. You missed being in a relationship with someone who made you laugh, even if he was clumsy and fumbling sometimes in other areas. Having someone to talk to, to look for in a crowd. Falling asleep watching movies and waking up with his face pressed against your neck and his arm heavy around your waist.

But you pushed all that down and forced yourself to remember more than just the sweet, good things your brain and heart wanted to cling to. You remembered that he made you feel like he’d grown bored of you. That he had to chase after something new and shiny and didn’t seem to care how that made you feel. That he had the audacity to act jealous after everything he did to you.

You cleared your throat and turned back to him, taking your time to load up your brush. “Well,” you said slowly as you brushed the color over his bottom lip. “They sell it at Tesco.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed and waited until you’d finished one lip before he nodded. “Not exactly what I meant…”

“I know what you meant, Joe,” you assured him, pressing the brush to his top lip to keep him from speaking. “I’m just going to assume that means your attention span ran out with your topless Muppet, too, since I haven’t seen her around lately.”

You didn’t know if that was a correct assumption. You had been trying to stay away from him specifically to avoid seeing him with anyone else.

“That’s not why I said—”

“Y’know, you can’t just treat people like they’re objects,” you said, taking this rare opportunity of not having to look at his big, dangerous, doe eyes when you spoke to him. “You can’t put them down when you’re bored and pick them back up when you’re lonely and expect them to forgive you.” You did your best to keep your brushstroke light and not allow your frustration to bleed into the force behind your hand. You didn’t want to hurt him—or worse, mess up his makeup and force you to spend more time with him redoing it. “And I am sorry if you’re lonely now,” you added truthfully. “Because it sucks. But you telling me that you miss something when you chose to throw it away doesn’t exactly spark my sympathy.”

“No, I-I know,” he said and raised his hand to gently cover yours, pushing it down and away from his mouth. “I know that. I didn’t expect it to.” You stopped and let your head move back a few inches to meet his eyes. He offered you a sad smile. “I know I fucked up, Yank. I don’t expect you to do anything about it.”

You nodded slowly, trying to digest what he was saying before you lifted your eyebrows. “Is this…some attempt at an apology?”

He blinked in surprise. You must have gone off-script. “Would you…want to hear it if it was?”

You ran your teeth over your bottom lip. “I don’t know,” you said honestly.

“Joseph Quinn to set!” Henry’s voice on his ridiculous megaphone ripped through the air, shredding the possibility of either of you saying anything more.

You stepped out of the way, giving him space to hop down from the counter. “Yankee, I—”

“Can we please have Joseph Quinn to set?”

“You have to go,” you said needlessly as he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. He made it as far as the door before you said his name. He looked back at you. Bright-eyed, hopeful. “What?”

But you didn’t know what you wanted to say. You didn’t know what there was to say if he wasn’t going to go first. You coughed and reached into your pocket again, crossing the tiny space in three steps to press the lip balm into his palm. “Just keep that,” you said. “I’ve got three more in my bag. And anyway, your lips are a fucking state.”

He smiled and nodded again. “Thanks,” he said softly, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans.

You had three more faces to set up before Henry gave you the all-clear to dip out. It was the middle of the afternoon, sticky, hot, and humid and the thought of the whole rest of the day stretching out in front of you with your nerves raw and buzzing like this only made you feel like screaming.

There was an empty stoop a few feet away that provided the perfect place to sit down and squeeze your eyes shut. Scrubbing your hands over your face as you tried to get rid of this feeling.

The one that Joe had stirred up.

That sickening mix of longing and anger and frustration and—

“Fucking asshole,” you ground the words through your clenched teeth, unsure if you were talking about him or you.

For a moment, you considered walking back to the cottage. Interrupting the shoot to shove him hard in the chest and ask him just who he thought he was and what the fuck he was playing at.

I know I fucked up…I don’t expect you to do anything about it.

Why did he say that? What did he even mean by that?

Why did he still have the ability to twist every last feeling inside you and send you spinning out over one stupid conversation?

Why couldn’t you stop giving him the power to do this? Why couldn’t you just let the whole idea of him go and get on with your life like a normal person?

Your phone was in your hand before you even realized you’d reached into your bag. Wouldn’t happen to be in your office, would you? you wrote after Javi responded only a minute after you sent the first text.

I can be, he replied almost immediately. Give me thirty minutes?

It took you longer than that to get back to school from East London by bus, but that just meant that Javi was already waiting for you when you opened his door.

“Hey, I was just—”

Whatever he was just about to do or tell you, he didn’t get the chance. You locked the door behind you and dropped your bag, crossing the room in two strides to pull his lips down to yours. It was a hot, hungry kiss; messy and eager and nearly enough to quiet all the noise in your head while your fingers worked to slip the buttons free on his shirt.

“Whoa,” he chuckled, pulling back to shrug out of it. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to talk,” you said firmly, reaching for his belt.

“Okay,” he agreed, pulling you back in as you undid his pants and slipped your hand down to stroke his cock. With a quiet moan muffled against your lips, he backed you up against his desk. He was just rough enough getting you out of your clothes; with that touch of pure want that he was so good at stirring in your bones. You weren’t expecting him to stop, seconds before he pushed into you, with one hand on your cheek. “Hey,” he asked softly, a deep line of concern between his eyebrows. “Were you crying?”

“I don’t know,” you shook your head. Because maybe you had been and maybe you hadn’t been. You weren’t even sure at that point. “I just need you to fuck me,” you said. Because you did. You needed to feel like you knew what you were doing. You needed to feel wanted. And he was so good at making you feel wanted. “Please.”

He nodded just once and shifted his hips, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back for a moment before he began to move. Usually, if he fucked you on his desk, you laid back or at least leaned on your hands—you liked to watch him. The crunch of the grid of muscles on his stomach. The way his eyes roamed over your body like he wanted to devour you whole.

But not that day. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, burying your face in his neck, wanting to inhale his sweat and his scent and keep some part of him trapped in your lungs. You sank your fingers into his hair, not caring that he was digging hard into your thighs and hips, sure to leave bruises by the morning.

You didn’t want to talk, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t need to ask Javi to be rough with you. You didn’t need to explain that you wanted him to hurt you—just a little bit—because at least that was pain you understood. Pain you wanted and knew what to do with.

He raked his nails up your back and tangled his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back while he kept up his punishing pace. He pushed three fingers between your lips, muffling your moan while you clenched around him with another flood of heat. His tongue replaced his fingers, plundering your mouth while he pressed down on your clit.

You came so hard you thought your nails might have drawn blood from the way you dug into his back. But Javi only hummed appreciatively at the way every part of you tightened around him before he freed his hand from between you and gripped your hips again. He moved faster, harder, moaning once around your tongue before he pushed you back onto the surface of his desk and pulled out just in time to come on your stomach.

It was hot and sticky and just the right amount of filthy to be exactly what you wanted. You didn’t even mind that he seemed to take his time finding something to use to clean you up.

But he came back eventually. And when he did, his touch was gentle and soothing, and when he was finished, he leaned down and placed a kiss on your breastbone, right at the top of your ribs.

Javi helped you sit up and retrieved your clothes from where he’d thrown them on the ground. “Hey,” he said as he handed them to you. That same soft tone from before was back. “Are you okay?”

No. It was the first word that popped into your head. It was followed quickly by a few more. Do I fucking seem okay?

But none of those words made it past your lips. Instead, you forced something that felt like a convincing smile. “I’m fine,” you shrugged before you added, “No questions. Remember?”

You never left at the same time as Javi. Never out the same exit, even on the days when you were just supposed to be there for work. You took the long way, down the east hall to the far side of the building and walked around while he went out the front entrance as usual.

You were just rounding the corner, distracted by your hunt for your student ID to save yourself a bus fare when you heard a woman’s voice from up ahead.

“There he is!” she squealed in a bright, posh accent. Curious, you looked up from your bag and spotted a woman with shoulder-length golden blonde hair holding a little girl in her arms that couldn’t be more than two. The woman was tall and slender—made taller by her black stiletto heels that didn’t seem to cause her any trouble as she started up the walk toward the front door. “There’s Daddy!”

You stopped where you were, more or less concealed by the topiary, and let your eyes follow the pointing finger of that chubby-armed child to the front door of the building. Javi was all smiles as he came down the few steps to meet them both on the sidewalk. Your mouth ran dry as you watched him take the baby when she reached for him and tossed her gently in the air before he caught her and tickled her neck with kisses, making her squeal with delight as he swung her onto his hip.

In her heels, the blonde woman was the same height and didn’t have to stretch at all to accept the kiss he placed on her lips.

You couldn’t make out what they were saying as they started down the street in the opposite direction, their hands linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your feet stayed rooted in place, staring at their retreating forms until there was nothing left to see.

Then you bolted to the nearest trashcan and threw up.

****

You avoided him for a week after that. You made excuses not to see him each time he texted. Rehearsals, schoolwork, a friend needing your help.

You weren’t trying to ghost him, just trying to buy yourself enough time to decide what you wanted to say.

Only every time you thought you’d found the right words, the thought of saying them out loud made you want to puke again.

Round and round you went, talking yourself in and out confronting him while making yourself sicker and sicker with the guilt and anxiety churning in your stomach.

You’d nearly decided you weren’t going to say anything—just end things nice and easy without worrying about who he might have been hurting all summer—when you saw her again.

You were sitting outside, praying the rain would hold off while you waited for Zorra to finish a meeting with one of her professors. Absently rolling your lip balm between your palms, you let your eyes drift to the entrance and brightened when you saw the outline of your roommate through the glass door. She was followed closely by the statuesque blonde you’d seen outside that day.

