Page 1 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Sydney
Whoeversaidyoushouldfake it ’til you make it—T-Swift not included—was full of shit.
I’ve been faking that I’m a fully functioning adult for ten years, and I don’t feel any closer to “making it” than I did when I was fifteen and full of irrational fears over boys knowing I was on my period.
If I ever bothered to see a therapist, which I won’t, because freelance copywriting doesn’t come with an insurance plan, I’m sure they’d have all kinds of things to say about my mental health.
The raging impostor syndrome.
The self-medicating.
My wild swings between anger and happiness.
They’d probably try to tell me it stems from a childhood spent chasing my brother and his best friend, paired with the constant rejection dished out by two boys who were too young to knowbetter. That my profession is a series of rejections, and even when I land a gig, editors and decision-makers I’ve never met point out every flaw. Or reject my work sight unseen because their third cousin’s new girlfriend had a TikTok go viral once, and she thinks she should be in charge of the ad campaign.
But I know they’d be wrong.
I can lay the blame for every bit of my inferiority complex at the feet of one man.
Nate Ridgefield.
My brother’s best friend. The son of my parents’ best friends. The boy who has been a fixture in my life and in my family since I was a gawky kid obsessed with the Backstreet Boys.
The man who shattered that family.
And my heart.
And who’s sitting on my doorstep.
The hood of his North Face jacket covers his head, but I’d recognize the shape of that jaw anywhere. The shoulders hidden by the black puffer coat that’s currently getting soaked by the cold April rain are ingrained in my mind no matter how many cocktails I drink.
“Fuck off, Nate. Not tonight.”
The rideshare driver who’d brought me home offered to stay, but I waved her off.
“No. You have to listen to me sometime, Sydney.” Lifting his head to look up at me, he stays seated on the top step. Not letting me pass. Typical.
“No. Actually, I don’t. Letting you get me off on occasion and forgiving you are two unrelated facets of my stellar life choices.” I move to shove past him, but my thigh bumps his shoulder, and I stumble against the railing. My heel catches on the top step, pitching me forward. The three cocktails I had earlier were strong enough that I’m too slow to catch my balance.
With an annoyed grunt that quickly turns to a sharp gasp, I land on my right hand, my wrist taking the brunt of my weight. Pain shoots up my arm, and I curl up on my side on the wet cement in front of my door. Nate springs to his feet, towering over me, jabbering and grabbing at me.
“Get off,” I grunt, my voice cracking. I kick out at his knee for good measure, and he backs off.
“Sydney, let me help. What did you hurt? Is it your hand? Your wrist?” He’s still talking but thankfully doesn’t try to touch me again.
Groaning, I lie still, not caring that I’m getting drenched, and take stock of my body. Legs are fine, back is fine, face is fine. Just the wrist. Cautiously, I wiggle my fingers. It hurts, but not enough to indicate anything more serious than being thirty-one and falling like a fucking toddler.
The hulking asshole who deserves to rot in a vat of moldy food scraps is crouched in front of me, staring. Unfortunately for me, this puts his sad brown eyes level with mine, making it hard to pretend he’s not being sincere when he asks again if I’m okay.
When I don’t answer, his cheek twitches, as if he’s grinding his teeth, while he takes in my state. A fuzzy, gin-flavored voice in my mind whispers that I should let him carry me inside. Or that I should shove the keys held between my fingers into his eye.
Can’t decide which I want more, so I continue saying nothing.
It’s worked for the last year and a half, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Or if it’s already broken beyond repair, just throw it away.
Or let it give you orgasms when everything gets to be a little too much. But that’s a secret.
Eventually, Nate runs a hand over his face, catching the beard he’s let grow out over the winter and pulling it with a heavy sigh. “Just let me in the goddamn apartment so I can make sure you’re not hurt, then I’ll leave.”
