"Put the phone down," I say to the empty room. "You’re not thinking clearly."

My thumb hovers over his name: Blake (Crazy Ex—DO NOT CALL)

That’s a bold warning. I must’ve meant it when I edited my contact list. I probably shouldn't click, but me and common sense have an unfaithful relationship. Earlier, I ditched it for tequila. I drank to enjoy myself, and then I drank to forget. Now I'm wasted.

The world moves like Kaleidoscope, shifting in brilliant greens and gold. The trendy wallpaper of the hotel swirls like a lollipop. There’s a port for iPhones on my nightstand, which is attached to a small speaker. Just in case I want to get groovy. I already raided the minibar and spent my allotted fifteen dollars in snacks. At least my company sprang for a queen mattress. I should be grateful.

I stand up. Big mistake. 

Everything funnels into a bottle-sized circle. I grope the TV and laugh. So wasted. Can’t even walk. It feels good. I’m free. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, which makes calling my ex so tempting. I should phone him while liquid courage blazes unchecked through my veins. 

Swaying, I glance at the screen. His name bleeds under my finger. I'm too drunk to string a sentence together, let alone hold a conversation, and we haven't spoken in a while. 

Who cares? What have I got to lose?

Don’t fucking do it.

I ignore the voice, stabbing my ex’s name. It’ll go straight to voicemail. Maybe I’ll summarize the last twelve months and rant about how much I hate him. Every day since we broke up, I pretend it doesn’t hurt. It still knifes at me. 

The call connects, stunning me. 

"Blake."

Oh shit. That’s him. 

It’s been a year. They say you forget what people sound like if enough time passes, but I doubt I could banish his New York slickness from my thoughts. Sometimes, when I’m lonely and horny, I’ll hear him in the shower like a phantom rising among the steam.

"Hey."

"Who is this?" he says, almost indignant. "Emilia?"

He’s always been so blunt. I should take a leaf from his book. Strip everything I want to a single phrase. 

"I need you."

Static fills the silence. "What?"

"I fucking need you."

Blake chuckles, low and gritty. "Of course you do."

Shifting the phone to my other ear, I stumble to the bar cart. I’ll require more to drink if I’m continuing this conversation. I reach for vodka and knock it over. The glass tips, spilling booze over the carpet. "Pretty lit right now."

"I couldn't tell." He gets hot, like he would when we made love. "Where are you?"

"Home." This doesn't look like my apartment. "No, it's a hotel room."

"Are you at the conference?"

"I was." Halfway through, I left. Couldn't handle a condescending suggestion from my manager. "I'm partying by myself."

"Aww," he purrs. "That's no fun."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Another rich laugh. "No."

"Really?" My mood lightens. "That’s surprising."

"Really. You?"

I sprawl on the bed, tired of standing. I wish I could say I've dated since him, but I've been celibate for a year. It was deliberate. I’m still hurting.

Digging through iPhone albums, I search for a photo of him. I find a selfie that escaped my purge. My arms are wrapped around Blake’s neck. His handsome face splits with a wide grin as I kiss his cheek. A Ferris wheel spins in the background. 

It was a work-related thing on July 4th. "I'm seeing you."

"You dumped me." Enthusiasm drains from his speech. "You said I was an inappropriate jerk."

"You were."

"Funny how that was a non-issue whenever we were alone."

It wasn’t. "I didn’t call to argue."

"Oh? Tell me more."

I've lost my train of thought. "What?"

"Why do you need me?"

My eyes burn the longer I study that picture. We were happy.

I believed I met the man of my dreams. "I miss you." 

People talk on the other line, and Blake mutters soft apologies. A chime echoes and his voice tumbles through. 

"What do you miss the most?"

Easy. "Your body."

"Mmm. Do you remember what I look like?"

"I remember everything." My ex had a gift for pushing buttons. Talking to him always gets me worked up. "But I deleted almost all your pictures."

"Want to know what I miss? Sex. Best part of our relationship, bar none."

My cheeks flush with heat that spreads too quickly. "Fuck."

