The following morning, I wake up with a knock at the door. It takes me a moment to remember where I am because my head is pounding from all the sugar that I consumed the night before. My eyes are dry and feel like they’re being cut with razor blades. My mouth feels like a parched desert. I lick my chapped lips and stumble out of my room. In the living room, I hear the knock at the door getting more insistent. Who the hell could that be this early? I glance at the clock. Well, it’s after ten, but still. Who just shows up at the door anymore nowadays?

I look into the peep hole and see that it’s Tom.

“What do you want?” I ask, opening the door.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

“Listen, I’m here to apologize. I’m really sorry about everything I said.”

I try to close the door, but he puts his foot in the door frame.

“Okay, that’s fine,” I say. “But I still don't want to talk now.”

“Not good,” he says, dropping his shoulders. “I had a fight with Carrie.”

I look him up and down. He looks pathetic. Like a lost puppy dog. I can’t help but empathize with him. Despite what he said to me, we have been friends for a very long time. And I both hate and love him for that.

“I need to talk to you, Ellie. Please,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. A few strands of his hair fall into his eyes, giving him a sultry mysterious look, which always makes my heart melt. No, I have to be strong. I’m tired of his bullshit. I’m over him.

“I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. I just…didn’t want you to quit. Who the hell am I going to talk to in that place now?”

Agh, how can I say no to that face? His eyes look up at me with that begging look on his face.

“Fine.” I finally cave. I glance in the mirror as I let Tom in. My hair is a total mess. That whole loose bun phenomenon that’s so popular online makes me look like I haven’t showered in days. I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup, and I have a large zit near my right temple. It’s not that I want to look good for Tom; it’s just that I always make myself put on at least some concealer, eyeliner, and mascara before releasing myself into the world. There’s a confidence that comes with makeup as armor. But I guess I don't have that luxury this morning.

I pour him a cup of coffee and wait. We used to spend hours talking to one another. And now, he seems more like a stranger to me than a friend. I try to remember when it all changed.

“Listen, I’m sorry again. Okay? I was a total jerk,” Tom says, taking a sip. “You quitting just caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say with a shrug.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

“Actually, I’m working on a story. A novel maybe. I don't know.”

“What kind?”

At Yale, Tom was always the person who listened to writing problems. He was the one who always supported me. He was the one I used to turn to whenever I got rejection slips from literary journals.

“It’s actually something a little different. From everything else that I ever wrote, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s intriguing. What’s it about?”

A part of me doesn’t really want to tell him. He doesn’t know anything about Mr. Black or what happened at the yacht party except for the fact that I went there. Frankly, I don't really know if I should keep it that way or not.

“I’ll tell you later,” I say, buying myself some time. “What’s going on with Carrie?”

“I don’t know. This whole wedding is making her nuts.”

I nod.

“A Valentine’s Day wedding sounds nice.”

“I guess. Except that it’s in the middle of February and not exactly wedding season. Her parents aren’t exactly pleased. And since they’re paying for it…I don't know. It’s just annoying. There’s a bit too much family drama for me.”

I don’t really know how to respond to this. It’s no surprise that I don't really like Carrie, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not really.

“But you love her right?” I ask.

“Yes, of course,” he answers a little bit too quickly. “I’m just starting to think that maybe we rushed into this.”

“Yeah, you just started dating last January, right?”

He nods.

“You know, don’t take this wrong, but I just thought that you would take it a little slower. I mean, you haven’t had many relationships before this.”

“I know. But when we got together, it was such a whirlwind. And we got along so well. I wanted to ask her to marry me because it just felt so right.”

Ah, the fated engagement. I remember that night very well. It was as much of a surprise to me as Carrie. It was the night of our graduation. Carrie had graduated a few years before, but she was there to watch Tom walk across the stage. We got together with a bunch of our friends for what I thought would be a night of debauchery and excess drinking. But then, right in the middle of the party, Tom turned to Carrie and asked her to marry him. And she fucking said yes. There was a lot of debauchery and drinking on my part after that, but not to celebrate anything, that’s for sure.