You watched, frozen once again, while they chatted on the top step before Zorra nodded, hitched her bag onto her shoulder, and started walking in your direction. “Heyo,” she called with a wave when she noticed you. “Hope you weren’t waiting long,” she said when she’d reached your side. “Helloo…” her hand waved in front of your face, breaking your concentration from where you’d been staring. “Still with me, babe?”

You blinked and shook your head. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Zorra’s long dark braid fell over her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side to study you. “What’s up? You alright?”

“Who is that?” you asked, ignoring her questions. “That woman you were just talking to.”

“Who?” She looked back over her shoulder where the woman in question had started walking down the path away from you, headed toward the car park. “Dr. T?”

“Dr. T?” you repeated.

“Dr. Thomas,” Zorra clarified. “I have her for Arc & Dec. Why?”

“Uh, nothing,” you said and then shook your head again. “I mean, no reason. Just. Um. Let’s go.”

Your friend eyed you warily but didn’t object and was happy to carry more than her share of the conversation on the trip home.

She was easy enough to find on the school website. Dr. Trinity Thomas had a headshot, a doctorate, and several publications to her name. She had directed on three continents, consulted on films, and written two textbooks all before she was forty years old. Impressive was an understatement.

It took a little more digging to find her on social media, but not much. She had a Facebook, and it only had half the privacy settings turned on for strangers.

But it was there, amid the albums of profile and cover photos, that you got all the proof of what you already knew. Wedding photos. Pictures of three girls under the age of ten. Trinity and Javi somewhere tropical, celebrating an anniversary.

You stared at his face as you clicked through all the photos you could. In every single one, he was the same smiling dad you’d seen on the sidewalk. Focused on his daughters, on his wife, smiling proudly surrounded by the life he’d made.

“You lying piece of shit,” you murmured, shaking your head as you snapped your laptop shut.

It took three more days before you finally worked up the courage to go back to his office. The door was locked when you tried it and for the briefest of moments, you wondered if he had someone else in there with him.

Someone who answered his texts and calls and didn’t know about Trinity or Angie or Marisol or little squishy-faced Calliope.

You were about to turn and retreat again when you saw him coming down the hallway. And then it was too late to run because he’d already spotted you. Already hooked you with his dark eyes and that sinfully attractive crooked smile.

“She lives,” he said in a tone that made you wonder if he’d actually missed you since the last time you’d been there.

You wished you’d just done this over the phone. Especially when he unlocked his door and held it open, motioning for you to go first. Into the office where just about every surface was the home of a memory that made you flush with shame.

He closed the door behind him and locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place made you turn around, shaking your head. “Oh, no,” you said, wishing your voice sounded bolder. “I’m not—I—I can’t stay.”

“Okay…” he said slowly, crossing to his desk. He leaned against it, looking as though he wanted to cross his arms, but thought better of it. “I gotta be honest, kid, I’m kinda worried about you. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically and then shook your head. “No. I mean. No, it isn’t. I—um—” Any courage you thought you’d summoned was failing you.

“C’mere,” he reached out, close enough to take your hand before you could think to pull it away. He led you over to the couch and pulled you to sit down with him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you lied again, taking your hand back slowly. “I just—” You took a deep breath. Just say it and then you can leave. “Are you married?”

You wanted to drive your palm into your forehead. Why did you ask him like you didn’t know? Why did you just give him another chance to lie?

But you knew why. Because deep down, you were hoping you were wrong. That somehow, there was some bizarre, unlikely explanation for all of this that didn’t mean you’d been sleeping with a married man all summer. That maybe you stood a chance of escaping the dangling anvil of guilt and shame that was just above your head, waiting for permission to crush you.

Beside you on the couch, Javi blinked in surprise. “Why…are you asking me that?”

“Are you?”

“Hey,” he reached out to touch your shoulder, his palm brushing over the freckles that had darkened on your skin. “Calm down, okay? Just—” He coughed quietly. “What’s going on? Where is this coming from?”

“Can you please just answer the question?” you demanded, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Just tell me: Yes or no?”

Javi took his hand from your shoulder and ran it over his face. He sighed, scraping his beard against his palm, and shook his head. “Look, it’s…complicated. It’s not as simple as—” he stopped himself again. “It’s not something I want to talk about with you, okay? But it’s nothing to get upset about.”

“Yes it is,” you scoffed as you got to your feet. “I don’t understand why you can’t just give me a straight answer. If you have some kind of…” you struggled to remember the right word for it, “open marriage, or something, then please, just say that.”

“What difference would it make?” he asked, still in that infuriatingly calm tone of voice.

“It would make a lot of difference!” you exclaimed. “I don’t want to do this with you if you’re—” you shook your head. “I don’t want to be some kind of…homewrecker or whatever—”

He cut you off with a laugh. “A homewrecker?” he repeated, standing up. “Is that…” he chuckled again. “Is that what you think we’re doing, sweetheart? You think you’re wrecking my home? That I’m blowing my life up for you?”

“No,” you said immediately, hating the way you could feel your cheeks flush under the weight of his amusement. “No, I-I just—”

“Look,” his voice returned to its normal, calming timbre as he crossed the room to stand in front of you. He put his hand on your face like he’d done a thousand times and brushed his thumb over your cheekbone. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing.” He was talking to you like he’d talk to a horse he was trying to soothe. Somehow tricking your body into settling while your mind was still screaming that he was wrong and this was wrong. Desperate to get away from him and still unable to move. Still hoping that he might say something that would make it all okay. “I promise, it’s nothing you need to worry about.” He said in that way he’d said so many things. Firm. Self-assured. In complete control. That way he had to make you want to do anything he asked. “Just—whatever you saw or heard—” he shook his head. “No, you didn’t. Put it out of your mind, okay?”

You blinked and narrowed your eyes. It was your turn to shake your head. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you said softly.

It should have been louder. More forceful. It shouldn’t have sounded so much like the words were hiding in the back of your throat.

“Like what?”

You moved from under his hand and took a step back toward the door. You swallowed hard. “Like I’m some stupid kid who doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

Javi let out another cold laugh. “Well then maybe you should stop acting like a stupid kid who doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

“You’re right,” you said abruptly, forcing yourself to snap out from under his spell. “I should. Delete my number,” you ordered. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, sweetheart—”

“Stop it!” you flinched back when he went to reach for you again. “Stop…lying and stop acting like I’m crazy for being upset. A lump rose in your throat. “I never would have—” you stopped and shook your head. “I don’t do things like this, okay? I feel disgusting. I feel used and—”

“Oh, right,” he nodded, his hands on his hips. “Like you didn’t use me all summer to make someone else jealous?”

You swallowed again. “No, you’re right,” you said hoarsely as another unexpected weight of guilt dropped into your stomach. “I did. And that was wrong too. This whole thing was wrong, and it never should have happened. I just—” Your words failed you again, sticking in your throat. “I can’t do this anymore. Just leave me alone,” you managed to choke out before you turned and unlocked the door.

He didn’t follow you.

****

AJ’s office was nearly functional again by the first week of August. His filing cabinets were organized, he’d thrown away a small forest’s worth of old papers he no longer needed, and now, when he blew in like a hurricane each morning, he had several clear spaces where he could set his coffee and bagel.

You should have felt proud of all you’d accomplished, but you didn’t. You didn’t feel much of anything except sick and conflicted and like the best idea would be to fall asleep and not wake up until December.

A hand waved in front of your face. You blinked and looked up to see AJ standing in front of you, his expression a mix of mild amusement underlined with concern. “Sorry,” you said, shaking your head. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I was just asking if—” he stopped and shook his head. “It’s not important.” He waited for a moment, seeming to debate something with himself before he cleared his throat. “Always, of course, none of my business,” he began carefully. “But are you quite alright?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically. “Yeah, I’ve just got a lot of stuff…” you motioned vaguely to your temple. “But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

He studied you for a long moment before he nodded and smiled. “Alright,” he said and then glanced back at his desk. “Back to it, then.”

He’d just about sat down when you heard yourself ask the question. “If you knew you’d done something wrong, but you were pretty sure nothing all that bad would happen if you kept quiet about it…” you paused and pressed your lips together. “Would you still speak up?”

AJ’s eyebrows rose toward his shiny bald head, and he stood from his chair again. He came slowly around the side of his desk where you sat on the floor, organizing his books. “Depends, I suppose,” he said after a moment. He leaned against the desk. “Who gets hurt if you keep quiet?”

You swallowed hard and thought of all those happy faces in Trinity’s Facebook photos. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe no one.” Maybe it was best to just forget anything with Javi had happened. Pretend it hadn’t. Let someone else be the one to pop Trinity’s bubble of a perfect life.

When you looked up, AJ’s eyes were kind and understanding. “But maybe someone?”

You nodded and dropped your gaze again. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Maybe someone.”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “hard as it is to admit, the right thing is still the right thing even if it’s difficult. Which it usually is,” he added. “And just as unfortunately, you’re the only one who can decide who you are when no one is looking.”

Suddenly the whole summer caught up with you at once. Joe. Mercedes. Javi. Trinity. All that stupid anger and petty jealousy and bad bad decisions. Your vision swam and your nose stung. “I actually think I might be a terrible person.”

AJ jumped from where he’d been leaning and reached down to take your hands and pull you to your feet. “No, no, no,” he said, wrapping a paternal arm around your shoulders and leading you to one of the armchairs in front of his desk. He made you sit down before he bent in front of you and produced a soft, cloth handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “You listen to me,” he blotted gently at your leaking eyes while he spoke. “You are not a bad person, alright? You’re a very good person who’s been taken advantage of and put in a bad situation.” He pressed the handkerchief into your hands before he took the opposite chair.

You swiped at your eyes and your nose and then stopped, realizing what he’d just said. “Did Javi—”

“No, no,” AJ shook his head. “No one’s said a word. I just happen to have eyes,” he said not unkindly. “And, unfortunately, where Javi is concerned, I know what to look for. Between that and the way my son has been acting like a five-year-old who’s had someone steal his favorite Transformer all summer, I figured it out on my own.”