"You sound messed up. How many drinks did you have?"

"No idea. I’m bored."

His delight grows with every response. "What made you think of me?"

"I was touching myself." I have no filter. 

"Hot."

"I'm in your panties." My chest shakes with laughter. "I mean, the ones you bought me."

"Wow." He stifles a laugh. "I’m flattered."

"Your turn. What are you wearing?"

"Well, I just left the conference. Not dressed in anything sexy. Jeans and T-shirt. I'm headed to my hotel room, though. I'll probably strip down to my boxers and play with myself as I listen to you."

"That's dirty."

"It’s nothing we haven’t done before, sweetheart, and you know it." A rich amusement paints his words. "I could stop by. For old time’s sake."

I giggle at the image of my naked ex bumbling through the hallway in search of me. "Whatever. You’re not here."

"At the San Francisco tech con? Yeah, I am. Swear to God."

I roll onto my stomach, sighing. "It was fun catching up with you. But this bottle isn’t drinking itself, so—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Don’t hang up."

"Why? I have nothing else to say. Except I’m really, really drunk and I’m thrilled."

"Oh, Emilia. People don’t get fucked up because they’re happy." Another chime bings from the speaker. "If I'm honest, that makes me feel good."

"What does?"

"You’re still pining after me. Serves you right."

"Uh-huh." I snort. "I’m the one whose life got ruined."

"Excuse me?"

"I never told you." Pain radiates from my chest, burning through the haze of alcohol. "Forget I called."

"Tell me your room number."

"No."

He hardens. "You can’t drop that on me."

"I can."

"Come on. We haven't talked in a year."

I consider it with an open mind. I could let him inside. It plays like a movie—me stumbling into his arms. His mouth on my neck and tits. Before long, he’d bend me over the bed. The prick would use me for a tryst. As though we don't have a history. He shattered my heart. He’s the reason I’m wasted.

The tail of my buzz fizzles into ash. "Fuck off, Blake."

I end the call.

Throwing my phone on the mattress, I stand on my heels. Or try to.

I won’t hide and reminisce about my ex. That’s what sad, insecure women because they can’t handle being alone. I might be depressed, but I sure as hell will not wallow in here like some loser.

My makeup needs a touchup. I stumble into the bathroom and grasp the tube lined up on the sink. I smear rose over my lips.  

Where’s my purse? 

I search before finding it near my feet. Must’ve dropped. I pick it up, my vision tipping madly when I straighten. The keycard. I seize that, too. What about my cell? It’s still blinking on the comforter, Blake flashing across the screen. 

Fuck it.

Somehow I’m in the hallway, and it doesn’t matter I don’t recall the walk. Who cares?

I can’t remember where the elevator is, but I find it by sticking close to the wall. My fingers punch a random destination. Too many buttons to choose from. 

The doors open to the slick hotel lobby. It’s packed with tech bros in flannels. My name tag hangs on my neck, but most of them won’t believe I belong here. Tech is a man’s world. Every day, they remind me I am not welcome. Hence the drinking. 

I squeeze through a coterie of craft beer sipping bros and head for the bar. I’m so wasted, I can’t read the chalkboard for the beers on draft. But I sit on a stool and communicate by grunting, which seems appropriate considering this is an event with lots of socially challenged people. 

I wave at the bartender. "Hit me." 

"This isn’t blackjack. It’s a bar," he says, judgment heavy in his tone. "And you’re already trashed."

"So what? I’m not causing trouble." And there’s nothing to do besides drink. 

"Sorry."

"At least give me a reason to sit here."

Sighing, he fills a glass with club soda and garnishes it with a lime. I frown at my cup, which somehow bursts with flavor despite its plainness. Halfway through the seltzer, the light fog surrounding my brain clears because a bro takes the seat beside me. There’s plenty of open space, but he took the stool next to mine. 

"Manhattan. Straight up." The man flags the bartender, and then he faces me, chin propped on his elbow. "I thought I’d find you here."