“I thought I would ask her to marry me and then we would have a long engagement. Like a year or two before we even started talking wedding plans. But she called her parents and her mom hired a wedding planner that weekend.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, you weren’t really around for that,” he says with reproach. “Why was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were my best friend in college. And then when I started dating Carrie, things just sort of went awry with us.”

“Do you really not know?”

He shrugs.

Well, I might as well tell him now.

“I had feelings for you, Tom. I thought I was in love with you for like two years.”

“You did? But you never said anything!”

“Well, I was going to, but then you and Carrie started dating,” I say, tactically trying to avoid bringing up that one failed kiss that he planted on me after my own two-year relationship fell apart and I wasn’t ready for a rebound - let alone a rebound with such a good friend.

“I just don't fucking know how life got so complicated, Ellie. I mean, things seemed to be so much less complex when we were in school. Didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they did. But then again, it was college. We didn’t have jobs or responsibilities. Or fiancées.”

“Carrie’s parents are buying us a two-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue as our wedding present.”

“Wow, that must be nice.”

“It is and it isn’t. I mean, I like where I live.”

“But you don't expect her to move into your shitty studio where the plumbing and the air conditioner don’t work half the time,” I say. “I mean, her parents make your dad look like he’s a pauper.”

Tom shrugs and looks away.

“Listen, Tom, don’t get so upset. Having lots of money isn’t that bad,” I say, putting my arm around him. “I mean, most people just dream of the life that you have.”

“I know, but I don’t.”

I know exactly what he’s worried about. I’ve known him way too long.

“You’re not going to become a sellout automatically just by moving to Park Avenue. Besides, who knows, maybe this will give you the time and space to actually focus on your writing career.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, unconvinced.

“You want to write about politics, right? Well, marrying a rich girl will give you all the money you will ever need to go on the campaign trail and really report on what’s going on on the front lines.”

“Except that Carrie and her father have other plans for me. They want me to go into corporate. He wants to take me under his wing and groom me for taking over BuzzPost.”

“Oh, wow, that’s…something.”

“It’s something alright. Except that I don't want to be some corporate drone, Ellie. I want to write what I want to write. The whole reason I even took this job at BuzzPost was so that I could maybe get the chance to write some of their political pieces.”

“Well, you can talk to Carrie about this, right? I mean, she is the editor.”

Tom shakes his head and turns away from me. “It’s not all her decision. She’s an only child and she isn’t interested in taking over the company in the future. Her dad is looking for someone within the family.”

I don’t know what to say so I go to make another pot of coffee. Just as I’m about to turn around, I feel someone right behind me.

Tom leans down, turning my face up to his. Then he presses his lips onto mine and inhales lightly. Two years ago, our first kiss was all wrong, but this one isn’t much better. This moment feels entirely forced and wrong.

“What are you doing?” I pull away immediately.

“I want you, Ellie,” he whispers, nearly on the verge of tears.

“You’re engaged. And I’m…”

“What?”

“I’m with someone. Sort of.” It’s hard to quite explain what Mr. Black and I are except that I would give anything for him to be here instead of Tom right now.

“That’s not good enough, Ellie. We belong together. Don’t you see that?”

“Tom, we’re friends. You’re engaged. I’m here for you, but I can’t be with you. I don’t want to be. You need to figure out what you’re doing with Carrie first.”

“And if I break up with her?”

“What?! How can you even say that?”

“Do we have a chance if I break up with her?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that,” I say. “No, of course not. I don’t feel this way toward you anymore, Tom.”

“That’s a lie,” he mumbles, but I can tell he isn’t completely convinced.

“I’m over you, Tom. You need to figure out what you want to do with Carrie on your own. But don't take me into consideration in that decision at all.”

Though I don't feel the same way about Tom anymore, I’m not entirely sure that what I’m saying is completely true. What I am sure about is that I don’t need to be involved with his whole Carrie mess right now. And I’m also positive that I want to see Mr. Black - also known as Aiden - again, despite what happened between us.

Tom pulls away from me and pours himself another cup of coffee.

“So, tell me about your writing.”

