Halston

“Can I say I told you so?” Lila asks from the other end.

I lie on my hotel bed Friday morning, my body damp from the shower and my hair wrapped in a towel. I don’t have the energy—or the motivation—to move. It took all the strength I had to take a damn shower this morning.

“You were right.” I exhale, rolling to my side and pressing my cheek against a cool spot on the pillow.

“Men are dumb. Literally,” she says. “We’re smarter than them in every way. The only thing they have on us is physical strength and the ability to get an erection on demand.”

I laugh, which is a nice change of pace from last night.

Crying after Kerouac fucked me wasn’t part of the plan, and I’m not sure who was more shocked: him or me. I don’t cry. Ever.

He knew.

He knew I hated that position, being on my knees and being fucked like an animal, but he did it anyway. He did it on purpose. It wasn’t the way he described it once upon a Karma conversation—the very fantasy I’d played in my mind hundreds of times before. It was nothing like that.

Kerouac was cold, emotionless.

Like I was any other girl and he was any other guy.

“I thought I could fuck him out of my system,” I say.

Lila laughs. “That’s not a thing.”

“All these years, I wanted that from him. I wanted that physical closeness. That intimacy on a level we never had a chance to have,” I say. “I guess I was hoping one time together would change things. Would maybe make him feel differently, reconsider things? God, I’m an idiot.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Psh. No. It was just sex to him,” I say. “He made that clear.”

To be fair, he made it clear five years ago, when he said he’d only fuck the shit out of me and break my heart. Guess he was telling the truth.

“Okay, then fuck him,” Lila says. “Not literally but, you know, like … screw that shit. Time to move on. Close that chapter. Meet new and better people. Can’t promise you won’t get your heart broken again because that’s kind of an unavoidable fact of life, but I can promise there are men out there who are worthier of your tears.”

My mouth curves. “You’re sweet to say that.”

“Not trying to be sweet. Just being honest.”

“What if I never have that kind of chemistry with anyone else?” I ask.

“You will.”

“What if I don’t? What if I have to settle for someone who prefers ESPN over Hemingway and has zero sense of humor?

“What if you find someone better?” she asks.

“Don’t know if that’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” Lila says. “So, what’s the plan today?”

“Not sure.” I check the time on my phone. “The rehearsal dinner is tonight, but we’re not in the wedding party, so Mason said something about doing our own thing today. Anyway, he’s probably going to be knocking at my door any minute now, so I should probably dry my hair or whatever.”

She chuckles. “All right, sweets. Hang in there.”

Hanging up, I peel myself out of bed, change into some real clothes, and put myself together. When I’m finished, the hotel phone rings.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.” It’s Mason. “I have a surprise for you today.”

Jerking my head back, I’m confused, but all I can manage is a stuttered, “Wh-what?”

“Ten minutes. Surprise. Lobby,” he says, words rushed.

“I still have to dry my hair.” I yank the damp towel off my head. “I need more than ten minutes.”

“Just try to hurry.”

“Are we trying to catch a plane or something?” I lift a brow, completely getting my hopes up. I can’t deny the fact that I want to go home.

Mason chuckles. “No. I’m taking you somewhere. You’ll love it.”

Spending the day with Mason holds zero appeal to me, especially after last night and especially with my mind so consumed with … other things. But I came here with him. For him. I have no excuses not to go. There’s no getting out of this one.

“Okay. Give me fifteen,” I say.

Throwing my bag together, I step into a pair of flats and make my way downstairs, hoping I don’t run into Kerouac on the way down. I know I’m going to run into him tomorrow, at the wedding—that’s a given—but today I need some distance.

It would hurt too much to see him so soon.

Floating down to the main floor, the elevator deposits me in the lobby, and I spot Mason standing outside next to a black Escalade. He smiles when he sees me, waving me closer.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask when I climb in.