“Oh, God.” Your stomach twisted tighter, and you fought the urge to cringe and cover your eyes. “You must think I’m—”

“I’ve just told you what I think you are,” he reminded you firmly and then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, ducking his head to ensure you met his eyes. “My dear, I’ve spent my life working in the arts. And in academia. Trust me,” he smiled gently. “I’ve got long lists of terrible people, and you don’t come close to making any of them.”

Your eyes welled again, for a different reason this time. You wondered if Joe knew how lucky he was to have such a great dad. “I just feel so stupid,” you admitted, blotting away a fresh wave of tears. “I mean, he told me he was a liar and I…” you shook your head with a sad laugh. “I don’t know why I’m surprised when that turned out to be true.”

AJ sat back in his chair. “If it makes you feel any better, you are far from the first young woman to be taken in by him.”

You stared at him. “How could that possibly make me feel any better?”

“No, quite right,” he agreed with a swift nod. “Didn’t think it through. My apologies.”

Your tears had dried a bit by the time you let out a heavy sigh and tilted your head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do.”

He offered you another understanding smile when you looked down again. “Are you sure about that?”

“No,” you admitted. “I know what the right thing to do is. I just wish I didn’t have to do it. I wish I’d never done any of this in the first place.”

“Well, there you have it,” AJ motioned to you with an open palm and a brighter smile. “Incontrovertible proof that you are not a terrible person.”

You squinted. “How do you figure?”

“Because the real test of any choice is having to make it again, knowing what you know now.”

Your head tilted. “Is that Voltaire?”

He smiled again. “From The Matrix, actually.”

“Righteous.”

“But my point stands. Would you? Would you make the same choice again, knowing how all this would play out?”

“No,” you said right away. “No, of course not.”

“See?” he shrugged. “There you are. Not a terrible person in the least. I’m right. I win. You must accept that.” You sniffled and managed a real, albeit quiet, laugh. “And I am sorry,” AJ sobered as he continued.

“For what?” you asked, confused. “You didn’t do anything.”

“No, I did,” he insisted. “I authorized your work-study expansion. I shouldn’t have given him the excuse he wanted to spend more time with you. I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wasn’t paying attention—didn’t put it together fast enough to realize what was going on.”

You shook your head again. “But that’s not your fault. You thought you were helping me out,” you reminded. “Giving me extra hours. And I mean, I did get paid for those— Wait.” you stopped abruptly and frowned. “Does this make me a prostitute?”

Technically, you had been paid for having sex. Not by Javi himself, but by the school. Did it still count as prostitution if you were paid by a third party? What were the rules?

Across from you, AJ looked mildly ill and more than a little uncomfortable. “I think perhaps I should make us some tea, and we should stop talking about this.”

You nodded quickly, banishing the thoughts from your head. “Good idea.”

You resumed your seat amidst the books while AJ went about fussing with his electric kettle and tin of English breakfast tea. “Um, there is one more question I have,” you admitted, chewing on your lip.

“What’s that?” he asked, not turning around.

“That thing you said about Joe,” you said. “How he’s been acting all summer.”

“Mm,” AJ’s tone darkened to that of a man who’d spent a bit too much time listening to his son rant about having to face the consequences of his own actions. “Yes.”

“Am I the Transformer in that analogy?”

The older man paused in his tea-making and turned around with another fatherly smile. “If you knew how much he adored them as a child, you would understand what a compliment that was.”

When you returned to your work, it was with the first real smile you’d felt in days.

****

Dr. Thomas may have had a glowing resume and the most picture-perfect family known to social media, but she had an abysmal reputation among her students. It was the strangest mix of reviews you’d ever seen on RateMyProfessor. High marks for what they learned and how the material was delivered, ratings in the gutter for interpersonal interactions, and anything that might be considered humanity.

Don’t try and get her sympathy on anything—she’s an absolute robot.

Learned too much not to give her a 5.0 but would happily never cross her path again. Never cried so much over one stupid class in my life.

Asked her for an extension on a paper because I was in hospital with a concussion, and she sent a winter that lasted a thousand years.

That last one was your favorite, despite all of these remarks only twisting your stomach into a tighter and tighter knot.

Zorra didn’t have too many sweet things to say about her either. But Zorra herself was a bit of a hard ass, so it wasn’t surprising she wasn’t as put off by Dr. Thomas’ demeanor as some of her classmates.

“Well, she’s not here to be anyone’s mum, is she?” she asked when you brought it up. “She does her job; she expects everyone else to do theirs.” She’d paused, mid-stretch, her long leg pulled up high beside her head. “Why are you so into her lately?”

“I’m not,” you’d lied. “She just teaches a class I’m thinking about taking next term. Wanted to see if you knew what she’s like.”

Zorra had accepted that lie and not said anything else about it. But her assessment, combined with everything you’d read about her online, compounded by what you’d come to talk about only had you staring at Dr. Thomas’ closed office door like a convict awaiting execution.

You had maneuvered your way to the end of the short line of students waiting to visit her during office hours, and by the time the last girl left, you were the only one in the hallway.

Ignoring that the girl before you had left in tears, you stood up and needlessly brushed yourself off, taking one more deep breath before you knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called. You did and closed the door behind you. Up close, Trinity Thomas was even more beautiful than in the photos. Intimidatingly so. Lovely high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, and the kind of waves in her blonde hair that most people only achieved with help from a salon. She looked up from her laptop and narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t one of my students.”

“Um, no,” you said as a thin layer of sweat broke out on the back of your neck. “I’m not. I—” you cleared your throat. “I wanted to talk to you about your, um, husband?” The word was sharp, it hurt to swallow around it. “Professor Martinez?”

Trinity stopped her typing and closed her laptop. She studied you for a long moment, resting her elbows on the desk before she clasped her fingers and rested her chin on them. “Oh dear,” she said quietly, and her lips dipped for just a second into a frown. “Did he break your heart?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Or perhaps he made a promise he can’t keep?” she guessed, lifting her eyebrows, looking almost amused. “He does that a lot.”

“No, I—”

She wasn’t listening to you, which was probably a good thing given the way your mind was spinning and refusing to form the right words on your tongue. “Well, I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she continued breezily. “But my husband will not be leaving me for you, no matter what he told you.”

You swallowed hard and finally forced yourself to finish a sentence. “No, he didn’t—” you shook your head. “I don’t want him,” you said firmly. “I wanted to tell you that I—” You stopped again. These sentences just didn’t seem to want to finish themselves. “You already know that he’s…?”

“A cheater?” she finished for you, her tone as light as if you’d asked if she knew the time. “A liar?” She offered a brief smile that didn’t show her teeth or reach her eyes. “Yes, dear. All of the above.” She paused and gave you another thoughtful look. “Though I will say, you’re the first of Javi’s little indiscretions that ever had the nerve to come tell me yourself,” she said. “I’ve always had to find out on my own.” For a moment, she looked almost impressed. “Awful gutsy, aren’t you?”

Your face flushed against your will, making you feel just like you had in Javi’s office. Like a stupid kid who didn’t know what she was doing. Pretending to be a grown-up. Falling over in a pair of high heels that were too big. “I wasn’t trying to be gutsy,” you said, failing to keep the indignation out of your voice. “I was just—trying to…I don’t know. To do the right thing. I guess.”

Trinity’s face spasmed into a little wince like she was swallowing back the urge to say, ‘yikes.’ “Bit late for this, isn’t it?”

Oh, okay. You hated her.

You didn’t want to hate her. She was, after all, the victim in this play. But you’d twisted yourself into a knot expecting to hurt her feelings. You had expected to have to apologize profusely, put up with being called a whore, and tell her you’d had no idea and that you never would have done anything if you’d known he was married. Then maybe encourage her to leave him, take her beautiful girls and her brilliant mind, and go find someone who deserves them.

This cool detachment was so much worse. Like you were the idiot. The one making a big deal over nothing. Almost more infuriating than when her husband had done it.

You were pretty sure if you didn’t get out of her office soon, you were going to explode. Frustration and embarrassment and confusion felt like they were all competing for which got to strangle you first.

“Look, I didn’t know he was married, okay?” you snapped. “I’m sorry. I feel gross about the whole thing, and I just thought…” you stumbled for a moment. “I would want to know,” you decided out loud. “If it was someone I loved. And I thought if you didn’t know then you should because…I don’t know.” Anything that might have been a coherent collection of words was just coming out an anxious, irritated, rambling tangle. “You just should. But clearly, that was a mistake, and I don’t know anything—so…sorry I bothered you,” you shook your head and spun on your heel back out into the hallway.

If you told AJ about any of this—and you weren’t sure you were going to—you would tell him that sometimes doing the right thing was a waste of time. You certainly didn’t feel any better and it seemed you only annoyed the person you thought you’d hurt in trying to apologize.

But as you reached the bottom of the steps and pushed through the door back into another humid afternoon, you realized that at least one thing was different. You no longer felt like you were going to throw up at any given moment.

And that had to be progress.

****

The next two weeks ticked by mercifully, beautifully, without incident. You passed your cakewalk classes and sent the grades home to your proud parents without mentioning how easy they were. You and Zorra helped Claire fix her hair after a disastrous attempt to do her own highlights left her looking a bit like Vitamin C. You went happily on a last-minute girls’ trip to Brighton and spent a chunk of your morally gray money on some new clothes and a pair of impractical boots the week before term started.

And that’s where you were when Joe called you.

It was evening, but not late enough that you thought he might be drunk-dialing. You slipped outside of the hotel room and onto the balcony while it rang, staring at his name—Joe-DON'T PICK UP—and photo flash on the screen instead of answering it. Down the beach, you could see the lights from the pier and with the right wind, hear the roar and screams from the rollercoaster.

