Page 102 of The Tryst

“Truth. He was raving about them the other week.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Like the two of you don’t radically enjoy face jobs.”

Harlow raises a hand. “I solemnly swear I love them.”

“Me too,” I say, lifting my palm as well.

Harlow sits up straighter, her eyes twinkling. “Wait. Maybe your song should be titled ‘Blown Away.’”

Ethan jumps up, grabs his pen and notebook, and writes that down. Then, he paces around the pool deck for a while, busy with his muse as Harlow and I talk about everything and nothing.

When Ethan finally settles back in with us on the couch, he shares a few lines. Damn, my friend rocks. “Would it be a total blow job of a compliment if I said that’s really fucking good?” I ask.

“No, it’d be a face job of one, Lay,” Harlow says.

“Let’s give it up for both BJs and FJs,” Ethan puts in, then the original Virgin Society says a collective thanks for the great joys of oral.

I feel like I’m home again, like I’m all me again, and it’s great. But when I go to bed that night and finally turn my phone back on, I’m still foolishly hoping for a response.

A message blinks up at me. My stomach swirls with nerves as I open it.

Nick: We do. Let’s talk Sunday night.

I’m dreading Sunday now, and I also want to speed up time.

34

MY UTTER OBSESSION

Nick

I’ve decided.

As I walk up the sand on Saturday after an early morning swim in the sea, I feel certain. Calm too. I’m at my friend Riggs’ Southampton home—he’s not here, but he’s letting David, Cynthia, and me use it for the weekend. Rose made a big donation and said she’d drive in this afternoon to attend the event, so I’m grateful he’ll have both his parents here.

David and I took the train here last night. He’s running some errands in town right now in Riggs’ car but should be back soon. Then, he’ll pick up Cynthia at the train station a little later today. She had to work late last night.

As I near Riggs’ home, I review the plan once more since there’s only one solution to the Layla problem.

When I reach the deck steps, I stop and look to the left. Layla told me her mother has a home nearby and that she’s staying there. I don’t know the address, but it’s not far away, as I recall her saying. Pretty sure she’s maybe half a mile up the sand.

She feels worlds away right now.

That makes my chest ache. I can’t give in though. I can’t reach out anymore. I have to do the right thing.

I tear my gaze from the white and cream beachfront mansions and head inside to take a shower, but before I can strip off my bathing suit, my phone rings. I grab it from the kitchen counter. It’s David. “Hey there, kiddo. What’s going on?”

“Cynthia was in a car accident. Dad, I’m freaking out,” he blurts out.

Fear slides down my spine but for his sake, I hide it as I ask, “Is she okay?”

“I think so. Her brother called me. She was driving to the train station when some asshole who was texting smashed into her. They think her leg is broken. She’s at the hospital now, and she’s asking for me. Shit, Dad. What do I do?”

I go into crisis-solving mode immediately. “You go be with her. I can handle the auction. If you want me to, that is.”

He breathes out a grateful sigh. “Are you sure? I feel like a jerk for not being there.”

“She needs you. She’s where you should be. I can host it.”

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