SADIE

T his is exactly why most people don’t do crazy and outlandish things. Most people with a brain, anyway.

Because things go wrong. Things blow up in people’s faces, and they’re left looking like a fool and not knowing how to fix the totally messed-up situation they’re in—a situation they should’ve never been a part of in the first place.

Yet, here I am, humiliated, scared, and nowhere close to knowing how to move on after what happened.

I screwed Ashton Butler. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I meant to, but I hadn’t know it was him at the time; it wasn’t supposed to be him !—but I’d allowed myself one stupid and foolish night of fun with my friends, and it turned into what could possibly be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.

And the worst part of it all? It was amazing.

Ashton has been all I can think about all week. You’d think it would be the flashes of memory from that darkened room that would be careening my thoughts directly into the gutter—the way his fingertips seemed to know right where to graze to make me sigh, or the way his hips moved with mine, a synchronized, instinctual rhythm that had set my body on fire.

But, no. It isn’t our night together that’s having the most breath-stealing effects on me at all.

It’s Ashton’s kiss. His mouth on mine while we stood in my parents’ driveway, a silent, animalistic promise that he isn’t just attracted to the thought of Rose, an unseen woman who’d played the part of a seductress with fiery need running through her veins.

He wants me . I’m not Rose, and I’m not who he expected me to be. Hell, he couldn’t stand me when we were kids, and he didn’t try to hide that fact.

I’ve never felt that before. You’re in my head, and I can’t get you out of it.

But, now, he wants me. And I don’t understand it.

Because, the truth is, I want him, too.

But there’s one little difference.

I’ve always wanted Ashton Butler. Before I was even old enough to know what that means, I’ve been enthralled by him, despite his disdain toward me.

We were just kids, though. I know I probably bugged the hell out of him, being a typical preteen girl with a crush on an older boy. And he was my brother’s best friend, just as irked by my presence as Gunner was.

I’m sure it’s a right of passage for all little sisters. At least, I’d like to think it is.

Either way, a lot has changed between the Ashton and Sadie we were ten or fifteen years ago.

I stare at the Pepsi can on my coffee table beside me, beads of condensation sporadically dripping from it onto the coaster underneath. I’ve barely moved from my couch since I got home from work, and I’ve managed to avoid both Kelly and Chelsea’s calls. I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell them the truth about who Nash really is, or about Ashton’s kiss and confession in the driveway. Between my father’s prying bids to make sure I’m okay throughout the workday, and my friends’ constant badgering to find out what’s going on during the evening, I’m about two seconds away from telling everyone to mind their own business. They can go deal with their own lives, instead of standing by and watching the train wreck that mine has become.

The problem is that, while they have the chance to look away, I don’t. I can’t pretend I didn’t do what I did, and I can’t ignore the fact that I feel what I feel. It’s a never-ending loop of thoughts in my head—what Ashton and I did, the things he said, how different we are.

And, we are too different. Right?

It’s not the first time that I realize that I’m the one making excuses as to why this would never work. The funny thing is, we’ve never even discussed what we do want, and yet I’m convinced it’s destined for disaster.

I’m my own worst enemy, it seems.

I stare at the Pepsi can again. Rose would never destroy something like this before it even started . That’s the thought that keeps floating to the surface of my subconscious, too. If I took a chance and became Rose last Friday night, why the hell can’t I find the strength to take a chance and see what becomes of this whole mess?

I know exactly why, but be damned if I want to admit it out loud.

Just thinking about the reason, though, is enough to make me sit up and shake my head at my own weakness. There’s only one way I’m ever going to know if Ashton and I are too different, if there’s even a chance of things working between us. And there’s only one way I’m ever going to know if my stupid decision on Friday night was actually worth the humiliation and suffering it’s caused me since.

If Rose got me into this mess, she could damn well get me out of it.

***

T he dress I’d borrowed from Chelsea last Friday night seems tighter tonight, somehow, more restrictive. Like the body I’m trying to squeeze into the strapless ensemble isn’t the one that it’s meant for.

Because it isn’t. I’m not Rose, I’m definitely still Sadie. And this dress isn’t meant for me. If it was, I wouldn’t be tugging at the skirt of it, trying unsuccessfully to make it an inch or two longer, and I wouldn’t be wobbling like a newborn calf in these godforsaken high heels.

Rose is gone, and she seems to have taken with her any confidence we’d shared.

Unlike last Friday, I don’t have an invite to Club Sin, and I’m not with anyone who does. But, with a little cajoling and a whole lot of stammering and awkwardness, I manage to at least get the bouncer at the door’s attention.

“If you just tell Lydia I was here last weekend, she’ll remember me.” I hope . “I really need to talk to her. I’m Rose. Er, Ms. Mitchell.” It occurs to me that I don’t know whether my friends had provided my real first name to her or not, but hopefully with the mention of Friday night and the last name she’d used to address me, I can at least jog her memory and somehow get the chance to convince her to talk to me.

People are babbling and complaining behind me, but it’s too late now to turn around and leave. The bouncer turns slightly away from me, speaking in a hushed voice into the miniature microphone near his shirt collar. I take a moment to compose myself, tugging my hand through my hair, which I’ve left loose but haven’t curled as fancily as it’d been the previous week.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. At least, I think I do. Not in the lineup behind me, and not near the clusters of people laughing and hollering around us. Near the wall of the building. But when I focus my full attention on the spot I thought I saw someone, they’re gone, disappearing around the corner.

Stop it. You’re just paranoid someone will recognize you.

Besides, it could be anyone. Someone who’d stepped away from their circle of friends for a cigarette, one of the staff members on a break, someone with—

“Miss? Ms. Mitchell?”

I swing around, and the bouncer is glaring at me impatiently.

“Lydia says to go on in. She’ll meet you inside the doors.”