“I know his first name. That’s all I got.”
He sat up straighter. “I feel a search engine session coming on. I mean, you’ve looked, right? You’ve searched for designers in Manhattan named Price?”
“I searched every combination of ‘designer’ and ‘New York’ and ‘Price.’ But when you search ‘designer’ and ‘Price’ you get a bunch of links to online clothing stores.”
“Why didn’t you just ask his last name?”
I scowled at Andrew. “I kind of forgot to do that in the middle of all the fighting and stalking revelations and sex.”
He held up a hand. “Hold. Up. You did not tell me you had sex.”
I covered my face. Holy shit. I hadn’t just had sex with him. I’d submitted to all his crazy, rough, perverted demands like we’d never been apart, like I was still his prostitute, meeting him for sessions at a luxury hotel.
“I don’t know how it happened,” I said, looking up again. “We were fighting, and then he was grabbing me and kissing me, and then…” I pointed across the room, at the wall. “We did it there.” I pointed to the floor. “And there. And in the bedroom.”
“You did it three times?” Andrew gawked at me.
“After that, he ran out of condoms.”
“Well.” He looked like a shocked old church lady. “I’m glad to hear you’re having safe sex, but why didn’t you tell me you slept with him? I told you everything about Maximo.”
“You certainly did.”
“So why—”
“Because it’s stupid,” I said, cutting him off. “It was stupid and weak of me to sleep with him and I didn’t want to admit I did it.”
“No wonder he wants to start things up again. Was the sex hot?”
“It was so fucking hot, Andrew. I can’t even describe it.”
“And that’s why you keep zoning out with that tortured look on your face,” said Andrew, shaking his head. “That sucks. It sucks that we always want the things we shouldn’t have. That we want the things we shouldn’t want.”
Bless him. He always understood. “Why can’t you be straight?” I groused. “You’re fun and sexy, and you get me. Why don’t you straighten the fuck up and be my boyfriend?”
“Cougar,” he muttered.
I climbed in his lap and started riding him, which led to uncontrollable laughter and a pillow attack.
“Stop,” he shrieked, whapping me upside the head. “Consent violation.”
He tackled me to the couch and pinned me under his body. He wasn’t as big as Price by a long shot, but he was still a man, and bigger than me. We gazed at each other, laughing, and then he leaned down and pasted a messy kiss on my lips.
“Gross,” I said, sticking out my tongue. “I don’t want your gay cooties.”
“I don’t want your cougar cooties.” He sat up and helped me right myself. “Forget it, babes. Stop flirting. I’ll never live up to Price’s mystique.”
“I wouldn’t want you to.” I moved into his arms when he opened them, and rested my head against his chest. “You’re my safe place. He’s my scary place.”
“Ah, but Chere…” He stroked my hair and wrapped one of my curls around his fingertip. “I think you like to be scared.” He was silent a moment, while I mulled that over. “I’m not saying he’s a good person,” Andrew went on, “or that you belong together, but, honey, let’s be honest about something. You pined over him for two and a half years.”
“I didn’t ‘pine over him.’”
“You pined over him,” Andrew repeated. “You gave up on relationships because of him. I think that’s why you’re so upset now, so conflicted and messed up.”
Ugh, I was definitely conflicted and messed up.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “He’s not relationship material.”
“Are you sure? Girl, think about it. Think of his actions, his machinations with the apartment, just to be able to look at you after he left. The poetry was only part of it. Think about the planning. The ongoing surveillance.”
“I have,” I said, burrowing my face into his neck. “That’s why I’m so scared.”
“He’s scary,” Andrew agreed. “But I’m a little jealous. He watched you for two and a half years.” He made a low sound in his throat. “That’s kind of insane.”
*** *** ***
Andrew got busy after that, with Mr. Recaro and a couple other clients. I didn’t see him again until the first morning of our internships, when we met for an early breakfast. My normally unkempt friend looked strange in his white starched shirt and tie, with his curls tamed back in a ponytail. He was going to spend half his internship as assistant to a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the other half working at an up-and-coming gallery in Soho. Norton contacts were a powerful thing, and an aspiring painter needed all the connections he could get.
My design assignment was more practical: an architectural firm on Park Avenue. Their website was glossy and high tech, and maddeningly devoid of information, aside from a striking portfolio of their projects.