Your phone was still ringing when you set it on the little table between the two chairs and put your feet up on the balcony railing. It only just stopped when the sliding glass door opened again, and Meg stepped outside.

“Interrupting?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

You caught the way her eyes lingered on your still-illuminated screen when she sat down beside you. “What’s he want?”

“Don’t know,” you answered easily.

“Don’t care?” she guessed after a moment.

You inhaled through your nose. “Don’t know.”

Meg nodded and said nothing while she reached into her pocket and retrieved a bag of gummy bears, offering them to you before she reclined in her chair and set her feet on the railing beside yours. She glanced over once, then returned her eyes to the fading sunlight dipping into the sea. “Y’know, Mercedes said he was…kinda the worst to be around.”

You squished a green gummy between your teeth and didn’t look over. “Well. She would know.”

“She said he was fun for about a week, and then he was just like…sulky and weirdly obsessed with his dance teacher for the rest of the time she hung out with him.”

You couldn’t help your quiet snort. “Weirdly obsessed with his dance teacher…” you repeated under your breath. “That makes two of us.”

You hadn't told your friends everything yet. You would. Just not yet. The nice thing about summer was that everyone was so busy no one had noticed much of what you'd been up to and easily believed the excuses of work and class.

The weight of Meg’s eyes on the side of your face finally pulled your attention away from the water. “Would you take him back if he asked you to?”

You swallowed and reached for another bear. “I don’t think he’s going to ask.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I don’t know,” you said, wishing you had something more eloquent to express. “I don’t know if I could trust him again, y’know? I don’t have any reason to think that he’s not the same insensitive dipshit who thought I’d buy his whole ‘I’m too busy to be in a relationship’ game.” You glanced over at her again. “Do you think people can change?”

“Like, who they are as people? No. Not really,” she admitted. “But I think they can realize when they fuck up. And they can do their best to not do it again.”

You pulled in another deep breath and let it out slowly, buzzing the air through your lips. “He said he knows he fucked up,” you confessed. “I’m just not sure I believe him.”

“Well,” Meg sat up and stretched her arms overhead. “If it means anything, I have known that boy for a very long time and I don’t think he’s ever acknowledged when he’s fucked up before.” She offered you a sweet smile. “But I also have a vested interest in this outcome.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I love you,” she said simply. “And I love him. And I loved the him he was when he was with you.” You smiled faintly and leaned over when Meg stood and bent over to kiss the top of your head. “I’ll leave the gummy bears.”

“You’re a goddess.” She’d almost made it back inside when a thought occurred to you. “Wait, how long have you known Joe, exactly?”

Meg’s eyes rolled up and to the right. “Uh…since primary school. Our mums worked together at the Beeb.”

“Did he used to really love Transformers?”

She scoffed. “Oh my God; more than anything in the world. He probably still does, honestly.” Her brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

You smiled again and shook your head. “No reason.”

The sounds of the sea and the gulls and the music from the pier kept you company while you listened with one ear to your friends on the other side of the glass door until you talked yourself into picking up your phone.

“Goddamnit, Joe,” you muttered when you saw the icon. “You left me a voicemail?”

Hadn’t you suffered enough for one summer?

You sighed and tapped the button to listen to it, expecting two seconds of silence before it clipped off when he realized he’d waited too long to hang up.

“Uh, hey Yank. It’s…uh Joe. Quinn. You, uh. Youprobablyalreadyknewthat—” he rushed on as you rolled your eyes. “I’m guessing you aren’t going to listen to this because…I mean…I wouldn’t listen to it. If I were you.

“But I was drinking grapefruit juice this morning. And I started thinking about the first time you stayed for breakfast,” he paused with a quiet little laugh before he continued. “When you poured a glass of the squash and drank it straight, not—” he laughed again. “Not knowing you had to dilute it.”

Against your will, you felt your lips twitch at the memory. How you hadn’t even looked at the thick juice concentrate coming out of the bottle because you were too busy looking at him. How his eyes had widened in horror the second before the glass touched your lips. How hard he laughed while you coughed and spluttered and made some roaring declaration about how that shit was what should get thrown in the harbor next.

“When I said I missed mango lip balm,” he said, sobering a little. “I didn’t just mean the taste. I miss…laughing with you. I miss how much I used to when you were around. I didn’t realize it until…” He cleared his throat. “Not sure I’ve laughed all summer. Not like I used to, at least. But that’s not…” he stopped again. “I don’t just...I miss—I miss making you laugh.

“I never thought I was funny until I met you,” he admitted. “And I don’t know, maybe I’m not. But you laughed at everything and it’s…it’s such a good sound.” On the balcony, your throat constricted, and you felt a sting behind your nose. “I know I messed up, Yankee. I know I don’t deserve another chance, and I’m not asking for one. I just…I just want to make you laugh again. Even if we’re only ever just friends—I miss that sound. I’m so sorry and I’m so stupid for not realizing how much I—” You squeezed your eyes shut and pulled your legs up onto the chair with you, wrapping one arm around your knees when he paused again. “For not realizing how special you are. You, uh,” he coughed again. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to mess everything up to figure that out.”

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose, and you swallowed down the lump that had risen in your throat.

On the phone, Joe inhaled sharply. “You’re not going to listen to this, so I’m not going to tell you to call me back I just…” he sighed. “I don’t know. I had to say this somewhere so…uh…yeah. That’s it.” There was another long pause before he said quietly, “Bye Yankee.”

The message ended long before you took the phone away from your ear. It was dark by then. Lights on other balconies were blinking on one by one down the long line of rooms on either side of yours and the sea in front of you was black against a dark gray sky.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, replaying Joe’s words in your mind over and over again, trying to decide what to do with them. By the time you made yourself get up, the room had quieted down. Everyone was in bed when you slipped back inside and Roman Holiday was playing on the TV.

Claire was already asleep when you climbed into bed beside her and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling while you listened to her snore and Zorra mutter quietly across the room while Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck zoomed around on a scooter.

It took you a very long time to fall asleep.

****

You felt like you’d spent a whole month psyching yourself up for difficult conversations. By the time you got home from Brighton, you’d lost your patience for it.

The boys’ flat was rarely empty, and that afternoon was no different. Three voices called through the door to tell you it was open when you knocked, and when you let yourself in, Wes, Henry, and Danny were camped around the living room. Danny and Henry were engaged in some vicious video game competition while Wes observed, looking as though he was on deck to play whoever won. They looked up like a pack of meerkats while you closed the door behind you.

“Hey guys,” you waved once and then bit your lip, shifting your weight from one foot to the next as you glanced around the room. “Is. Um.” You tucked your hair behind your ear. “Is Joe around?”

“Should be,” Danny shrugged.

Returning his eyes to the screen, Henry motioned toward the hall and the bathroom. “Takin’ a shower.”

“Should be done soon,” Danny added.

“Cool…” you nodded slowly and finally let your gaze move over to Wes, who was the only one still looking at you. “He, um, he doesn’t—I didn’t tell him I was coming over.” You fidgeted with the ends of your hair. “He called me the other night and I—”

Those were the magic words.

Wes perked up almost immediately. “He called you? Really?”

You frowned. “Yes, really. Was he not supposed to?”

“No, he was,” he said quickly and got to his feet. “I just didn’t know he did. And I heard the water stop like, five minutes ago so he’s probably just about finished in the shower.” You watched, amused, as Wes rounded the coffee table and grabbed Henry by the hood of his sweatshirt and Danny by the arm and hauled them both up. “And it’s weird you’re here because you almost missed us. We’re off, actually.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

On the screen, the cars that had been racing one another each crashed into a different concrete barrier and exploded.

“Just us though,” Henry added, grabbing the other controller out of Danny’s hand, and chucking them both onto the couch. “We’ll be out. For…some time,” he faltered.

“Okay…”

“You should stay,” he suggested while the three of them stumbled into their shoes like a Three Stooges routine. “And…say and do whatever you want.”

You nodded again. “Thank you.”

“Just make yourself at home,” Danny added with a bright smile before Wes shoved him out the door and closed it swiftly behind them.

Left alone, you chuckled and shook your head before you rummaged in the mess of the coffee table for the remote to turn the TV off. You had just set the controllers on top of the Xbox when the bathroom door opened. Footsteps moved from the bathroom to the back bedroom once and then again before you heard the lights and fan click off.

“Hey, where the fuck is my—” Joe stopped abruptly in the doorway with a hand in his wet curls. “Oh. Hey. Uh.” He coughed and stood straight before swiping a hand over his mouth, clearing it of any remaining toothpaste you’d seen in the corner of his lips. “Yeah, hey.”

“Yeah,” you echoed with a nod. “Hey.”

He glanced behind you with a frown. “Where is everyone?”

“They left.”

“What—all of them?”

“Yes,” you nodded with a tight smile and a single look around the empty living room. “All of them. I assume to go pick out their outfits for The Subtlety Awards. Which they’ll definitely be winning.”

He paused, processing what you’d said, and then laughed quietly before starting for the kitchen. You followed a few yards behind him, wishing you could just press fast-forward and see where you ended up tomorrow. “Do you want any—” he stopped with his hand on the fridge and frowned. “I don’t have anything,” he admitted. “We haven’t gone shopping in a minute.”

You pressed a smile between your lips. “You should text them,” you suggested, pointing toward the door where his flatmates had just bolted. “Tell them to do the food shopping while they’re out running their lengthy make-believe errands.”

The edge of his lips slid upward, treating you to a glimpse of the dimple in his right cheek. “That’s not a bad idea.” An awkward silence shuffled into the kitchen with you. Joe coughed. “I—uh—I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Well,” you leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, daring yourself to get to the point of what you were doing there. “It’s not every day someone leaves me a voicemail to tell me they’re drinking grapefruit juice.”

