TWO YEARS LATER
Rose
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SEX-AY!” OSCAR SAYS, raising his glass in a toast as we sit inside Bono’s, my favorite Italian bistro and one of the hippest places in Manhattan. I also work here part-time for extra money while I attend graduate school.
I raise my shot glass at him and slam back the tequila. The room spins just a hair as I set the glass back down on the table.
I’m in the mood to celebrate.
It’s September, and both of us graduated from NYU this past May. Oscar, who ended up getting that scholarship he wanted, graduated with a design degree and managed to land a coveted job at Barneys as a sales clerk, with aspirations of being a manager someday. As for me, I’m currently enrolled in the NYU graduate program, working toward my doctorate in psychology.
“If only Trenton didn’t have to work,” Oscar murmurs with a little pout as he straightens his dark hipster-style glasses. “But, no worries. I’ll be your boyfriend tonight and will make sure you get home sober.” He pushes another shot of tequila toward me, and I give him a baleful eye.
“You know what tequila does to me,” I say as I inch it back to him. “I either want to fight or take off my clothes, and I don’t think I’ll be doing either tonight.”
“Fight, fight, fight,” he says, beating his hands on the table.
I laugh as I check my phone to see if Trenton’s called or texted since this morning when we met for coffee. He hasn’t, and it makes me frustrated. He’s been working late almost every night this week.
I sigh, reminding myself how important his new job is to him. He’s a portfolio manager at a small boutique firm; thankfully, his dad knew the partners from college.
“What’s Mr. Businessman doing tonight?” Marge asks as she tosses back another martini. With her curly red hair and dimpled smile, she’s been a good friend to me since I moved to New York four years ago to attend NYU. We still giggle about the night she got me in the bar to see the Vital Rejects.
Yes, Anne—with Robert’s encouragement—agreed to send me to NYU. They have been supportive over the past four years, even allowing Oscar and I to live in one of his buildings.
Since the night of the blow up with Spider, my relationship with Anne shifted. I don’t tolerate her manipulations, and she knows it. She seems to have come a long way, and I appreciate her. She’s always just wanted the best for me; we just didn’t agree on what that was.
Marge waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Are you with us?”
“Yes,” I say on a little laugh. “Trenton’s out with some guys from his office. They’re celebrating snagging a big client today. He’s making connections and all that jazz. He’ll probably show up later.”
Oscar arches a brow. He and Trenton have never been great friends, and I read his face like an open book. He thinks Trenton not being here is an asshole move.
“His career’s important to him,” I add.
Oscar shrugs, looking dapper in his slacks and blue button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled up. “He can always catch us at the club, because we are going dancing, baby girl! I’m glad you wore your dancing shoes.”
Axe, the new guy in Oscar’s life, glances down and whistles at my birthday gift to myself, a pair of metallic silver Christian Louboutins—from Barneys, of course.
Oscar sighs and covers his heart. “My ten percent discount is the only reason you love me.”
I slap his arm. “That’s not true—I only love you because you cook like a dream.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Pancakes tomorrow?”
I throw my arms around him. “I’ll make the eggs—or at least I’ll try.”
He laughs as a text comes in for me, and I rush to look at it, thinking it’s Trenton. It isn’t, but I’m not too disappointed since it’s Lexa wishing me a happy birthday from Atlanta. I show it to Oscar and we take a selfie to send to her. She attended Emory University after Claremont and we’ve drifted apart over the years. I still enjoy hearing from her though.
A few minutes later, I leave the table to go to the restroom.
A long rectangular-shaped building, the bulk of Bono’s seating is near the front with a large bar area along the right wall. There’s a restroom in the back along the left side, but the place is packed and I don’t feel like struggling through the Saturday night crowd of singles on the prowl. Instead, I opt to hit the restrooms on the basement level, a part of the restaurant that’s less urban and more comfy, usually reserved for private parties. I once met Reese Witherspoon in this section when she was celebrating wrapping up a movie in New York.
Bono’s is a popular place, especially with celebrities, and considering my resume consisted of Jo’s Diner in Highland Park, I was thrilled to get a position here. Luck seems to follow me everywhere in New York; it’s weird. Maybe it’s because I’m just so damn glad to be out of Highland Park that my positive vibes radiate out around me.
I take the stairs carefully in my heels, and I’m on the last step, just about to turn and head into the ladies’ room, when I come to a complete stop.
Shock hits me, stealing my breath. It’s him.
There’s a fierce jab to my heart . . . first love always cuts the deepest.
Spider looks down at his phone, his thumb scrolling as he turns the corner to the alcove that leads into the restroom.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and my eyes greedily take him in.
His hair is longer than I remember, and I watch as he pushes it off his forehead into his sweptback style, only instead of white or blue, the color is a dark brown with blond highlights. It’s new and different. It’s hot as hell.
My skin warms as I stare at him unabashedly, anxious for any little detail.
Wearing a maroon V-neck cashmere sweater that fits him like a glove and a pair of skinny dress slacks, he’s broader in the shoulders, taller even, although I don’t think that’s possible.
He looks like a guy who breaks hearts every single night with just a strum of his fingers on his guitar—or a girl’s skin.
I stop that kind of thinking.
Just the memory of the girl in Dallas makes me want to vomit.
He puts the phone to his ear as if he’s making a call, and almost unconsciously, I step back into the dark shadow of a corner created by the recess in the staircase.
“Is the flat ready?” I hear him say.
He doesn’t seem to like what he hears because he places his free palm on the wall as if to steady himself, a vulnerable look to his shoulders as he listens to whoever is talking.
“Indeed. You didn’t mention that tidbit before. How the bloody hell do you expect me to stay at the same building she’s—”
He stops abruptly, as if the person on the other end has cut him off. He taps his fingers against the wall as the conversation continues. I shuffle forward, straining to hear, terrified he’ll turn around and see me, but I can’t seem to stop myself, especially when his tone changes to a cajoling one.
I hear snippets.
“Hiya, sweets . . . see you soon . . . love . . .”
He laughs warmly.
“Tell him I’m going to bring you a puppy, love. See how Papa likes that. . . . who’s your favorite big brother, Bella?” he says, plain as day, and my chest constricts.
Bella!
Of course he knows Bella, Robert and Anne’s three-year-old. We both see her now and then—just never at the same time. I’ll show up for Christmas and then Robert will casually mention that Spider is arriving a few days after I leave. It’s weird and bizarre but I guess he just doesn’t want to see me.
“Bye, sweets. I love you. Tell Papa I’ll see him soon, okay? Also, tell him to lighten up on the carrots—you need more chocolate pudding.” He chuckles as he tucks the phone in his pocket, his body turning toward me. I steady myself against the wall, preparing for the moment he finally sees me.