Maybe it was just hindsight, but Sebastian could remember thinking that there was something off about her, an impression of subtle wrongness that had only intensified after they’d gone back to his place. At first, he’d ascribed his unease to her high-pitched voice, which he couldn’t be mad about. It was not the kind of thing you could convey in photographs, and she hadn’t lied, except, he supposed, by omission And what was she supposed to do? Write “By the way, I sound like Kristin Chenoweth after a hit of helium?”
He’d done his best to ignore it as Alyssa shrilled her way to ecstasy, calling out his name, eventually moving from a squeak to a teakettle whistle and, eventually, into pitches that he hoped not even the neighborhood dogs could hear. When it was over, he’d given his usual speech about having early-morning plans, but Alyssa had said, “My apartment’s not in a great neighborhood. I’d rather go home when it’s light out.” She’d smiled, shyly apologetic, promising to be out of his hair, first thing… and what kind of cad would he have had to be to force her out into the night?
“Of course,” he’d said, and made himself give her a smile. “No problem.” She’d fallen asleep, and he’d lain awake beside her, barely daring to move or to breathe, worried that he’d wake her up and she’d want Round Two. He must have drifted off at some point, because in the morning he’d woken to the sound of female humming, and the smell of frying bacon and toasting bread.
Oh, no, he’d thought. Not good. He’d faked sleep until he’d heard Alyssa cooing his name from her perch on the side of his bed. She had put on one of his tee shirts, which hung loosely over her torso, almost down to her knees, and she’d put on makeup and done something to her hair. There was a tray with plates of eggs and toast and steaming mugs of coffee, along with a glass carafe of orange juice and a pair of paper napkins, waiting at the foot of the bed. Sebastian had squinted at the tray and the carafe, puzzled. Since when did he own such items? Was it possible this girl had shown up at the bar with them in her purse?
“Hey,” Sebastian had said. His voice had been gravelly. He’d cleared his throat and started again. “Hey. Wow. This looks great. I wish I could hang out, but, like I said, I’ve really got to get going. I’ve got somewhere to be this morning. A reporting assignment.”
“But it’s Sunday,” Alyssa had said, pouting prettily.
“I’m sorry,” he had said. “I had a great time hanging out with you. But I’ve got a lot of work to get to.”
Alyssa looked down at the tray. “You could at least eat your eggs,” she’d said in a very small voice. Fuck. Sebastian hated feeling like the bad guy. He’d grabbed a fork, pushed a mouthful of eggs between his lips, chewed and swallowed and chased the eggs with a gulp of coffee hot enough to scald his tongue.
Great, he had thought. “Delicious,” he had said. “I’m sorry. Look. I’ve got to get going, but you can stay if you want to. I really feel bad about this…”
Alyssa’s smile had wavered a bit. “No. I’ll go. I understand. Just give me a minute.” She’d vanished into the bathroom. He had carried his plate back into the kitchen, scraped the food into the trash can, and gulped down the rest of his coffee. Then he’d waited, fidgeting, making himself sip ice water until, finally, Alyssa had reappeared, wearing the dress she’d worn the night before, which was navy blue and had skinny straps that left most of her shoulders and lots of her chest bare. “I guess it’s walk-of-shame time.” Her voice was light, but her smile had looked strained. “Well,” she had said, with a brittle smile. “See you around.”
“See ya,” he’d mumbled, reminding himself, again, that he hadn’t done anything wrong.
She had slung her purse over her shoulder and turned away. She’d had her hand on the doorknob, and he’d thought he was finally in the clear. Then she’d turned around.
“You know,” she had begun. Her voice had been pleasant, but Sebastian had spent enough time around women to sense a storm on the way. “You could at least say thank you. I got up early. I made you breakfast.”
I didn’t ask for that, Sebastian had thought, but he knew not to say it. He might be an idiot, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.
“Thank you,” he said. “If I didn’t say it already—”
Alyssa just kept talking, rolling right over him. “I came to that disgusting bar to meet you.” Her voice had gotten louder. “I ate hot wings with you. I gave you a blow job…”
If Sebastian recalled, she’d been the one to unbutton his jeans and begin, unprompted, the trip down south. And the blow job hadn’t even been that great. There’d been lots of ticklish licking, slow swirls of her tongue, like his erection was a cone of soft-serve custard that was melting fast, along with an unsettling amount of eye contact. The whole thing had felt like a performance and as if all she cared about were her reviews. And he’d reciprocated! He always reciprocated! He might not have wanted a girlfriend, but that didn’t mean he was a lout.
“I didn’t make you do that,” he’d said.
“That’s the point! You didn’t have to ask!” Her voice had cracked as she had waved her hands at the ceiling. “I gave you head, and I made you eggs. I did everything right,” she had said, and started to cry.
Sebastian felt his body sag. Women’s tears were the one thing he couldn’t handle; the one thing he couldn’t stand. He approached Alyssa the same way he would have sidled up to a tiger in a zoo that had somehow gotten out of its cage, and he tried, ever so gently, to pat her back.
She had jerked away, glaring at him. “You’re not ever going to call me again, are you?” she asked, nose red, eyes watering. She no longer sounded angry… just tired. Very, very tired. That, somehow, was worse.
Numbly, Sebastian had shaken his head. “I thought you were just interested in, you know. Hooking up.”
She’d glared at him. “Nobody just wants hookups forever,” she’d said. Before he could ask why she’d indicated on her profile that hookups were exactly what she did want, she’d spun around again. Sebastian had clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, thinking that this was never going to end, not ever. He was in hell, with a girl he’d slept with who never left, who started to leave, who acted like she had every intention of going, but just stood in the doorway almost leaving, before turning around and hurling accusations at him, each one worse than the previous, forever and ever, world without end.
But, finally, Alyssa had gone. She hadn’t even slammed the door. She had let it close, gently, behind her. And now, she’d discovered that he’d also spent time with some of her friends, and she’d reappeared in his life, in a TikTok video that declared him a man slut. Finally, his lifetime of luck had run out.
“It’ll pass,” said Lincoln. “I promise.” Sebastian knew he was right. Still, it was so colossally unfair. And that it had to happen now, when he’d finally found the one woman he did want to see again, the one woman he’d actually hoped would make a reappearance in his life, and he’d been forced to declare her off-limits, to preemptively friend-zone her. Karma, he thought miserably, and wondered if, in some previous life, he’d been a person who’d kicked dogs, or handed out raisins at Halloween.
Of course, maybe the off-limits thing wouldn’t be forever. Be her friend, Lincoln had said. It would have been easier if he’d just told Sebastian to avoid Abby completely, he realized, because spending time with her while knowing it could only be platonic would be torture. It might not be what she wanted, either. True, there was Doctor Mark, but he was pretty sure he’d sensed some hesitation when Abby had talked about him. A certain lack of enthusiasm, an absence of all-in-ness. Plus, Mark was a podiatrist. Did she really want to spend the rest of her life tethered to someone whose profession was feet?
Maybe she didn’t really want to be with Mark. And maybe she didn’t know about his disgrace. What were the chances that she was on TikTok? Lots of people weren’t.
Sebastian started pedaling again. He pressed his lips together, grinding his teeth as he rode, faster and faster, until his wheels were barely skimming the path, until it felt like he was flying; like he could ride away from Lincoln, away from the other riders, away from his problems, away from—