Joe’s expression went on a little tour of emotions. Surprise, followed by a soft smile of affection and then, finally, narrowed eyes and a forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I’m…pretty sure I said more than that,” he said slowly with mounting horror. “Unless it cut off right after—”

“I’m messing with you,” you cut him off, allowing yourself a small smile. “I listened to the whole thing.”

“Oh,” he relaxed for a second and then tensed again. “The whole thing?”

“Twice.”

You had listened to it four times but twice felt like enough to admit to.

“Oh.” He coughed again. “I didn’t…think you would do that.”

“So you said,” you reminded him before you took a deep breath. “But I did.” Another long silence arrived to keep the first company. You waited for what felt like a long time for Joe to respond before you asked, “Did you mean it?”

He looked up from where he’d been studying a crack in the linoleum. “Did I mean what?”

“Any of it?” you asked. “All of it?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I meant all of it.”

You nodded and pushed yourself away from the wall to stand up straight. “I thought I knew what I was going to say when I came over here,” you admitted. “And I probably should still say it because it’s all important. It’s just—” You stopped and pursed your lips. You took a moment before starting again. “Okay, the thing is, even if you were asking for another chance—which, you claim you weren’t—”

“I wasn’t—” he held up his hands.

“It’s just that even if I wanted to forgive you and try to be a couple again, I don’t know that I could because I don’t know if I can trust you. How do I know the next time you get bored or restless, you’re not just going to toss me aside again and chase after something new, and—” This had all been very clear when you’d thought it out the night before. But the longer you stood in this kitchen and looked at him, the less you wanted to say any of it. “And I’m different now,” you admitted, plowing ahead anyway. “I’m not the same person you broke up with in May and you’re not the same person who broke up with me and I don’t even know if we’d be good together anymore because we did all this stupid shit all summer just making each other jealous and maybe there’s like, a thousand reasons why this is a really stupid idea that I’m going to regret but…” you ran out of steam and let the last word hang in the air like a speech bubble in a comic book.

Across the room, Joe looked up. His big, dark eyes were wide and uncertain, his eyebrows lifted with cautious hope. “But…?”

You let out the breath you’d been holding and felt your shoulders drop away from your ears. “But goddamnit. I miss you, Joe.”

His expression lifted a little more. “You do?”

“Yes,” you let out a little laugh of frustration. “I miss being with you. I miss being a stupid kid with you and making mistakes and figuring shit out together and not…having everything be so fucking complicated all the time.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into another half-smile. “I miss that too.”

“Okay, but see, I don’t know if you really miss me or if you just can’t stand the idea of me being with someone else,” you went on, remembering you’d left out a whole part that still felt important. “Because I’m not yours, Joe,” you said firmly. “I’m not some toy you can put on a shelf so none of the other kids can play with it even when you’re not interested in it anymore.”

“I know that,” he said after he’d closed his eyes in a long blink. “I know I acted like an idiot, and I know I don’t deserve another chance, but—” It was his turn to pause. “But the thing is, I can’t stand the idea of you being with someone else because you weren’t just my girlfriend. You were one of my best friends. And more than that, you…” he stopped with a war of whether or not to continue written all over his face.

“I what?” you asked, surprised at how small your voice sounded.

He sighed. “You make me want to be a better person,” he said quietly. “Like, someone who deserves you and makes you happy and treats you well,” he went on. His gaze had wandered back toward the floor. “And just…I don’t know,” he rolled a shoulder. “Just better in general. Better than I was before I met you.”

You opened your mouth to respond but closed it again. Words formed and faded on your tongue in quick succession before you finally managed to choke out, “Oh.”

Joe ran a hand through his wet hair with a quiet sound of frustration. “And, look, it doesn’t matter what I can and can’t stand, alright? I just want things to be good between us and I want you around again because—” he stumbled momentarily. “Because it’s just better when you’re around. And if that means that I have to get over my…” he motioned vaguely to his head, “whatever about seeing you with someone else then—”

“Oh, shut up,” you cut him off. The shock of having been told you made someone want to be a better person had worn off quickly when you realized he was still one of the biggest idiots you’d ever met.

“Kay.”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you really think I want to be with anyone else?”

“I don’t know…” he eyed you warily. “Don’t you?”

“Do you think I would have come over here and listened to your unpoetic rambling if—” You stopped and shook your head. “Listen,” your shoulders dropped down with a heavy exhale. “It is a terrible, cosmic mistake, and not for lack of trying so hard to feel otherwise, but no,” you said firmly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

He raised his eyebrows again. “…Just me?”

You sighed again. “Just you.” If you had anything else to say, you forgot it because as soon as those two words had left your mouth, Joe had crossed the room and covered your lips with his.

It was a shock at first, and a little too rough. More like being punched in the face with someone else’s mouth than anything romantic. But after a second, his lips softened, and you tilted your head and let your hands slide up his chest to the back of his neck. His hands curled around your hips, holding you in place.

And it all felt so familiar and warm and safe and good. It was as if every little piece of your heart that had been sharp and jagged and all wrong all summer finally slid back where it belonged.

A thought seized you before you could allow yourself to get lost in the making-up, and you grabbed hold of his t-shirt and pushed him back just far enough to meet his eyes.

“But I swear to God, Joe,” you said, any chance of these words sounding threatening was canceled by their breathless delivery. “I swear to God if you fuck with my head again or break my heart or—”

“I won’t,” he said, smiling as he shook his head, brushing his nose against yours. “I promise.” He took your face in his hands and kissed your forehead, then your nose, and your eyes when they closed. “I promise,” he said again. “I’ll be so good.”

You’d been kissed a lot that summer. But kissing Javi hadn’t felt like this; it had been thrilling and unpredictable and just a little terrifying every time you thought too hard about what you were doing. There was no arguing that Javi Martinez knew how to kiss.

But Joe knew how to kiss you. And when he did—when he finally did again after so long—it wasn’t thrilling or scary. It was a sigh of relief.

Like coming home after being gone for too long.

----

Chapter 11 >>

----

I love you. I keese you. I would love to know what you think!

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grimeysociety · 2 months

Text

You Look Good: Chapter 9

Summary: Last week of June 2027

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: M/E rating (no minors, please!) for language and for the fact that they do sex in this chapter. P-in-V sex. This is sex, folks. They are doing sex. If you don't want to read about them doing sex, I invite you to turn back now.

A/N: I know I promised a quick return on this chapter after the angst of the last, but this one took a little longer than expected. I promise there's much less emotional upheaval, though!

Hope you like!

You bite the edge of your thumbnail and narrow your eyes, studying your wardrobe critically. Why do you have this much black? When was the last time you bought something in a primary color? In your ear, you’re vaguely aware that Joe is still talking. Unfortunately, he’s asked you a question and you have to admit you weren’t listening. “Sorry,” you say, flipping through another series of collared button-downs in three different shades of gray. “Say that again?”

He laughs. “I said I can tell him not to come,” he repeats. And you’re pretty sure you heard that part. “If you’d rather instead.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “Don’t do that.”

“You sure?”

“I am so sure,” you promise emphatically. “But if you let him come into town, be your date to whatever fancy award show you’re going to, and leave before I get to see him? Then I will be mad.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says warmly. “He said almost the same thing. Do you have Thursday night free?”

“As of right now,” you say without having to look at your calendar. Until Giuliana comes home, or tech week begins, your nights are still your own. “Bring him to Hobb’s,” you suggest. “It’s as close as we can get to the Queen’s Arms here, and no one will bother or recognize you.” You pause with a frown. “Wait, what is this thing you’re going to?”

“CFDA Awards,” he replies, not sounding annoyed that he’s repeating himself. “There’s a thing for Dior I’m meant to present.”

“CFDA,” you echo. “The fashion awards?”

“The very same.”

“Oh, then dear God, you don’t want me to come with you,” you assure him, shaking your head looking at your closet full of thrift shop and Target clothes. “Dior would cancel your contract.”

Joe laughs. “I’d make sure you had something to wear, love.”

“Mmm, well,” you roll a shoulder. “Maybe next time. We both know Wes looks better in formalwear than I do.”

He snorts. “Not agreeing with that.”

“You don’t have to,” you say with a grin. “It’s just a fact.”

“Alright,” he says sounding reluctant. “I see someone looking for me.”

“Go earn your money,” you say, quoting something his dad used to say before showtime.

“Tryin’,” he replies easily. “You’re making it difficult.”

You snort. “Don’t you blame me if you can’t focus. In the time that we’ve been back together, my work has not suffered even a little bit.”

“Yeah, well,” Joe coughs. “That’s because you’ve always been more professional than I am.” You giggle while he continues. “And this next week’s schedule is all kinds of fucked. I don’t think I’m going to get to see you again until…”

“Monday?” you guess, trying to remember what he’d told you in comparison to your own obligations.

“Maybe Monday,” he agrees and lets out a quiet hum. “Don’t like that.”

You feel yourself smile as you shake your head. “We’ll survive, Romeo,” you assure him, even though you don’t like that either. It’s only been a few weeks, but you’ve already gotten a little too used to having him around every few days. “Go to work.”

He hangs up and you toss your phone onto your bed. “What a dork,” you mutter. You don’t have to look in the mirror to know your cheeks are pink.

***

The bones of the set are up when you get into the space on Friday. Peter is pulling your actors for fittings—staying remarkably quiet about having to dress someone who isn’t stick-thin—and when Kelvin delivered his Act One monologue on Wednesday, you almost couldn’t hear the capital letters.

Almost.

Sitting in the dark house on Friday afternoon, you feel your head tilt again, watching him bargaining for Eurydice’s release from hell. Before you can stop them, Farouk leans over and hooks you with a dark, raised eyebrow. “I’m still hearing Calculon,” he whispers.

