It comes back to me. Heath and I at the Bard and Banker, drinking our faces off and composing an email to Amanda. And I know I hit send. That’s where the guilt comes in.
Fuck. What the hell did I say? What did we say? I know Heath was an accomplice.
Even though I’m hurting, I roll over and grab my phone, clumsily getting my passcode wrong a few times before it clicks. I check my email, and before I even see the message in the sent folder, it all comes back to me.
You know what would make a billion dollars? Some kind of electronic retrieval system that will pull your impulsive and highly regretful texts and emails before anyone gets a chance to read them. If I were smart enough, I’d invent it, or at least be an early investor in said company because I think everyone everywhere has sent something they regretted. Usually while drinking.
I cringe as I read my email over, and I know, I know that this is bad news. If it were any other girl, she would maybe laugh it off—maybe—but since this is Amanda (and hence why I sent it to begin with), I’m giving her something she can take up with the school itself. The worst part, she hasn’t even responded, so I don’t know if she’s not seen it yet or is just stewing on it and plotting a million ways to ruin me.
You’re a grade-A wanker, I tell myself as I make my way into the kitchen. It’s times like these that I wish I had a roommate, someone to bitch to in person, someone enabling who would pat me on the back and tell me everything’s going to be fine. But I’m alone, which works most of the time, especially when I’m bringing chicks back here at night. No one wants a meddlesome roommate to interrupt the fun, and because most of the girls live in dorm rooms surrounded by people, having this level of privacy wins me extra points in their books.
Although I’m not completely alone. Down the hall, in the study, I have what seems to be a permanent houseguest—Fluffy. Luckily Fluffy is a low-maintenance boarder who only requires food, water, and shelter. Of course, Kevin mentioned there should be some cuddling involved, but I know where to draw the line. Love and cuddling don’t work for me with humans, let alone pets—at least not anymore.
I pour myself a glass of water at the sink and slam back two Advil, a B-vitamin, and then chase it all with a Five Hour Energy drink just as my dad sends me a text asking me to bring some of the books I borrowed back to the store. I’m not supposed to, but if we have more than two copies of something, I usually take it home to read. I know my dad wishes they weren’t science fiction novels about space and doomsday prophecies, but I honestly couldn’t give a shit what he thinks sometimes. He’s still my dad though and I feel obligated to help—it’s my future after all—so after a quick shower, I slip on my clothes and dark shades and head out into the cobblestone streets of downtown Victoria.
My apartment, overlooking a colorful colony of floating homes, is located just beyond the ferries that head south to Washington State. If it wasn’t for the fact that Angelica owns the apartment as an investment, there’s no way I would be able to afford it on my own. All the money I saved back in England, the money I thought would see me on an around-the-world trip or two, is starting to run out, and there’s no chance for me to get a part-time job when I spend so many hours working for my dad for free.
I head out into the gloom of the day, something that makes me feel at home along with the gardens (which, unlike back home, start blooming here in February), horse-drawn carriages, and high tea at the Empress Hotel.
It’s actually just as I’m passing the massive façade of the ivy-covered hotel that I’m sure I’ve started hallucinating, because there’s Amanda leaning back against the railing overlooking the marina.
I freeze for a moment like a panicked deer, unsure what to do and where to go. For one, it’s her, and after that email, I should fear for my life, or at least find some way to protect my groin. For two, she looks bloody hot. I’m frozen in both fear and this shameful kind of desire because my dick is twitching and my limbs are growing heavy all because she’s wearing these shiny blue skin tight leggings adorned with pink cherry blossoms that seem to accentuate every curve and muscle in her legs, hips, and arse. Then there’s her breasts, impossibly firm in a sleek white tank top. It’s like until this moment, I wasn’t even aware that Amanda had much of a body, but fuck, there it is. And I’m going to have to figure out how to quickly forget it.
Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are moving and I’m hiding behind my sunglasses, hoping I can just walk past her and she won’t see me.
But oh, oh shit. She does.
Feign ignorance Crawford.
“Um, hello?” she cries out in indignation.
Here it goes.
And then I’m sucked into a brief conversation with her, one that I’m certain will turn to bloodshed at any moment.
Yet, some fucking how, she doesn’t freak out. She doesn’t blow up at me. She doesn’t try and kick me in the balls. She says she read the email, and yet I’m looking into her eyes, amplified by her fresh pink face, framed by cat-eye glasses, and they don’t look any angrier than usual. Her dislike of me has somehow remained the same. Is it possible she has already reached her hate ceiling and is tapped out? Could it be she’s had a sense of humor all this time?
Somehow I doubt it.
I decide to get out of there while I’m still unscathed and hurry off to the store. She still wants to meet me at the library at seven p.m., so I have no choice but to pretend that the email was never sent, and for both our sakes, I should forget she sent me one to begin with. I’m starting to think the only way through this is to just start the fuck over.