Page 56 of Whiskey Splash

“Because I’m not you!” I toss back at her, throwing my hands up in the air. “I can’t do what you do. I can’t forgive the way you forgive. I don’t know how to be Wonder Woman and kick ass and be amazing and brazen and confident all the time! I’m too self-conscious. I care too much about what people think! I need you to understand that you can’t fix me with whatever magic pill of What-Would-Arie-Do, because I’m a different person! When I try the things you try, they blow up in my face!”

“I’m not trying to fix you!” Arie says, now on the opposite side of the sink with her palms face-down on the granite counter, staring at me.

“Every time you bring up Jeremy Vaughn,” I explain, “you’re playing some Psychology Today game of fix-your-sister that you probably saw online or on television! Somehow you think I’m broken and it isn’t until I start screwing the brains out of every pretty boy I meet, like you did before you met Connor, that you’ll see me as halfway human again. Only, I. Don’t. Do. That. Shit!”

My sister’s glare is livid. She looks like a feral rodent that’s about to leap across the counter and claw my eyeballs out. But instead of going ape-shit, she lowers her eyes and taps on the counter slowly with her red fingernails, calculating what she’s going to say next.

“For the record,” she says finally, her words coming out slow, “I never wanted you to be like me, and I knowyou would never act like me.” She looks up, her gaze sharp as ice. “I knew you’d never hook up with Desmond Pike unless you wanted to. I can tease you and play matchmaker all I want, but in the end you had to decide if you wanted him. Which you did.”

I frown at her, not wanting to hear it, but she keeps going.

“So, what I really think is pissing you off right now,” she says, “is the fact that the two of you had something. And no, you don’t have to be in love with him, and hell, maybe it was just sex—but some part of you trusted Desmond enough to be intimate with him. Truly intimate with him. You let yourself go there with him when you never let your guard down with anyone. And I don’t think you’re really upset about the photos. I think you’re upset that you might actually like Desmond Pike, like him enough that you let down your guard and it actually went really well. Really, really, fucking well!” she emphasizes. “But someone took pictures and now you have an excuse to throw it all out the window. Because telling yourself Desmond will betray you like Jeremy did is a whole lot easier than admitting to yourself what you really want.”

I stare at my sister, silent, her words bouncing around my head like a loose bullet that hasn’t hit its target yet. Instead, it keeps ripping up walls and doing damage as it ricochets.

“And what exactly do I really want?” I toss at her angrily. “You seem to know everything, so let’s hear it!”

Arie shakes her head and grabs her purse and keys from the countertop, not answering. She struts to the side door and walks out, letting the screen smack shut behind her, leaving me all alone in the middle of my kitchen with the contents of my freezer melting. I start tossing the frozen dinners and vegetables back into the ice box, organizing it like I’ve got a PhD in Tetris-refrigerator-organization when my phone buzzes. I pick it up and it’s a text-message from Arie that says:

Arie:Text me when you’re willing to admit you already know the answer to thatquestion.

* * *

Later that night, after binge-watchingDownton Abbey, talking to Naomi on the phone, and checking every news, gossip, and celebrity website imaginable (and finding nothing about me and Desmond), I jump in the tub and turn my essential oil dehumidifier up to full blast. I throw half my collection of bath bombs into my vintage clawfoot tub and slip into the luxurious and soapy water.

Oily colors swirl and fizz around me, coating my shoulders and skin in a tie-dye of glorious colors. The water consuming my skin keeps making me think about Desmond, about his hands and his mouth and the feel of us together in the water, the way we fit together.

My hands run down my body, the rainbow of oily colors slipping against my soft skin. Arie’s right, I did let down my guard with Desmond.

I let him in.

I can blame it on hormones and biology all I want, except that’s not the whole picture. Hawaii is full of beautiful men with beach-toned bodies ready to make my vagina do summersaults. Desmond was different. He was more than a biologically beautiful specimen that made my body ache. But why? What is it about him? What did he do differently that made me feel like I could be someone else with him?

I lie in the water for a long time, twirling my fingers over my own skin, drawing designs in the marble color of oils, when I start to wonder if it’s not that I was someone else, but that maybe that boldness, that confidence, was always in there somewhere, lying dormant.

I sit up and dry my hands against a towel hanging from a bar near the tub and snag my phone. I pull up Arie’s number as I start texting.

Esme:I wasn’t pretending to be someone else. I wasn’t pretending to be you. I wanted to have sex with Desmond because he saw the real me. The awkward, ridiculous, foot-in-mouth-disease, Esme. He wanted me.

I lie back in the tub, placing my phone on the side table next to it, listening to the fizz of bath bombs and crickets singing outside my window.

Could it really be that simple? Did Desmond simply see me, the real me, and he didn’t run for the nearest jet plane to get a continent away?

Ever since we met, all I’ve done is say every stupid, crazy, embarrassing thing that’s filled my head and somehow, weirdly, he’s stood in that shit-storm and thrown it right back at me like a game of competitive volleyball. In fact, he seems to actually find it charming.

My phone buzzes and I pick it up again.

Arie:Exactly! Now tell me what you want.

I look at the phone for a long moment, tapping on the side of the device lightly, as I search for the words.

Arie:Stop overthinking!

Esme:Okay, Ms. Bossy!

Arie:Girl, ask Connor. You have no clue what bossy looks like. Now tell me the first thing you think of. What do you want?

Esme:I want someone who sees me, the real me. Someone I can open up to and trust. Explore my … our …

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