You smile back and nod. “Me too.” To the stage, you raise your voice. “Time out!”

From where she sits on the floor, Holly—Eurydice—lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

You get to your feet and make your way from the third row up onto the stage. “Um, okay. Holly, Keisha, you can take five.”

Kelvin’s shoulders drop. “What am I doing wrong now?” he asks once his co-stars have cleared the set. He doesn’t sound defiant, which instantly wins him more grace in your book. But maybe a little too defeated.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you assure him, taking a moment to pull your hair up and off your face in a high ponytail. “Unfortunately, you’re not doing much right either.”

He sighs. “I’m just trying to give this scene the, ya know, the gravity it deserves.”

“I know,” you nod. “That much is obvious.” You look at your leading man for a moment. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and soap opera-star handsome. You’re almost certain, without having to ask, that he got into theatre as a way to meet girls and stuck with it because he kept getting roles. If you hadn’t seen him in King Lear last summer, you would have believed he only got as far as he had because of his looks.

But under all that glamour, he is a good actor. Dumb as a brick, but a good actor. You know he can give you what you’re asking for if you can drag him into the right headspace.

“So, what?” he asks, holding out his hands. “Should I be like. Less serious?”

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not about what’s going on in the rest of the scene,” you say carefully, still studying him. “It’s—” A thought occurs to you, and you clap your hands together briefly. “Pop quiz. What are the two things you need to do on stage when you’re an actor?” He opens his mouth, and you hold up a hand. “And don’t give me any of that ‘plumb the depths of the human experience’ or ‘hold a mirror up to the eyes of man so that he can see himself as he is’ bullshit. Basic, bare-bones minimum to be an actor.” You hold up two fingers. “What do you need to be able to do?”

“Uh…” Kelvin’s brow furrows and he looks from you out to Farouk who has moved to the pit.

“Don’t look at him.” You take your free hand and reach out to gently grab his chin, forcing his attention back to you. “He’s not going to help you,” you assure him. “If you want to be an actor you have to be able to…”

“Uh, talk?” he guesses.

“Very good,” you grin, putting one finger down. “Talk, and what else?”

He looks around again. “I don’t know. Move?”

“Nope.”

His frown deepens. “You don’t need to move to be an actor?”

“It’s a nice-to-have,” you concede with another shrug. “Not a need-to-have. Come on. Acting is two things: it’s talking and it’s…” When he still looks confused, you tap your ear twice.

“Listening?”

“Esattamente,” you smile. “Nobody ever talks about that second one, do they?”

“I listen,” he says defensively.

“Do you?” you ask, putting your hands on your hips. “Or do you wait for your turn to talk?”

Kelvin opens his mouth to disagree but closes it again. “Well. I mean. I don’t want to miss my cues so like. I’m paying attention.”

“I know,” you assure him. “But listening and paying attention aren’t the same thing. Look,” you take his hand and pull him back to his mark. “This is the big moment, right? What you say here is what’s going to convince Persephone to let you bring Eurydice home, so I get where you think you should be putting your focus and your emphasis. But I’m going to give you the same advice that one of my favorite directors ever gave me.”

Kelvin tips his head forward expectantly. “Which is…”

“It’s not about you,” you smile, hearing yourself quoting AJ Quinn for the second time in a week. “It doesn’t matter what the scene is. You put the focus on the other person and pour all your attention into them and it’ll free you up.”

“Free me up to do what?”

You lift your shoulders with a shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” You clear your throat. “Kiesha! Are you around?”

“Eavesdropping,” she says unapologetically as she pops her head back around the stage door.

You smile. “I appreciate the honesty. Come here,” you beckoned her over.

“You need me too, boss?” Holly called.

You glance back over your shoulder with a smile. “Not yet, babe. Do me a favor and actually take five?”

“You mean go away?”

“I mean go away,” you say without letting your smile drop. “You’re my control group. I need to know if you notice a difference.”

She gives you a little salute. “Aye-aye, Captain!”

Once the stage door slams shut again, you turn to Kiesha. “Alright, you, my beautiful Persephone.” You smile and point to her mark. “I would like you to deliver your ruling again. And you,” You spin on your heel and point at Kelvin. “I want you to listen to her. Put your focus on her until I tell you otherwise and when you speak, it’s in response to what she’s telling you.” You tap your ear again. “To what you’ve heard her say. Not just the lines you read while you were looking for your cue. And for this little experiment, it's okay if you skip or switch a line around. You're responding, you're not reciting.” You give him a look. “I’m trusting you to know the difference.”

Kelvin swallows and nods. “Kay.”

“Are we doing the whole thing?” Kiesha asks. “Like, all the way up until Hades?”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “Just go to the end of page 24.” You hop down from the stage and join Farouk at the railing above the pit. “Whenever you’re ready, Kiesh.”

Kiesha delivers her monologue again, every bit the sympathetic but unyielding queen of the underworld she’s been since her audition. “I feel for you, Orpheus,” she says at the end, with a sad shake of her head. “Truly, I do. But what you’re asking…” she crosses when she’s supposed to and places her hand on his arm. “I can’t bear to hear this argument again. It’s too much.”

You inhale steadily and wait for Kelvin to speak. But he doesn’t. Not right away. Instead, he stares at her hand for a long beat before he looks up at her. “Too much?” he repeats, and his voice is softer than it’s been. “Too much for who? For you? The one who has the power to say who can stay and who can go? If it’s too much for you, great queen, then tell me who here can bear it?” There’s an edge to his words; slightly ragged with emotion that, for the first time, it sounds like he’s fighting to control rather than cranking up. “Because I can’t. I can’t bear the light of another day without her. She was stolen from me. The years we were meant to have—stolen. There must be some justice for that.”

“There is no justice in the land of the dead,” Kiesha says quietly. “That’s a mortal word. It means nothing here. I’m sorry,” she says again and motions to the stage. “But this is where her story was always meant to end.”

Kelvin takes longer to respond as if he’s considering this. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. “This is where all our stories are meant to end,” he says. “And if that’s true, then you know you’ll have her eventually. And me. All of us. Every living being already belongs to you from the moment we take our first breath. And our time…” he stops and swallows hard. “Our time is fleeting at best. A mortal life—what is that? A few decades at the most. This is all I’m asking for.” He crosses unexpectedly and reaches for her hand. “A few years returned to one soul. This is nothing. A blink of an eye in the span of eternity. This…” he stops and drops his head. “This only matters to me.”

You feel a deep swell of pride in your chest and blame that for the way your throat is a little constricted when Farouk leans over and whispers, “Calculon, who?”

On stage, Kiesha drops character and shifts her weight to her back foot, giving Kelvin an appraising look. “Goddamn, dude,” she says. “Lemme go get the keys, I’ll let everybody out of Hell if you keep this up.”

Rehearsal is much better after that. It’s only a half hour later that you call it for the night, thoroughly satisfied with the adjustments Kelvin has made to his performance. You send Farouk home with everyone else, promising him that you can do the final walkthrough and lock up.

You’re still sitting in your usual third-row spot when a pair of hands clap over your eyes and before you can shriek and start biting, a familiar voice is right beside your ear. “Guess who.”

Your immediate panic fades into a mix of amusement and confusion as you bring your hands up to run over Joe’s. “Hmm,” you say aloud. “Well, the voice sounds sort of familiar. But it certainly couldn’t be Joseph—he’s supposed to be in New Jersey all night.”

“Poor bloke,” he says with a quiet laugh. “Anyone else it could be?”

“Not sure,” you smile and reach back to run your fingertips over the tops of his hands and forearms. “But these hands feel pretty nice.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod. “A little rough but very talented.” He snorts and drops his hands to your shoulders, standing up as you tilt your head backward and study him upside down. “What are you doing here?” you ask, accepting the kiss he bends to drop to your lips. “I thought your call was at five.”

“It was,” he nods, coming around to shuffle into your row. “But they pivoted to something they don’t need me for because the bar we’re meant to be shooting in had a fire last night.”

You look up with wide eyes. “Wasn’t me, Officer. I’ve been here the whole time.”

He grins as he drops into the seat beside your bag. “Likely story.”

“But really,” you set your pen inside your notebook and turn to face him, “what are you doing here?”

“I was curious,” he says with a little roll of his shoulder. “Your producer let me in—told me I could watch a little of the rehearsal.”

You frown and look back at the empty theater. “Really? You were watching?”

“Just the last little bit,” he says and nods toward the darker corner under the balcony. He lifts his brow. “Is that…alright?”

You consider for a moment. “Depends,” you say slowly. “What’d you think?” And then, before he can answer, you shake your head, nerves getting the better of you. “No, never mind. Don’t tell me.” Your pen and script slip easily into your bag, and you slide the zipper closed. “And don’t get comfy,” you say and reach over to tap his knee. “I don’t want to hang out here all night.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees easily and gives you his hand to help you up. “You wanna give me a tour first?”

“Ten-cent tour,” you counter. “I’ve spent too much time in old theaters with you already.”

He’s still smiling when you make it to the aisle. “And here I was, feeling nostalgic.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Come on,” you wave him on to follow you, leaving your bag on the aisle seat. “I assume you’re familiar enough with the house that I don’t have to go row-by-row.”

“If you must.”

He comes with you for your usual final walkthrough of the night. Most of the directors you know foist this responsibility off on the AD, but you’ve never been able to sleep if you haven’t personally turned the key in the lock and shut off all the lights.

It’s a control thing. You have to work on it.

You’ve led Joe through the green room and up the stairs for a brief sweep of the stage before you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back against him as you stand between the legs of heavy midnight blue velvet curtains. You squirm when his stubble tickles your neck. “What are you doing?” you laugh, even though it’s pretty obvious what he’s doing.

