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The conversation devolves from the mysterious man into something regarding Priya’s most recent visit to the gynecologist, making it easy for my mind to wander into the deep waters of possibility that this man could offer me. It isn’t a crime to fantasize, and my empty wine glass is ready to speak for me for the rest of the night.
Right before we’re ready to walk back to our hotel, the man approaches me alone, handing me a piece of folded paper without a word. He disappears into the restaurant portion of the bar, smiling at me momentarily before the low light hides him behind the reflection of the windows.
“Oh my god, what does it say?” asks Samira with urgency.
I open the paper casually, trying to hide the mix of excitement and nervousness that’s taken over me.
“Marcello – 555-867-530.”
I can’t believe this is happening.
As we leave the bar, we stumble down the stone steps, nearly collapsing into a pile at the base as we head back to our hotel. My feet are starting to kill me now, so I’m more than willing to get the hell out of here and go to sleep.
Everyone else is ready to keep partying.
When we arrive back at the hotel, Samira skips over to the mini fridge where she’s been hiding a bottle of tequila since we got here.
“No, no, I’m not doing shots with you,” I warn, pointing my finger at her in accusation before she has a chance to speak.
“June! Just one shot, then I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Please?” she begs, pulling the bottle out of the fridge and ripping a stack of Styrofoam cups out of their plastic wrapping.
“I think you need to loosen up a little, June. I know you’re still mad at Zeke, and you need to let that shit go,” Priya interjects, gleefully taking a cup from Samira.
She’s right. Iamstill mad about Zeke. Part of what I wanted to gain from this trip was the feeling of independence and personal strength, like I didn’t need a man to make my life feel complete. If I let him dictate how I feel from all the way across the world, I’ll never get past my resentment toward him.
I sigh, exasperated both from my drinks back at the bar and the relentless peer pressure. I reach out my hand to Samira for a cup, and she squeals with joy.
“You’re going to forget that fucker, and you’re going to go get laid by that hot guy at the bar. I’m speaking it into existence,” Priya says with a sparkle of madness in her eye.
Samira pours me a generous shot, and Grace watches us smugly from the corner of the room as we drink it all down.
ChapterTwo
JUNE
My mother always taught me not to be too receptive to a man’s advances too quickly. She swore that it always leads to them getting bored with you quickly, like the idea of convincing you and wearing you down is more pleasurable to them than the sex itself. If you allow them to have sex with you too quickly, the novelty dulls rather quickly.
I’d like to believe that this is the sole reason that I haven’t texted Marcello yet, but the bigger picture would happen to include more distrust and anxiety than anything. It would feel like a lot more fun if I were just teasing him, imagining him waiting by his phone for a text excitedly while he tries to distract himself.
However, I’ve never been great at this game, and it’s failed miserably more times than I can count. I’m always the one who plays too hard, too fast, giving them everything they want with the belief that they’ll stay this way.
I feel like the men I’ve dated recently have put me off men for the rest of eternity. Every one of them is either too traditional, a criminal, or covertly insane. The ones I end up falling for are emotionally unavailable, pining after their exes while using me as a placeholder for her until she shows back up. None of their exes actually come back, but they cling to the fantasy as if it’s oxygen.
It’s the morning after we went out to the bar, and I’ve got the blackout shades drawn to block out as much light as possible. I’m just as hungover as I imagined I would be from the night before, and while I want to regret it and say I’ll never do it again, I know myself too well to believe it.
The puffy blankets on the bed are cool to the touch as the air conditioning blasts cold over my body. It feels so good that I can’t decide whether or not I want to lie here all day or attempt to get up and put myself together. My head is throbbing, and I feel as though I’m underwater when I close my eyes.
With a deep sigh, I roll out of bed with my head hanging. I open my phone to find a few texts from the girls about our plans for the day, and the idea of going out into the sun to do a winery tour makes me want to vomit. Even though this is one of the events that I was particularly excited about, it sounds completely repulsive to me in the state I’m in.
Now I can admit that I’m a little angry with myself for getting drunk.
As I’m scrolling through the updates from everybody, I glance over to the folded paper with Marcello’s phone number scrawled on it. I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose it, even though I told myself that I didn’t have any intention of contacting him.
I mean, what kind of woman would that make me? I always thought of myself as a selective, careful person, and having sex with a guy that I met the night before would be the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. The chances of me coming out of such an encounter feeling good about myself are slim to none.
Also, I don’t like how everyone around me is trying to live vicariously through me. It’s pushy and annoying. If they want an Italian hunk to screw their brains out, they’re going to have to find their own.
My phone buzzes.
