By the time the girls return, I only notice because I feel the weight of Melrose’s stare as Maritza says something in her ear.
Our eyes meet from across our table.
She smiles.
I smile.
“Mel, it’s getting late,” her friend, Aerin, says as she slides off her chair and hugs Melrose goodbye. “I think the girls and I are going to bounce.”
Isaiah checks his watch. “We should probably think about heading out too.”
Maritza pouts, but Melrose smiles and rolls her eyes. “You guys, please, if you’re tired, go home. The fact that you showed up on a Tuesday night for little old me means the world. I love you all so much.”
She makes her rounds, hugging her people and kissing cheeks and taking last minute selfies, and by the time she gets to me, her sleepy, drunken gaze settles on mine and she takes a breath.
“Let’s get you home,” I say, rising and guiding her by the elbow. We maneuver through tables and standing patrons until we reach the exit.
The tepid Santa Monica breeze whips Melrose’s hair in her face and she smiles, slightly wobbling as she tries to stand straight.
“You’re plastered,” I say.
“I do this, like, once a year,” she says. No. She slurs. Melrose wags her finger. “I’m not normally like this, so don’t hold it against me, ‘kay?”
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
On the way home, I pick her up a burger and fries from In-N-Out Burger, but she passes out in my passenger seat, and by the time we get home, everything’s cold and stale.
Nevertheless, she situates herself in the living room and attempts to eat a few fries.
“You need to get something,” I say. “Something to soak up the alcohol.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale, I think,” she says, unwrapping her burger. “Speaking of wives, do you ever think you’ll get married?”
I cock my head back. “That’s random.”
“Just answer me, Alcott. I’m curious. You don’t seem like the marrying kind.” She takes another fry. “You’re so … unavailable.”
It’s then that I remember her cousin’s spiel about how Melrose is into emotionally unavailable guys. She can’t resist them. They’re her napalm. Or some shit like that. And then I can’t help but remember how her cousin claimed Melrose likes me. If I put two and two together … it paints a pretty fucking clear picture.
She only wants me because she thinks she can’t have me, which means the minute she has me, she won’t want me anymore.
Melrose shoves her unfinished meal away and rises.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Upstairs to change.” She hobbles toward the stairs, and I go to her side. Last thing we need is Melrose falling and literally breaking a leg before her big debut.
By the time we get to her room, she’s already peeling out of her clothes, kicking them to various corners of the room before letting her dog out of his kennel.
“Don’t you want to get dressed first?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah.” Digging in the top drawer of Nick’s dresser, she pulls out one of Nick’s old t-shirts and tugs it over her head. I can’t deny she looks hot as sin in a faded Aerosmith t-shirt and pink panties, but I don’t let myself stare too much longer.
“I have to let Murphy out, but when I get back, I want you naked in my bed, ‘kay? Thanks.” She leaves, the dog tucked under her arm, and I stay, though I’m not taking off my clothes.
I’m not fucking her, as much as I may want to.
She’s drunk.
I take a seat on the edge of her bed, waiting so I can make sure she gets to bed without hitting her head on something, and from the corner of my eye, I spot a picture of Nick and Melrose. It looks to be from prom. He in a tux, she in a sparkly red dress. A vintage muscle car in the background. They look like they’re trying not to laugh.
There’s a tight squeeze in my chest. Being jealous because of a picture is a new low for me, but he’s got something I’ll never have with her.
A history, a past.
And if he wants it, a future.
“I’m back …” Melrose saunters in. “Hey … you’re not naked.”
I rise. “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”
A smile curls her mouth as she approaches me with a slow saunter.
“I’m serious,” I say, peering down my nose.
“So am I.” She rises on her toes, trying to kiss me.
“You’re drunk.”
“And your point?”
“I don’t sleep with drunk girls,” I say.
Melrose rolls her indigo eyes. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being so damn perfect all the time.” She plops on the foot of her bed, beside me, and folds her hands in her lap. The hem of her Aerosmith t-shirt rides up, exposing the top of her thighs and a hint of her panties.
My cock throbs, pulsing against my jeans.