“I told you,” he says quietly, his lips against the bottom of your jaw. “Feeling nostalgic.”

You hear the sigh you let out—something like giggly exasperation. “Joe…”

“You remember that little black box in Chelsea?” he asks, going with you when you start walking toward the fly rail. “When we were doing Proof?”

You’re shaking your head as you turn around, not slipping out from between his arms. “Huh-uh,” you laugh. “I am not messing around with you on this stage.”

“Messing around?” he repeats, capturing your lips in a quick, soft kiss. “You make it sound so cheap.”

Your nose brushes his even as your ass hits the edge of the railing. “I don’t care about cheap,” you say, trading him another kiss before you glance up at the weights and ropes strategically hanging above your heads. “But you, me, and this fly rail are all too old to be fucking around on it.”

Joe laughs softly but doesn’t argue when you duck under his arm and take his hand again, heading for the hallway. He hits the lights on your way out and waits while you check the lock on the stage door before he stops you again. “Hey,” he says, the teasing tone fades from his voice. “Stop for a second.”

You do, frowning slightly in confusion. “What’s up?”

“You asked what I thought,” he reminds you, stepping closer to invade your personal space. “When I was watching your rehearsal.”

Your throat bobs when you swallow, and you lift your eyebrows. “I did,” you say evenly. You’ve let go of his hand in favor of resting yours on his hips. “And…?”

His eyes move from yours to your lips and back again. “And I think you’re amazing,” he says softly. “I think you’re an amazing director,” he goes on. “And I think this show is going to be fantastic once you’re done working your magic on it.”

You have to swallow again, though it’s not because of nerves this time. It’s to try and chase back the unexpected swell of emotion in your chest that his words bring. You glance down at the narrow space between you and clear your throat. “Well, I mean, I steal most of my best stuff from your dad so—”

“No, don’t do that,” he says, and his tone is gentle, but firm. His right hand comes up to hold your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “You’re brilliant,” he says. “Don’t make jokes like you’re not.”

You inhale slowly, finding it hard to keep your eyes on his. Your instinct is always to deflect, make a joke, redirect the praise elsewhere—the actors, the production team, the crew. “Thank you,” you say softly.

The dimple appears in Joe’s left cheek as he smiles. “But I am totally telling my dad that you’ve been calling him one of your favorite directors.”

You grin, looping your fingers in his belt loops to pull him closer. “I hope so,” you say before his lips meet yours again.

It starts off as another soft, sweet kiss. But the moment you tug him closer, your back presses against the wall and your stomach swoops with that entangled rush of excitement and familiarity that you only feel with him. You open your mouth easily, eagerly inviting him to stroke his tongue over yours.

“Come on,” you whisper when you break away a moment later and nod to the empty hall behind you.

He follows you without hesitation as you turn the knob on the second door on the left and pull him inside. It’s dark and smells like the attic of a thrift store, but there are a few illuminated outlets that let you safely navigate the cramped space. Walking backward, you push Joe’s shirt up over his head, dropping it to the ground behind him before you shed your own.

His lips are on yours again while his hands are working to unbutton your denim shorts. You reach behind to unclasp your bra and drop it to the ground next, breaking away from his kiss with a quiet gasp when he slides his hand into your pants. “Take these off,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, using the hand that isn’t working its way between your thighs to try and shove the fabric the rest of the way down your hips.

“Trying,” you huff with a laugh, pausing when your knees touch the velvet chaise lounge you’d stubbed your toe on last week. You shimmy out of your shorts and panties in a rush to return to your task of ridding Joe of the last of his clothes as quickly as possible.

It’s only been a week since the last time you’d been together, but it feels like longer when he pulls your face back to his and kisses you deeply, dragging a muffled moan from the back of your throat. He groans when you reach down to stroke his cock and if you weren’t already wet, that sound alone would have done the job.

You grab his hips and swap places, pushing him down to sit on the chaise before you climb into his lap. His hands sweep down your back while you hold his face, swallowing the sounds he makes when you lick into his mouth, circling his tongue with yours. He lets you tease him for a moment with your legs spread over his before he takes hold of your hips and pulls you down onto his cock.

“Fuck,” you sigh against his lips, pulling back for a breath. It’s easier to move when you reach behind him to grab the edge of the chaise. He keeps his grip tight on your hips, pulling you down every time he thrusts up into you. And even though you know you’re alone, that there’s no one else in the theater, there’s a silly little thrill that keeps you moving hard and fast as if someone might walk in on you at any moment.

Joe moves his hands up to squeeze your breasts, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers in a way that has you sucking in a sharp breath through your teeth and clenching harder around him on his next thrust.

Still gripping the back of the settee with one hand, you push three fingers of the other into his mouth and try to bite back a moan at the feeling of his warm, wet tongue sucking on them. He lets out a strangled sound when you pull them out and he watches your hand move to rub your clit. “I can—”

“Huh-uh,” you shake your head and look down at where his hands are full of your tits. “Keep doing this.”

He obliges and you lean down to kiss him again, letting him suck on your tongue while you rub yourself in time with the way he’s moving inside you. It doesn’t take long before that sweet rush of pleasure floods your body, sending sparks all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. Joe is not far behind you and when he comes, you press your forehead to his, watching the relief play across his face.

Joe opens his eyes and smiles up at you, the rapid rise and fall of his chest starts to slow as his heart rate and breathing returns to normal. After a moment, his eyes shift to somewhere just past your face and his brow furrows in confusion. “What is that?” he asks, squinting in the dark. “Antlers?” You glance over your shoulder and laugh as he finally looks around. “Where the fuck did you bring me?”

“Prop room,” you say, letting your eyes roam over the shelves of old luggage, typewriters, strange paintings found at thrift stores, and the cubby full of mounted antlers and taxidermied animals.

“Prop room,” he echoes, pulling you back in for another kiss. “Guess it was more comfortable than the fly rail,” he murmurs the moment before his lips meet yours.

***

Joe and Wes are already at Hobb’s when you arrive on Thursday night. There’s something about seeing the two of them together, laughing and talking in the back corner of a dark hole-in-the-wall bar that squeezes your heart.

Wes jumps up before you’re even halfway across the room. “Yankee!” he exclaims when you’re within hugging distance. His arms are around you, hugging you so tight it’s almost hard to breathe.

When he finally lets you go and you can pull back to hold him at arms’ length, you can’t help your smile. “Still the best looking guy in any room,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You look great.” He looks remarkably the same as he did ten years ago. His face is a little fuller, but it matches the way the rest of his frame has filled out. He looks solid and sturdy, and his silky blonde hair still flops in his eyes like a Backstreet Boy.

“You look great,” he counters and bends down to kiss your cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe stands up next. “We all look great,” he grumbles good-naturedly and shuffles to let you into the booth.

If you were worried that ten years was too far for your friendship with Wes to stretch, you were wrong. And you’re so happy to have been wrong. For the next few hours, over drinks and baskets of fries, you get to hear everything about his life and share everything worth sharing about yours. He wants to hear all about Giuliana, all about the show and the ones you’ve directed in the last few years.

And in between all that, you get to watch him and Joe spin that magic that comes from a lifelong friendship. They finish each other’s sentences, they laugh at exactly the same time no matter the joke, they pass decades of history back and forth with a single glance. Before you’d met them, you hadn’t known any straight men who loved their friends the way that Joe and Wes did. Carefree and open with their affection like you’d never seen before. Arms always flung around each other, always messing with the other’s hair. They hugged goodbye just about every time they parted—even if it was just to go their separate ways after a party.

And watching them now, it’s as if no time has passed for any of you. You can’t help but think about the first time you met Wes—when Joe introduced him at a party the third week of term. How you’d watched them trip over each other trying to answer your question of how they’d met and dissolving into laughter and half-finished words and sentences that triggered memories you couldn’t follow. But you hadn’t minded then—and you don’t mind now—you had just watched them for a long time before they’d quieted down long enough for you to ask one more question. So, which one of you was Rosencrantz, and which one was Guildenstern?

You’re at the bar, having volunteered to fetch the next round, when someone says your name with a tap on your shoulder. You turn slowly and feel your face split into a bright smile at the sight of your former director, Trinity Thomas waiting to give you a quick hug.

“How are you, sweetie?” she asks before letting you go and it’s funny because a month ago, her posh British accent would have struck you with an almost painful pang of nostalgia. But after spending the last few weeks with Joe, you hardly notice it.

“I’m great,” you say truthfully. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’ve got meetings in the city this week,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand in the direction of the bridge. “But we Airbnb’d a flat about a block from here, just for a little breathing room from all the Manhattan bullshit. I’m just here picking up dinner.”

You smile. “We?” You look behind her briefly. “Is Arthur with you?”

“With me on the trip—yes,” she says of her new husband with a fond smile. “But he’s likely asleep already, the love. While I’ve been working, Callie’s been dragging him all over the five boroughs looking at colleges—”

“No,” you say dramatically, not having to fake the gasp. “Callie’s not old enough for that.”

“She’ll be a senior in the fall,” Trin says with a sigh. “Don’t remind me. I’m still only thirty-five,” she goes on with a wry grin. “I’ve no idea how my youngest child is nearly out of high school.” You’re still laughing at that when she gets a thoughtful line between her fair eyebrows. “Did I see you’ve got something opening at the Hayes?”

You nod as Ralph sets three drinks on the bar for you. “Yeah, we’re going up in the middle of August.”

“Oh, we’ll have to come,” she says, delighted. “The girls would love that.”

“Just tell me when,” you promise. “I’ll make sure you get the VIP treatment.”

“I’m so glad I ran into you,” she tucks her sleek bob behind her ear. When you first met her, her hair was a well-maintained golden honey blonde, but these days it’s a soft silvery-white that makes her look like an elf from Lord of the Rings. Aside from that, and a few more lines by her eyes and mouth, Trinity has barely aged in almost fifteen years.

