Rosie
I’m sorry. So, so sorry this has happened. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I can’t leave this room, because I don’t want to face Millie. What kind of sister am I? Please let’s pretend last night never happened.
Dean
Okay.
Rosie
Okay?
Dean
If that’s what you need to tell yourself before we fuck again, I’m not going to burst your little bubble. I’m thinking we should have In-N-Out for lunch. I have a feeling the rehearsal dinner is going to be boring as fuck. What do you think?
Rosie
I think you can’t read. I said we can’t do this EVER AGAIN.
Dean
I said In-N-Out. I didn’t say fisting you on a balcony overlooking the romantic view of the Pacific Ocean.
Dean
(I’m game if you wanna do that tho.)
Rosie
No.
Dean
I’ll bring weed.
Rosie
NO.
Dean
I’ll bring my dick.
Rosie
How is that helping?!
Dean
After last night, I think you know the answer to that question ;)
Rosie
No dice, Ruckus. Today you’re on your own. Forget it ever happened. I know I will.
I smiled, leaned back, and read her message again. She was going to come around—and on my dick—in no time.
After I dropped Trent at his parents’ new house in Todos Santos, I stayed there a couple of hours to catch up with Trisha and Darius Rexroth. They were practically my second parents. I then went straight to the gym at the country club my (real) parents were members of and worked out some sweat. Punching bags and running on the treadmill calmed me down, even if only a little.
After I was done with my workout, I walked to the sauna and sat on a wooden bench, pressing my back against the wall.
You need to stop drinking, asshole.
I needed to stop doing a lot of toxic shit, but what was the point? What was the point in not fucking three women at a time, or drinking until I passed out, or smoking every morning and every night to take the edge off?
That was not to say that I was unhappy. I liked my job. Making money felt good. Burning it on crap I didn’t need felt even better. And I had a great family I wanted to see more of. But the space between phone calls from my family and friends and the long hours I spent at work was empty, so I filled it with pussy, alcohol, weed, and relentlessly pursuing the one girl I should stay away from.
“Dean? Dean Cole?”
The guy who walked into the sauna looked familiar. I blinked away my latest hangover (courtesy of the four gins I downed after I got settled at Vicious’s last night). On second glance, I recognized him. Matt Burton. A guy from high school. We were on the football team together. Not a star by any stretch of the imagination—that title was saved for Trent and me—but still a popular kid. He got rounder around the stomach, which was expected, not everyone was a vain-ass motherfucker like myself, and his hair seemed thinner. We bumped knuckles, because hugging when there was nothing but two towels separating our dicks was unacceptable. He slouched beside me.
“You look good.” Matt let out a heavy sigh.
“You look happy.” His laugh confirmed my assessment. He raised his left hand and waved a golden wedding band in triumph. “I am. Married with two daughters now. How ’bout you?”
“You know me.” I hitched one shoulder. But apparently, he didn’t know, because he was still awaiting my answer. “Still sampling my options.”
“Here in California?” He sniffed. His gut was spilling over the edge of his towel. I looked down to my towel. My abs were barely touching the white fabric. My tan flesh clung to my six-pack like a desperate Pats fangirl after the Super Bowl. Maybe eating tacos made Matt happy, but eating pussy made me happy. They looked about the same, but pussy had less calories. Plus, you always had room for seconds.
“New York, actually. You?” I asked out of politeness. I didn’t give half a fuck. Matt was a nice guy, but I saw my ex-teammates and college friends get married. They always got fat, boring, and weirdly content with their tedious everyday rituals. No, thanks.
“Stayed here. Bought a house just outside Todos Santos. Up-and-coming development. Got my accounting degree and recently became a partner at my dad’s firm.”
Blah, blah, blah.
“That’s awesome.” I stood up. I was feeling a little woozy. Guess it was really time to cut back on all the fucking crap I shoved into my body. “Well, gotta go. It was fun to catch up.”
“Dean,” Matt said, and I felt his hand on my shoulder, and why the fuck was his hand on my shoulder? I turned around. He was standing, too. We looked at each other. Not like friends. Not like enemies. Not like anything. I wanted to go.
“Are you okay?” he asked. If there ever was a more annoying question in the history of questions, it must have been ‘can you come outside? I don’t swallow’. But ‘are you okay’ was definitely a close second.
“Yeah,” I said, leaving out “why?” I didn’t care why he asked.
Matt offered me an awkward smile, removing his hand from my goddamn body, resting his hands on his hips. “You know, I always thought you’d marry the LeBlanc girl. You guys just had this spark.”
I let out a chuckle. Not bitter, just amused. “Who? Millie?”
He shook his head, his expression collapsing into a frown. “The other one. The one who always came to watch us play with her friends and ogled you. She was a hottie. Didn’t put out, though. Then again, she did look like a mouthy bitch.”
Rosie.
Still a hottie.
Only hearing someone else say it inspired my inner jealous asshole, and I wanted to throw a punch in his face. Maybe it was because I still felt her mouth against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing with heat on my lips, and her moans gliding over my skin. Whatever it was, it made me back Matt to the wooden wall with my deadly expression and whisper, “Hey, Matt? Next time you talk about Rosie LeBlanc like that, make sure I’m not around. Because if I hear it, I’ll beat your ass and make sure you can’t see what she looks like these days. By the way, she’s still more beautiful than any woman who’d ever agree to touch you, and you were right, you genius motherfucker, she is going to be my wife one day. Goodbye.”
What makes you feel alive?
Regret. For regret reminds you that life has a weight. Sometimes it’s heavier. Sometimes it’s lighter.
DEAR SELECTIVE AMNESIA,
I need you in my life right now.
Yours,
Hopelessly idiotic girl
Sitting on the bed wearing my percussion vest and staring at the poster-covered wall, I dangled my feet in the air as I replayed every second of last night.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.