Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
But it did. The images come in flashes—the wedge of amber light, Cassie’s legs spread obscenely, Trevor’s cock splitting her wide, the raw sounds that still vibrate in my bones. Every detail is vivid, hyperreal. I’m twenty-one and a virgin, and the man I’ve fantasized about for two years just fucked a slutty hooch against a wall ten feet away from me.
And I watched.
A weird giggle slips out, not even a sound, more like a hiccup. I wonder what my mom would say if she knew. What his dad would do. Probably nothing. Trevor’s a grown man, and who he fucks is his decision.
My lips are numb. I find the little sample bottle of mouthwash by the sink and swish, then spit, watching the green swirl down the drain. When I’m certain I can walk in a straight line, I reapply my lipstick. I dab at my eyes, smoothing the mascara smudge with a Q-tip. I put the mask back on, piece by piece.
I square my shoulders and open the door. The hallway is empty, the party distant again, but as I make my way back the voices grow sharper, the lights brighter, every sound amplified. I slide into the main room and head for my table like nothing happened, like I am not a completely different organism from the one who left.
Victoria is mid-conversation with Aunt Marta, who’s gesturing at the centerpiece like it’s a prop in a crime scene. I slip into my seat, nod at the two of them, and fold my hands neatly in my lap.
“There you are,” Victoria says archly. “I thought you’d run away to join the circus.”
I almost say, “You have no idea,” but instead I laugh and ask about the next day’s wedding schedule. Victoria launches into it without missing a beat, as Aunt Marta leans forward, eyes beady with interest.
A server passes, and I accept a glass of water, the condensation slick in my palm. I take a long, slow sip. My hands are still trembling, so I keep both on the stem of the glass, steadying myself.
Across the room, I watch as Trevor and Cassie stroll into the room, returning to their table. Cassie is radiant, not a single hair out of place, lipstick flawless. She leans into Trevor’s side, one manicured hand resting on his chest. Her laughter cuts through the general hum of the party, bright and a little bit cruel.
Trevor’s demeanor is unchanged—unflappable, even. He talks with the best man, then with Henry, gestures just so with his hands. Cassie beams at him and once, when she isn’t looking, he yawns into his fist. I would have laughed, but my insides are still all broken glass.
I watch them as I drink. Watch the way Cassie touches Trevor, the way he lets her. Watch how no one else in the room suspects that ten minutes ago, she was getting railed within earshot of the canapés as he growled dirty words. It’s like a magic trick, or a con, and I’m the only one in on the secret.
At one point, Cassie excuses herself and disappears into the crowd. Trevor’s gaze follows her, then slides over the room and lands—dead center—on me.
We stare at each other for a breath, maybe two. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes darken, just enough to register. My whole body tenses. I hold his gaze, because I refuse to look away first. It’s not a contest, but it feels like one.
Then he lifts his glass in my direction, slow and deliberate, and takes a sip. The motion is so calm, so controlled, it almost makes me angry.
Swiftly, I turn back to Victoria and force myself to join the conversation. What the fuck! Who does he think he is? He was just fucking another woman, and his dick is probably still wet with her juices. How the fuck can he act so nonchalant?
The rest of the evening blurs by. I say all the right things, eat a piece of cake, fake a laugh or two. But every so often I catch myself staring at Trevor’s hands, or at the place on Cassie’s neck where his mouth left a mark, or at the mirror behind the bar, remembering the perfect reflection of him and his not-quite-girlfriend.
When it’s finally over, when the music winds down and the crowd thins and the happy couple is long gone, Victoria finds me at the edge of the dance floor. My mom nods at me, an ice queen.
“You were perfect tonight,” she says. “Thank you for holding it together.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Henry appears, his tie already loosened, and together we make our way to the car.
The drive home is quiet. Victoria scrolls on her phone; Henry hums along to the radio. I sit in the back seat, chin propped in my palm, watching the headlights turn the highway into a ribbon of ghostly light.