“It’s such a coincidence,” you admit and glance toward the booth where Joe and Wes have stopped their conversation and aren’t even pretending to not be staring at you. “We’ve got a mini LAMDA reunion going on tonight.”

Trinity follows your gaze and squints for a moment before she looks back to you. “Good God,” she says. “Is that AJ’s boy?”

“It is,” you say with a laugh. “He’s filming here this summer.”

“You two are still together?” she asks, lifting her brows again in surprise.

“Oh, no,” you shake your head on instinct and then rush on to correct yourself. “No, I mean, we are. Now. It’s just that—” Your mouth dips in a quick frown. “Well, still isn’t the right word. More…together again?”

“Well, if that isn’t a surprise,” she comments, smiling again.

You laugh again. “To no one more than me, trust me.”

“Thomas!” One of the kitchen staff comes through the swinging door with two plastic bags full of takeout containers. He sets them on the bar without waiting for Trinity to confirm they’re hers.

“Ah,” she looks over her shoulder. “My grease.”

“Enjoy,” you say with a grin before you grab her for another quick hug. “It was so good to see you, Trin.”

“You too,” she gives you a tight squeeze before she lets you go. “We’re here until Sunday night,” she goes on. “I’d love to get coffee or dinner or something. Is your number still the same?"

It is and you let her know, then you wait for her to grab her bags of food and squeeze out of the crowded bar before you scoop up the drinks still waiting on the bar and make your way back to the table.

“Who was that?” Joe asks as you slide in next to him. “She looked familiar.”

“Trinity Thomas,” you answer, handing Wes his Jack and Coke.

They exchange a glance, their heads tilting at the exact same time. “…Dr. Thomas?” Joe asks. “From LAMDA?”

“The very same,” you answer evenly, hoping that’ll be it.

It isn’t.

Wes’ eyes narrow while he sips his drink. “Wasn’t Dr. Thomas married to…”

You inhale and let out a quiet sigh. “The ethically bankrupt, but oh-so-charming Professor Javi Martinez?” You finish for him and nod once. “Yeah. She was. At one point.”

Joe’s face wrinkles further in confusion. “Am I missing something? Were you not just all chummy a moment ago?”

You raise your glass to your lips and take a long sip. “She gave me my first job when I was back in New York.”

“What?” Joe asks, his voice raising an octave.

Wes stares at you for a moment, then looks in the direction Trinity just left. “So, you’re telling me…” he looks toward the door again, as if she’s about to come back in and explain it for him. “You shared a man with that woman…and she gave you a job?”

You feel your cheeks burn. “Not like…I mean, it wasn’t right away that she did that. Obviously. That whole thing with Javi was in…” you frown, trying to remember. “2013? It must have been? That first summer I was in London.”

“Mmhmm,” Wes nods along.

“And I didn’t know he was married at the time, if you will both recall,” you added, pointing at them emphatically. “But anyway. That all blew up and she moved to the States sometime between then and 2018, because that’s when she found me, living the dream as everyone’s favorite tour guide on the Circle Line Harbor Cruise.” You remember vividly how you’d spotted her in the crowd on the top deck of the sightseeing cruise you used to lead and how you’d almost thrown up over the railing or jumped overboard to get away from her and the shame that still rose up sticky and bitter in the back of your throat when you thought about what you’d done. “She came up to me afterward and told me she’d just had someone drop out of She Loves Me two weeks before they were meant to go on tour, told me to come and audition.” You shrugged. “And saved my life.”

You’d said this to Trinity before. She’d disagreed, corrected you, and said that if anything, she’d just saved your career. Or jumpstarted it again.

But you knew differently. When she’d boarded the boat that day, you’d been three months behind on your credit cards, working two exhausting jobs you hated, and a breath away from having to move back in with your parents and become the ultimate theatre kid cliché.

She’d given you a chance. That tour had turned into another and at the end of the next one, the choreographer’s partner was looking for an AD and he liked the vision you pitched for his little black box show in New Rochelle.

And so on and so forth. Things led to things. Opportunities snowballed. And now here you were, about to open at The Hayes in just a few short weeks.

Joe is shaking his head. “That’s unbelievable.”

“No,” you mirror him. “It’s not. She told me she’d always known Javi was cheating on her—I was just the first one who felt guilty enough to tell her what was going on.” You roll a shoulder. “She said I had guts. And she liked that about me.”

“It’s still mental,” Wes argues. “I mean…she was so mean as a teacher.”

You snort. “I never had her. But, I don’t know,” you say with a laugh as another memory hits you. The memory of your friend and flatmate sitting in the living room on her yoga mat, burning incense and repeating phrases from The Power of Positive Thinking audiobook she’d internalized. “What did they say in those self-actualization recordings Claire used to play all the time? People will—”

“People will be attracted to my positive energy and help me achieve my goals,” Joe and Wes say in unison. The moment earning a clink of their glasses when they finish.

“Yes,” you nod, still laughing. “Exactly. Guess some of that energy finally sank in. In fact,” you raise your glass again. “Let’s drink to Claire and her power of positive thinking.”

They need no prompting to toast again.

There’s a discussion about getting another round or heading out when Joe’s phone rings and he has to step outside to chat with his agent. Left alone, you and Wes decide to go to the bar and wait. At least freeing up the table you’d been camped out in for the last few hours.

It’s not Ralph who steps up to get your order, it’s a kid you don’t recognize—he barely looks old enough to drink the alcohol he’s serving. Wes speaks before you can. “I’d like a Clockwork Green please,” he says with so much confidence that you have to do a double-take before he goes on to explain, “It’s the same as a Clockwork Orange but with lime cordial instead of orange juice.”

The kid behind the bar looks momentarily panicked and glances from Wes to you, prompting you to put your hand on Wes’ arm and smack him. “No, don’t do that,” you warn, trying not to laugh while he makes up another drink.

“Fine,” he sighs theatrically and then straightens again. “Sorry, I know most places don’t have lime cordial,” he apologizes smoothly and glances at the bottles lining the back of the bar. “Okay, I guess I’d just like to have a…oh, I don’t know. Make it a Second Place Pony—no sugar rim, though.”

You swat him again, unable to keep a straight face. “Oh my God, stop it.” You look back to the bartender. “Ignore him, honey. Those are not real drinks.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Wes is giggling like a child. “I’m just fucking around.”

You sigh and give him a light shove while the bartender looks somewhere between relieved and annoyed. “Just another Jack and Coke and an old-fashioned for me, please,” you order, making a mental note to give this poor boy a large tip.

There’s a companionable silence that settles between you once you’ve got your drinks. You’re about to break it and ask what he’s working on these days when Wes speaks first. “It’s really good to see you,” he says quietly, glancing over with smile.

You can’t help but return it. “Likewise, pal.”

His eyes flick momentarily to the window of the bar, through which you can still see Joe pacing while he talks on his phone. Not in the stressed and anxious way he does when he’s irritated. If anything, he just looks bored. “And it’s good to see him again,” he says quietly. “Like this, I mean.”

“Like what?” You turn back around on your stool once Joe looks up with a grin as he catches you watching him.

“Like…happy,” Wes says as if it’s obvious. “It’s been a long time since he’s been that.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on now,” you say. “He’s had plenty of people around to make him happy in the last ten years.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “Just not like this. Not like you do.”

You’re not buying it. “Really? Not even the one he was going to marry?” you challenge. “Not even for a little bit?”

Wes makes a quiet pfft sound between his lips. “That whole thing was never going to happen,” he says with confidence. “He was just kidding himself.”

You give him a side eye and shake your head. “I don’t believe you,” you decide. “I’m sure she was lovely.”

He laughs. “Oh, she was,” he agrees. “They’ve all been lovely in one way or another. Just doesn’t matter.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because when it comes to that idiot out there,” he looks toward the window again and then down at you. “There’ve only ever been two women, Yank. You and everybody else.”

You can only meet his eyes for a moment before you have to look down at the orange peel floating in the amber pool of your drink. Half of you wants to give Wes another playful shove and tell him he’s being ridiculous. Tell him to stop making this so much more serious than it might be.

But you don’t. Because he’s just put to words the thing you never wanted to admit to yourself. That everyone in your life had been unintentionally sorted into two groups: Before Joe and After Joe.

Only that wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth—the one you’ve spent unsuccessful relationship after unsuccessful relationship avoiding—is that you’d been sorting people into two groups since First Year Seminar when you’d glanced up from a folded sheet of notebook paper and found a pair of brown eyes studying you intently.

Joe. And Not Joe.

But instead of saying any of that, you clear your throat and glance back up. “Is this where you conveniently forget why I left London and give me some speech about not hurting him again?”

As fond as you are of Wes, it’s what you’ve been waiting for. Some adapted version of the shovel speech or reminder that his best friend’s heart was more fragile than he wanted to admit.

“Oh no,” he says with a smile that’s softened with all the affection of a big brother. “This is where I say thank you for giving him the chance to correct the biggest mistake of his life,” he slides his tumbler over a few inches on the bar and quietly clinks it with yours.

You feel your throat constrict against your will and instead of trying to manage any real response to that, you settle for resting your temple against his shoulder. “I missed you, Wes,” you say quietly.

He turns and kisses the top of your head. “Missed you too.”

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A/N: My earlier warning about not fucking your professors stands. Sometimes their wives give you jobs, but you still end up with a lifelong professor kink and very few places for it to go so you'll end up writing RPF about it in the hopes of squashing it down where it belongs.

Credit to: -Big Fish -Station Eleven -The best acting advice I've ever been given from my favorite director, Jack -My friend Holly for allowing me to use lines from the retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice she wrote in grad school

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Chapter 10>>

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