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“No problem,” I say.
We hang up and I send out the mass notification with our suggestion to sell her stock at the market opening. Then I collapse in bed, hoping not to dream.
After her plan to keep control of her company succeeds, my best friend knocks on my door the following night. I find her standing on my doorstep with a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes.
“What happened?” I ask.
Blake crushes me into a hug. “I broke up with him.”
“Gabriel? Why?”
We sit on the couch and, in between hiccups, she gives me an account of how her boyfriend has been responsible for her ex targeting her fitness company. And how Gabriel tried to salvage the damage by buying high quantities of her stock but only made the situation worse. All behind her back.
“Gabriel almost cost me everything,” Blake concludes.
“So you broke up with him?”
“I can’t trust him.”
“But you still love him.”
She nods and starts crying again.
Hugging her, consoling her, seeing her so vulnerable, I feel stupid for not trusting her with my weakness. We’re tough, we’re independent, but it’s okay not to be invincible. To lean on each other when we need to.
“Do you think I made a mistake?” Blake asks.
“Honey, I can’t tell you that. Only you can know.”
“I almost called him back a million times since he left my apartment. You must think I’m pathetic.”
“Just yesterday I almost said yes to a date with my ex. I’m not judging.”
“What ex?” Then her eyes widen and her mouth drops. “No. The doctor? The one that was up your—”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
Blake brushes a few tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “You know, you never told me what happened with John.”
I sigh. “Maybe it’s time I do.”
16
MARISSA
Sixteen Years Ago – Earlier on Prom Night
The receptionist hands me the room key with a skeptical expression. But nothing could dampen my smile. I don’t care if I have “girl about to lose her virginity in a hotel room after prom” written all over my face. I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. If I want to have sex, I can check myself into a hotel room and bonk all night until the walls shake.
“Thanks,” I tell her, putting an extra chirp in my tone, and head for the elevators.
Room 206, second floor, left corridor. I repeat the instructions on the ride up.
The hotel room is average but clean. With a geometric pattern carpet, a queen-sized bed with a purple comforter and pillows, a wooden desk and chair, a TV on the wall, and a glassed-in bathroom with a shower. New York isn’t exactly famous for its cheap motels, and okay, Brooklyn isn’t Manhattan, but Johnny must still have spent a fortune to book this room.
I sit on the bed and pass a hand over the pristine white sheets.
I’m taking a big step today. We are, together.
