17
Sloane
Sloane: Send help.
Summer: Help with what? They are fine?
Sloane: I’m so hungover. I want to die.
Willa: Good. Spiral of shame. Did you fuck him?
Sloane: No. We gave each other facials and passed out awkwardly.
Willa: High five. I love when Cade gives me a facial.
Summer: Good God.
Sloane: That’s not what I meant.
I really nailed it when I said I was going to feel like total shit in the morning.
It’s like I had a premonition or something. Because my head is pounding, there’s a weight that reminds me a lot of shame pressing down on my chest, and the silence in the truck is fucking deafening.
Jasper and I said good morning. He asked me what my nose was like and I rolled my eyes at him. He acts like he hit me with a fastball, not like he threw a flimsy water bottle at me and it rolled down my face.
Because yes, I remember everything from last night in unbearably clear detail. I was drunk enough to not give a shit about anything, but not drunk enough to forget it.
Most of the time I would say that getting drunk and not passing out is a win. But last night I would have fainted with pleasure. It would have prevented me from replaying that tape in my head.
The sky above us is dark gray and the snow falls in fat flakes that hit the windshield. The windshield where we both keep our gaze fixed.
Because shit is awkward this morning and it’s probably because I went ballistic with his fans and then dragged him back to our hotel room where I asked him if he would sign my melons and give me a facial.
What can I say? We all have our breaking points, and it seems like I’ve reached mine.
I glance at the speedometer and we’re going well under the speed limit.
If you live near the mountains long enough, you know what heavy snowfalls are like before they arrive. And this is so.
I know it. And Jasper knows it.
And I know Jasper well enough to know that inside his head right now, he’s agonizing over our safety. That is its default mode.
“You must think I’m an idiot,” that’s how I start our conversation.
His head turns so sharply toward me that I wonder if I hurt his neck. His face softens when his eyes land on me, and my heart skips a beat. Within seconds, that chiseled face turns toward the road, knuckles white on the wheel.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot at all.”
My life is chaos and I ignore it by choice. And last night I was definitely an idiot,” I joke, turning to look out the passenger window at the rocks and trees that crowd the mountain pass with such force that it seems as if I could open the window and touch that dark, steep rock. The icicles cling to the sharp edges from the heavy frost that fell overnight.
-No. You deserved to let go. You were fun. I needed it. I had fun. We had fun.
“Hmm.” I let his words bounce around in my head. We had fun – . I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.
“How could you embarrass me?” “He seems really confused.”
“With those girls.” I was a great cock blocker.
Now he laughs softly.
-And I appreciate the blockade.
“You’re just saying that.” Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy female company.
He surprises me when he answers bluntly: “I like sex.” The rest is too much.
I try to swallow and end up choking, like the winner I am right now. He’s always so quiet. I didn’t expect the word sex to come out of his lips so easily. And much less that he said he liked it.
I recover with: I’ve seen you go out with women at those fancy awards shows and stuff. Nice try.
He shrugs, his thick biceps rising and falling with the movement.
-Looks are deceiving. Sometimes she is a friend of a friend. It’s usually someone I only see from time to time. Who gets what I want and doesn’t ask for more.
“Like a fuck buddy?” “I almost want to say friends with benefits.” But the idea of him being friends with another woman is worse. Sex is sex. Friendship though? With Jasper, friendship is love.
He clears his throat.
-Basically.
That’s such a fucking Jasper thing to say. Elusive and reserved.
Whatever it means. I roll my eyes and look at the mountains again. I don’t know how to handle this new tension between us. Before, it was just me in my head. Now his eyes linger too much, as does his touch. Fingers intertwined with mine. His hand on the small of my back.
It means that meeting someone who actually likes me for who I am and not what I am seems downright impossible at this point in my career. It means I can spend time on a surface level with people, but it always comes back to what I do for work or how much money I make or how famous I am. It means I can never meet a person without that notoriety hanging over me, and that means I question everything and everyone.
I run my tongue over my bottom lip and my chest tightens as I unravel everything he just confessed to me.
Even my mother appears when I appear on the news or if she sees me on TV.
I freeze. Jasper never talks about his parents.
“Does he do it?” -My voice is small, and I look at him carefully.
-Always.
-Just to say hi?
He scoffs and lifts one corner of his mouth. But it’s not for fun. It is rather an ironic twist, a cover for deep pain.
“No, Sunny. For money.
-I’m sorry. Do you know where it is? -Is not sufficient. Is not sufficient. But I don’t know what else to say. I am out of my depth with his accident and everything that came from it.