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“And she didn’t even deny it?” he asks.
I pause. “What are you talking about? The article has her fucking name on it, what is there for her to deny?”
He shrugs, scratching at his red hair. It looks suspiciously good—the fucker has probably been using my $35 hemp protein shampoo again. “Wouldn’t hurt to hear the story behind it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say offhand.
Seeing me glaring at his hair, Jax retreats towards the bathroom. “Yeah, well, if you need me, I’m here. I’ll probably be ordering burritos in a bit too.”
“Thanks man,” I say.
When I’m finally alone, nothing really changes.
I still don’t want to call her.
Instead, I scan through my contact list, the scroll that seems never-ending. Once, Jax joked that the ‘A’ section of my phone was bigger than his entire contact list. As I scroll through it now, I realize he might just be right.
I’ve been lucky. I’ve been to lots of parties. Had lots of friends. Hooked up with lots of girls.
And yet, what are they now, other than names in my phone I can’t place faces to?
How many nights are like that: drunken tantalizing swishes of memory, fun at the time, but, in the end, as inconsequential as a puff of smoke?
The craziest parties, the ones I heard stories about from others—about how I streaked naked down the streets of some ritzy neighborhood, or partied on a rooftop with some minor celeb—they were always amusing at the time, but—and I never told anyone this—they always left me feeling strangely empty.
Because they were never my memories. I usually didn’t remember them at all. Maybe I should’ve cut back on the drinking. Or maybe it was the partying—when you go out more nights than not, how can you be expected to remember them all?
It wasn’t like that with Sierra.
I didn’t need to drink to forget. It hasn’t all wisped away.
For whatever reason, it was as solid and as real as a building.
And yet, it wasn’t, was it?
Somehow, it wasn’t real at all. This article has proven that.
Whatever I thought we had, whatever I thought I’d endangered with this stupid fake engagement BS, was a lie.
I find my way onto my bed.
It seems I’m back to being sixteen, since the only thing I can see doing any good, making any of this better, is closing my eyes and waiting for sleep.
It’s just like before. It takes forever to come, but when it does, finally, finally, it’s more than worth it.
**
When I wake up, the first thing I think of is her.
I can’t wait anymore. I can’t make assumptions when I haven’t heard the truth from her.
I have to know.
“You at home?” I ask when I call her up.
“Yeah,” she says. “But why did you—”
“I’m coming over now,” I say before hanging up.
I have to know.
She comes to the door, frowning, arms crossed over her chest. “I’m assuming you have some good explanation as to why you just left without a word?”
Even now, knowing what I know, it doesn’t change how beautiful she is, even angry. I want to kiss every part of her, the straight lines of her eyebrows, the dapple separating her nose from her lips. I want to be stupid with her.
But first, I have to know.
“Read this.” I hold out my phone.
“Nolan—” she starts.
And then she sees it and shuts up.
It takes her a few minutes to read. Then she looks at me with tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“How could you?” I say. “Was it for the money? Do you actually believe that I was capable of any of that?”
“No!” She glares at me, thrusting my phone out at me. “No, of course not. You think I actually wrote this?”
I stab my finger at the screen. “See that name there? That’s yours. And believe me, I looked it up. I can’t find any other Sierra Hills who are journalists.”
“I started the article,” she says. “But I didn’t finish it. That first line is mine. The rest…” Her teeth grit together. “That asshole must have finished it himself.”
“What asshole?”
She shrugs. “His name was Maurice. He had some vendetta against you, but I swear, I didn’t know at first. At first, he just seemed kind of creepy but I thought it would be a harmless article—”
I have to laugh. “A harmless article, prying into my personal life—”
“I never planned to write about anything you wouldn’t have wanted me to. I thought I could just focus maybe on your career, just summarizing stuff most people knew already.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I ask flatly.
“I… I wasn’t sure you’d be OK with it,” she admits, looking down. “And… the money, it was really good. Insanely good, actually. I should’ve been more suspicious, but when my mom’s house had that fire, I just thought I had to—”
“And you weren’t scared of what this would mean for us, our relationship?” I say quietly.