I want him to leave, but I also want to turn the page. And if I ask him to leave now, the failed kiss will always be there, a big elephant in the room. Maybe changing the topic now isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“I don’t really know what to say.” I shrug. “I really want to take this time off work and try to figure things out for myself. Mainly, what sort of things I want to write.”

“So what did you come up with?”

“It’s actually kind of different. It’s about sex.”

“Really?” Tom chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re just not the type, I guess,” he says, smiling.

“Like you would know.”

“Well, I mean, it’s just a departure from your normal writing, that’s all.”

Tom is the only person who has ever read all of my writing. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, even as a little kid. I wrote a number of fan fiction stories when I was a teenager and was in love with Twilight and Harry Potter. But it wasn’t until Yale that I started to write more serious things. I devoured literary magazines with the zest of a starving woman and wrote stories that I thought would be a good fit there. Mostly, they were about mundane things – you know, the type in which not much happened – but it had all of this significance below the surface. Tom offered me a lot of good criticism and suggestions, but still none of them resulted in any publication, let alone any money.

“It’s not just about sex. It’s a romance about a girl who falls for a hot, wealthy man,” I say.

“A romance novel?”

“Yeah. I’ve been reading a lot on my Kindle recently and I think that would be the best way to describe it.”

“Seriously?” He laughs.

“Listen, I know it’s not the highbrow that I worked on before. But those stories didn’t see the light of day. They took like a month of work for a two-thousand word story and for what? No one ever saw them, let alone read them, or paid any money for them. All I have to show for them is a pile of rejection slips.”

“And you think this story has more potential?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really in line with what I’ve read on Amazon. Besides, it’s kind of fun to write about sex. All those juicy details. It’s really indulgent.”

“Okay,” Tom says, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. “Hey, you don't need my permission, of course.”

“No, I don’t,” I confirm. “What? What is it with that face?”

“Nothing. I guess it’s my own bias, but I never thought that you would be the one reading, let alone, writing trashy romance novels.”

“That’s kind of elitist, don’t you think? Even a bit prejudiced?”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve never read a romance novel in your life. And you’re here making all kinds of statements about it and the people who read them. They’re just for fun. They’re an escape. A fantasy. They’re no different than fantasy novels or page-turning thrillers. And what’s it to you anyway, if I’m having a good time writing it?”

Tom considers this for a moment and finally caves.

“I guess you’re right. It’s your writing. You can write whatever you want.”

“Yes, I can.”

“So, not to bring up money again, but are you going to live off Mitch again?” Tom asks after a moment. Oh, shit. Here’s the topic of money again. For someone who pretends not to care about money, it sure does creep into every conversation.

“No, but why do you care?”

“You won’t? Did you find some holy grail where you can write whatever you want and still pay your own bills?”

“Listen, I’m going to tell you something, but promise that you won’t get mad, okay?” I say. He nods.

“Well, last weekend, at the yacht party, I met someone,” I say. I choose my words carefully as I’m not entirely sure if I want to reveal everything that happened there. Not yet, anyway. Tom doesn’t say anything and just waits for me to continue.

“They had this game there. Kind of like a sex game.”

“What?!” he gasps.

“Listen, everything is okay. It was fun actually. It was an auction. The girls were basically auctioned off for a night of…whatever. But you didn’t have to participate unless you wanted to. It was all in good fun.”

As soon as the words escape my mouth, I immediately regret bringing any of it up at all. The look on Tom’s face says everything.

“Wait, so let me get this straight. You auctioned yourself off to the highest bidder. Had sex with this creep all night and now you have enough money to not work and do whatever the hell you want?”

“It was just a game, Tom. All in good fun. And he wasn’t a creep. Not at all.”

“Any guy who would pay for a woman like that is a John, Ellie.”

“You think that? And what does that make me then?” I ask.

“Hey, I’m not afraid to say it.”

“Are you calling me a whore? Are you seriously doing that right now?”

“If the definition fits.”

“Fuck you, Tom. Get the fuck out of my house! Now.”

“Listen, I’m sorry.” Tom starts to walk back some of what he said. But I’m in no mood to listen to any of it.

“I need you to leave,” I say, opening the front door and waiting for him to leave.