Oh shit. Bile floods my mouth as his velvet voice washes over me. My fingers white-knuckle the tumbler.

Blake wears an electric green V-neck and black skinny jeans. He couldn't resist hipster fashion, but he didn’t grow a man bun. Blake's face is round and boyish. His eyes are the same deep blue, full of mischief. His hair almost brushes his shoulders. He looks like an extra in a rock band music video. It’s as dark as coffee grounds and the same shade I recall. My heart hurts at the little differences in his appearance. He’s thinner, harder, leaner. 

"What are you doing here?"

"You hung up on me," he accuses.

I assumed looking at him would hurt less if I were drunk. I was wrong. "Calling you was a mistake."

He slaps a bill on the table as the bartender slides over his cocktail, which he drinks with surprising speed. "Your timing was perfect. I’m single. So are you."

I choke on my water. "Not happening."

The alcohol wetting his lips is like an invitation. "You didn’t hear me out."

"Don’t have to. This isn’t headed anywhere good."

Waves of heat roll from his body as he invades my space. "We never have to see each other again. It’s one night."

Is that all he wants from me?

"Anything more would be a disaster," he adds.

"I wasn’t suggesting I wanted more, you prick."

His eyes shine with glee. "You said you needed me."

Once, I did. My boyfriend was the center of my universe, and there was nothing to sustain me when everything collapsed. I trusted him. That was a huge blunder. I won't repeat it, but sleeping with him is a Band-Aid. It's what I want, but I’ll feel worse the next morning.

He smiles. It tugs at my chest. 

"Not interested."

I slide from the stool and push through a wave of drunk assholes playing beer pong. My heart races like I've finished a hard run. 

"Emilia!" he calls. "Wait!"

A pain shoots through me as he dives into the elevator with me. "Blake, I made a goddamn mistake."

He punches the button that forces us to halt between floors. "Hold on for a second."

"For what? Everything's been discussed." My throat tightens, suddenly thick. "You’ve no idea what the last year’s been like."

"Cry me a river. You dumped me for the dumbest fucking reason." Anger ripples across his face. "You don’t get to act high and mighty."

I bite my lip to keep myself from shouting the truth. "Whatever."

He grabs my shoulder, our first contact in twelve punishing months. "We don’t have to like each other to have crazy-hot sex."

My blood sings as he caresses my skin. Every cell responds. I don’t fight him when he takes my hand and turns his body into mine.

It feels too familiar.

His need blazes through his commanding touch, and then it scorches through his mouth. His lips crash against mine, and I respond with weeks of pent-up desire. My fingers dive into his mane, and his stubble scrapes my cheek. He holds me against the wall, searing me in places that have been ignored for ages. 

It’s been so long, but if I don’t stop now, I’ll wake up in my ex’s bed. The man who ruined me will move on, but I’ll be stuck in the same dead-end position. Only I’ll be filled with self-loathing.

I break from his kiss and push him away. "I can’t do this."

Hands still wrapped around me, he digs into my hips. "Come on."

"No." I stagger back, ripping from his grasp. "You’re not good for me."

"Is that why you drunk dialed me?" Blake snorts with derisive laughter, slamming his fist into the button. "Whatever, Em."

"I’m sorry, okay?"

"No, I am. I wasted fifteen minutes trying to get in your pants." Blake rakes his hair, looking anywhere but me. "I could’ve spent them playing Candy Crush." 

"That game was popular maybe five years ago." The elevator resumes its ascent, and I catch myself on the mirror. "Shit."

Blake watches me regain my balance, smirking. "It would’ve been a better use of my time than talking to you."

Dick.

The door chimes, opening to the third floor. "I’ll take the stairs the rest of the way. Have a nice life."

Blake seizes my arm. "Don’t be a fucking idiot. You’ll crack your head open."

"I’m fine."

"You can’t even walk straight, you lush. I’ll go." Blake releases me, voice deepening with anger. "I did everything right by you."

He didn’t. He just doesn’t know it.

Sign up to be notified when it’s available!