“My family’s estate in Mattituck.” He slides in beside me, slipping a pair of shiny sunglasses over his nose.

“Why?”

“You’ll see when we get there.” Pulling out his phone, he checks his email. I’m dying to know what this is, what he’s up to, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

An hour later, the driver pulls up to an iron gate, swiping a security card Mason hands him. Pulling in, we coast around a circle drive, past rows of shade trees and a bubbling fountain with a bronzed eagle in the center.

The home is gargantuan, covered with cedar shingles and white framed windows and nestled on a few acres of land overlooking the sea.

The driver gets my door, and Mason meets me at the back of the SUV.

“Ready?” he asks.

Head cocked and still unsure, I nod before following him inside.

Taking my hand, he leads me through a sweeping foyer, down a hallway, and toward a set of double doors.

“Cover your eyes,” he says. I place my hands over them, listening for the click of the door latch. With his hand on the small of my back, he guides me forward. “You can look now.”

“Oh my god.”

“You like?” Mason grins.

“Is this real life?” I laugh, moving toward a bookcase on my left. This entire room is walls upon walls of bookcases, floor to ceiling, filled to the hilt. Hardcovers. Leather-bounds. First editions. All of them literary classics.

“I know you like books,” he says.

“Understatement, but yes.”

“I wanted to thank you for coming with me,” he says. “I know it’s not easy working with me, and I’ve been a pain in the ass the last couple of days.”

“Another understatement.” I flash him a smirk, then return to the beautiful book babies before me, sliding a copy of Anna Karenina from its proper place.

“As a token of my appreciation, I wanted to bring you here,” he says. “And let you pick out a couple of books. Yours to keep.”

“What?” I close the classic Tolstoy tome and lift my brows. “Are you serious?”

Mason’s lips tug up at one side. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

I don’t know how I’m going to choose, but I know we don’t have all day, so I’ll try to hurry. Scanning the spines, I realize everything is alphabetized, which should at least make things a bit easier. Within minutes, I find a pristine, first-edition copy of The Great Gatsby, sliding it off the shelf and clutching it against my chest.

Making my way to the other side of the room, I maneuver around an oversized desk centered in the space, pausing when I spot a book lying on top of a ten-year-old calendar that seems to be stuck on the month of March.

Setting Gatsby aside, I inspect the other book, my breath hitching when I realize it’s a first edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.

“Oh, that was my stepfather’s favorite book,” Mason says, his hands in his pockets as he watches me. He hasn’t so much as checked out a single book since we’ve been in here, and I imagine he has no idea how priceless some of these relics are. “He read it all the time. Guess the author used to live on his street or something when he was a kid?”

And now it makes sense, Ford’s love of Kerouac.

Flipping the cover open, my fingers trace the messy, faded ink inscription.

“To Bobby Hawthorne,

All of life is a foreign country.

Jack Kerouac.”

“Can I have this one?” I ask.

Mason nods. “Have whatever you want.”

“Thank you.” I grab Gatsby and hold both books close to my heart. I’m going to give the second one to Ford. He may have hurt me, but this book belonged to his father, and he should have it.

Mason gives me a tour of the place, I suppose for a lack of something better to do or maybe one last attempt to try and impress me. When we’re finished, he orders lunch from a local café and sends the driver out while we wait on the back patio, watching the waves lap onto the shore.

Making myself comfortable on a lounger, I page through my original Great Gatsby, dragging my palms along the creamy paper and inhaling its deliciously musty scent, my gaze landing on a line I’ve always loved: “He looked at her the way all women want to be looked at by a man.”

Exhaling, I feel a bittersweet smile curl across my lips as I think about Ford. He used to look at me like I was the only person in the room, the only thing that mattered. For a brief sliver of my short life, that man wanted me. And for the last five years, all I’ve wanted was to recapture that … to have that one more time.

Closing the book, I resolve to accept my fate: Kerouac doesn’t want me anymore.

It’s time to move on.