Page 12 of Tips and Trysts

His expression turns pleading. “Hey, let’s—”

“Get,” I repeat, “thefuckout of the elevator, Everett.”

There’s an acridity under his inhalation. There’s a resignation in the way he folds his puffy, kiss-stained lips over his teeth. There’s an acceptance in his stare—in those green eyes tracing the path of my hand as I release the railing and wipe my mouth, trying to erase the memory of him.

Those little reactions are all it takes for me to realize: This is a guy who knows how to follow orders. Sure enough, he does exactly what I say. He steps out without objection and stands on the landing.

“Fuck you,” I say as the doors close, blocking out the sound of him sayingI’m sorry.

Four

CORA

The last time Iwoke up hungover in a college dorm, I was twenty and it was the morning of my Harvard graduation. That day, I chugged a gallon of water, and my parents didn’t suspect I spent the previous night upside down over a keg, doing something that made a frat guy say, “This girl istalented.”

Now, I’m twenty-four, haven’t spoken to my parents in three years, and I’m staring down a humongous suction-cup dildo attached to a standard-issue Georgetown University nightstand.

Part of being a camgirl with two camgirls for best friends means I’m accustomed to assorted sex toys laying around our bedrooms, but even I have to admit this one is intimidating.

Of course it belongs to Essie, our resident size queen.

Groaning, I paw around for my phone until I find it under the pillow.

There are two messages from Everett.

I don’t read them.

***

Every year in the District of Columbia, the end of March brings drippy weather, sporadic bouts of torrential downpours, and gray skies that part for a two-week period when the District is magical. In true DC fashion, when beauty presents itself, the District cashes in. Delicate pink cherry blossoms become tourist fodder, and the National Cherry Blossom Festival marks the beginning of tourist season.

I hate tourist season.

The metro is more crowded than a Patagonia store near an Ivy League campus when fleece vests go on sale. I have to throw elbows to squeeze myself into a car, and for a few stops—in the bitchiest of karma’s many offenses to date—I’m smashed against an ad poster featuring Felix J. Worthington:New York Timesbestselling author, one ofFortune Magazine’sThirty Under Thirty, a regular correspondent on 24N, and the first guy to tell me he loved me.

Fucking bastard.

Based on how my current life and karma are going, I’m pretty sure I was at least a war criminal in a past life—possibly top brass in Genghis Khan’s army—and am paying duly and dearly as a result.

The metro reaches my station, and my phone buzzes with the arrival of two more texts from Everett.

I still don’t read them.

Three years ago, I vowed I wouldn’t tolerate men who disrespected me. Sexists. Classists.Liars. I decided they weren’t worth my time, energy, and brain cells. I knew their capability. I knew their damage. Felix made damn sure I knew.

For three years, I kept my vow. When my last boyfriend cheated on me, I dumped his ass faster than a busy soccer mom throwing a chuck roast into a crockpot on a Wednesday. When viewers made Asian fetish comments during my streams,I blocked them like a fullback in the Super Bowl. No exceptions, no second chances.

But I kissed Everett. I kissed a man who looked me in the eye and said my mere association would jeopardize his career. I kissed a man who spent the last seven months glaring at me every time I entered a room, who didn’t even wish me a happy New Year at a get togetherin my own condo.

Last night, I was drunk, yes, but I knew what I was doing. I kissed him because I wanted to. I kissed him even though I swore off trust funds and heirloom watches and Ivy League breeding. I kissed him because I thought he wanted me to.

And he made a fool of me.

When I get to the Halcyon, I throw last night’s clothes in the hamper. I shower. I discard my lipstick because I can still see it on his mouth. I type and delete five messages to Valeria inquiring if Lander would break up with Everett if she asked.

When I put in a takeout order, the red notification bubble on my text app glares at me with the now five unread messages from Everett. My thumb hovers over the app, imagining what he might have to say.

Do you kiss everyone who insults you?

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