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“We’ll call ourselves The Wigs Made Me Do It,” I say, then we take a picture and head to Rebel Beat, a club near Gramercy Park.
Ethan’s band, Outrageous Record, is playing here tonight. His band’s become a bit of ahouse act, coming back, like a returning son, to the place where they broke out a few years ago.
We get our drinks, stake out a spot by the lip of the stage, and then rock out as Ethan and the crew roll through some of their most popular tunes. When they finish “Blown Away,” there’s barely a second for the crowd to lose its mind before Ethan says into the mic, “And now we have a special guest. This girl—you’re going to say you heard her when.Camden.” He gestures to the wings, and my bestie joins him onstage, in her vegan leather pants, belting out a song she wrote, “Whiskey Memories,” with Ethan harmonizing along.
And wow.
My girl’s got pipes and stage presence.
Talk about blown away. When I meet her later offstage, I say, “I feel like I just witnessed the start of something big.”
She’s glowing as she crosses her fingers. “Let’s hope so,” she says, then she adds, “I told you it was about the music. Ethan and me.”
“Fine, fine,” I concede.
A few days later, a video of her performance of “Whiskey Memories” goes viral. Guess someone’s about to be a rock star.
* * *
A week later, when Zach heads to Connecticut to see his grandparents for a few days, I pack up for a getaway trip. But I don’t head straight to Finn’s.
Instead, he sends a town car to pick me up.
I drop my suitcase in the back, and when I reach the Albrecht Mansion, I thank the driver, who’ll wait for us, then slide on my mask.
Tonight, I’m an angel. A very naughty one. I give the password to the bodyguard twins. “I’m good but not an angel,” I say.
“You may go inside.”
Once there, I look for a man dressed all in black, with a red mask.
We pretend we’re strangers at the party. In the library. And in the car on the way back to his home.
Then he fucks me like I’m his one-night stand and the love of his life.
After my third, or sixth, who knows how many orgasms, I’m worn out in the best of ways, so Finn pours me a glass of wine, and asks me if I want to sit in the backyard and enjoy the warm night.
“No. Let’s go to the balcony.”
He crooks a brow. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I’m not cured. I’ll never be cured. But I’ve learned from Shira that sometimes, when I’m less anxious, the uncomfortable thoughts come less frequently. And they don’t have such a hold of me.
Funny thing—letting go of my guilt over my sister let go of some of my persistent stress.
So I step onto the balcony with a glass of wine and my guy. For a few seconds, it’s a battle in my head. But it’s one I want to face.
Because this is where I want to be. In Manhattan, with him, looking at the stars.
* * *
The next evening, we’re relaxing by his pool in Miami.
“I’ve always wanted to take you here,” he says, as he stretches out on a lounge chair while the sea breeze drifts by.
“Take me anywhere,” I say.
