The people next door bellowed, “Happy New Yearrr!” as Tristan wrapped an arm around my stomach, lifting me flush against his chest (“Sure hope 2025 is better than 2024, what a shithole of a year”), slamming, buckling (“Sharon, this sparkling cider is delicious!”), grunting like a pig stuck in a mudslide (Anderson Cooper: “Happy New Year from CNN!”), falling, finally, forward with all his deadweight on top of me.
I was afraid to look at him. When I rolled over, though, he looked the same, curls slick with coconut oil, back slightly hunched, shiny with sweat. He peeled off the wet condom and slapped it on the floor in an act of shocking barbarism. Then he swung his legs on the bed and cradled my face.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I just died.”
He laughed, pushing away the hair stuck to my forehead. “You came like a good girl.”
I was wet all over again.
“But what I mean is, do you feel bad? I feel awful.” He paused. “I feel like I should be feeling worse though.”
“I feel awful too.” I touched his sweaty cheek. “But to say I regret it would be a lie.”
Chapter 36
I was wrenched from sleep by a phone call. The room was dipped in a cool blue light. It made the ringing feel louder, like it was in my bones. People partied on the street, their voices sneaking through the cracked window. In a rush to hit cancel, I pressed accept. The room filled with Jay’s voice. A bald happiness ballooned in my chest before I could stop it, before I remembered to feel bad. Tristan’s nose twitched in his sleep. I fumbled to take the call off speaker and crept into the living room, my heart a galloping mess.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi, just called to say Happy New Year. Know it’s late.” His words ran together at a tilt. He was drunk. I looked at the time on the oven, blinking green. It was four in the morning.
“Happy New Year,” I managed.
My legs wobbled with nerves, dread building like I was bracing to take an exam. I caught myself against the counter. Tristan appeared in the door wearing a summer camp T-shirt, one eye shut. “Hey,” he rasped.
I shook my head. He got the message and turned back into the bedroom.
“Is that… are you with someone?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m, um, I was actually just about to leave. Can I call you when I get home?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t actually.” He hung up. It felt like he’d taken a knife to the cord that had always connected us. I stared at my phone’s dark screen, nauseated by how dead it looked in my hand.
When I stumbled back into the bedroom, Tristan was on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face.
“That was Jay?”
“Yeah.”
He looked up at me. “Why did we do this?”
I knew he didn’t want an answer. Because we were selfish? Because we were sluts? Because, because, because. The answer seemed obvious. Because we wanted to.
I groped in the dark for my jeans like someone lost. Tears warmed my eyes but didn’t fall, just burned. I didn’t want to have to become someone else to be with Jay, but the idea of becoming someone else began to sound better than whatever I was doing.
“I’m gonna leave.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“I’ll Uber.”
“The fares are gonna be insane.”
