Page 10 of Masks and Mishaps

“I’m already hanging by a thread,” he responds, shoving his fingers through his hair. He releases a low breath. “No. You should go.”

My arms fall to my sides. “So that’s it? Our story isthis? A year of mutual pining, a year of avoiding each other, and then we become step-siblings?”

“As opposed to screwing once and spending the rest of our lives thinking about what could have been?” He drops his hands too. “Because to me, that sounds like torture. Do you think there’s even aminusculechance I could ever touch your soft skin, kiss your perfect lips, or put myself into your gorgeous pussy and never leave? Do youactuallybelieve I wouldn’t follow you around like a shadow for the rest of your life? Think about it. Do you seriously believe that’s possible?” He shakes his head. “Be so for real. I can’t even sleep if there’s a half-finished burrito in my refrigerator.”

My eyebrow skyrockets. “You did not just compare me to a burrito.”

“I didn’t. Because if you were a burrito, I would have eaten you by now—with multiple salsas. Guac. Pico. Salsa verde. Mole. …Shit. You’re half-Mexican. This is offensive, isn’t it? Jesus, I’m such a fucking loser,” he murmurs, extending his hand to stop the elevator door from closing. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I just…I can’t have you once. I can’t. I know I can’t.”

The strain in his voice gives me pause. He’s right; he probably can’t. Dalton may be chaos embodied but he’s not oblivious.

“We’re so different,” I admit with a sigh. “You couldn’t bear it, but I would do anything to have you just once.”

Finally, I step out of the elevator and Dalton doesn’t follow me.

For a moment, I stand on the landing and take in the pained look on his face. A flicker of disdain sparks in the pit of my stomach, born of the natural protectiveness I have for a guy like Dalton. I want to know who made him believe he was a train wreck.

I want to show them how wrong they were.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the third or fourth time tonight.

“You know where to find me,” is my response and the last thing I say before the doors close, separating me from Dalton once again.

Four

DALTON

“Here’stous.Maywe get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve,” I toast before I throw back the shot and slam the glass on the low table. I don’t chase it. I wait, feeling the distinct heat of liquor traveling the slope of my chest.

Doesn’t work.

“Fucking hell,” I murmur, using a cocktail napkin to wipe a stray drop of tequila from the tabletop. “Can you believe this shit?”

It’s been twenty-four hours, but the stubborn imprint of Essie’s hand still tingles on my pectoral like pinpricks of glitter. But not, like,goodglitter like that shiny lotion she rubs on the tops of her tits in the summer, but more like when I sleep funny and lose circulation in my leg.

I grab my half-finished beer and take a long pull. I need to kill the lingering remnants of Essie Romero.

“I mean, of course I can believe that guy Alec would be interested,” I go on, barely able to hear myself over the thud of the bass coming from the dancefloor. “I should have known this would happen eventually.”

She’s so unbelievably gorgeous and everyone loves her.She was supposed to be mine.

I check to see if Essie answered my text from an hour ago but nothing yet.

“Weird,” I comment. “Last time Essie didn’t answer a text, it was the day she got her wisdom teeth out and was high on anesthesia—which was so fucking cute. The entire ride home, she kept pointing at monuments and asking if I saw them.”

I pick up another shot and swirl the tequila while I scroll on my phone, wondering if maybe my service sucks.

…Or maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Wouldn’t blame her.

“Should I call? I thought she’d be here by now.”

The music gets even louder: a song Essie and I once danced to at a club in Adams Morgan. It was the summer before our parents met, and the District was sweltering. She barely wore anything, and I put my hands all over her while we danced. She let me, and didn’t mind when my fingertips ventured under her short skirt and grazed her upper thighs. Back then, we touched each other all the damn time.

Not anymore.

Our best friends touch each other a lot, and that shit’s annoying as hell and constant—and I meanconstant.

Like, right now, Everett and Cora are making out, which is why they haven’t responded to a single thing I’ve said in the last ten minutes.

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