She's ready to pretend this never happened.
I'm not.
But I'll get there.
Chapter Seven
OPAL
All night, I check my cell for emails from Max.
Then all day Tuesday.
During class. During my workout at the school gym. During my ride to my brother's office. (Somehow, I avoid the temptation during dinner).
On my way to Izzie's place.
Every time she excuses herself to grab a snack or use the bathroom.
I'm not sure what I want more—a request for round two or a promise we're strictly professional.
Both.
Either.
Is it that easy for him to forget our night?
Is he interested in mentoring me as a teacher or more?
I check again.
This time, Izzie catches me.
"Opal Pierce, that is the third time you've stared at your phone longingly," she says. "Are you waiting for a dick pic?"
"Gross."
"Are you waiting for a pussy pic?"
"Also gross."
"Then why are you staring at your cell like you want to lick it?"
"I am not," I say.
"You are so." She plops next to me on the couch. Peers over my shoulder, trying to view my screen. Then my sketchbook.
I try to press the pages together, but she's too fast. She sees the outline of a drawing. One of Max.
It's hard, drawing from memory. I can't capture the contours of his face. I can't put every detail to paper. Only the feeling of his presence. Power, pride, generosity, sadness. The drops of pain I saw in his hotel room and the river I saw after class.
If my best friend died—
Izzie and I aren't as close as we were in high school, but I'd still feel lost without her.
She was the only person at our elite private school who really saw me. The scholarship students wrote me off as a Park Avenue Princess. The rich kids wrote me off as a bastard daughter.
But Izzie… Izzie gets me. Her parents are rich too, old money snobs too, but she spent summers with her rebellious aunt and adopted her aunt's fondness for pissing off her mom.
She doesn't dye her hair blue or rock short skirts just because her mom hates it, but she would dye her hair green and wear torn jeans if her mom hated that more. (Though she'd kill me for saying that).
"Oh my god, who is this hottie?" She taps the sketchbook. "Is this the guy?"
"What guy?"
"The guy you met over the weekend. Who else?"
"There were so many guys," I say. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Yeah right, Opes. You're as sweet as your backpack."
"It's punk rock."
"It's bright pink."
"Yes. Punk rock femininity."
"You're the stylish one." She concedes my point. "And I'm the one who knows you're bluffing. Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"About the guy. The weekend. What happened?"
"I told you. It was a date. That's it."
"A date at a hotel bar."
She knows the details. Well, the ones about us meeting online, texting, agreeing to a one-night thing. Not the ones about the type of activities were planned to enjoy.
"You also told me you really liked him," she says. "Even though you agreed it would be a one-night thing."
"I did."
"So… what was it like, meeting him in person?"
"Surreal."
She brushes a bright blue strand behind her ear and motions for me to continue. "Come on, Opes. You know my sex life is on hold until May."
"Didn't Jamie leave last week?"
"So you understand it's been days."
"How are you still insatiable?" They're high school sweethearts. They've been together a long, long time.
"I hadn't seen him since Thanksgiving,"
"So three weeks."
"But three months before that. Imagine if you and Max had been texting for three months."
"You mean, sexting and having phone sex three times a week?"
"You don't know, Opes. The phone sex starts three times a week. Then two. Then one. Then you're both saying you're kinda tired, and you're not sure if you're up for it, and you're wondering if that's because he met someone at the frat party his roomie 'dragged him to' and if he secretly wants to find a pretty sorority girl. Maybe a bottle blonde who spray tans. And then you're mad at yourself for judging another woman for her hair choices, and in a totally hypocritical way, because you bleach your hair too." Disappointment drops into her voice.
Fuck, I'm ignoring her. I'm a terrible friend. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.
"No. Maybe. I think we're good. You should have seen me at the airport. You would have thought he was going to war, not to California."
"California is basically war."
"Right? You know what the weather is today on campus?"
I shake my head.
"High of sixty and sunny."
"You mean he prefers warmth to wind tunnels?"
"Crazy, right?"
"Very." I press my sketchbook closed and sit up straight. "Was it hard, saying goodbye?"
"Miserable. I held it together until he went through security, then I was crying. Ugly crying."
"I'm sorry."
"Everyone warned me about long-term relationships."
"They don't know you," I say. "You're tough. And Jamie is too."