Tear You Apart Read online

  And finally, at last, when I can stand it no more, I check the message. It’s not from Will, it’s from Andrea, canceling our lunch date tomorrow, which is fine with me because that means I now have nothing on my Saturday schedule and can sleep in. I should fill the tub, read a book. Go to bed early. I should do the right thing.

  Of course, I don’t.

  One word, that’s all I type, but my fingers are so unsteady on the phone’s touchscreen that I have to type it three times before it stops autocorrecting.

  Hi

  I wait, breathless, to watch the tiny letter D for delivered become an R for read. I hold the phone in both hands, willing him to answer. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And then—

  Hi

  It should feel anticlimactic, after all that breath-holding, but I’m just so fucking relieved that he answered me I don’t care what he said. How are you?

  Fine. You?

  We are strangers, circling and cautious, and I hate it but understand it, too. I’m the one who ruined this, and I’m the one who should leave it alone, but I can’t. I don’t want to.

  Fine, I type. Just settling in with a book. What are you up to? Anything fun?

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The minutes tick by, and even though I can see that he’s read the message, the bastard, he’s not replying. I can’t cry about it. All I can do is fume and wait. And just when I’ve given up and turned on the shower, intending to do what I know I should, shower and go to bed with a book, the small ping alerts me to his answer.

  I’m at Trinity.

  Blue lights, green lights, the steady thump of music. I remember Trinity. We went there dancing once. My throat closes, eyes burn. I’m just about to turn my phone off completely when another message comes through.

  You can be here in two hours.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  In slow motion, I push through the crowd, ignoring men who leer and women who scan me up and down, checking out the competition. I’m not here for them. I squeeze past a gaggle of bachelorette party princesses and some guys in suits ogling them.

  And there, finally, is Will.

  He leans against the railing with a drink in one hand, his attention on the dark-haired girl in front of him. She’s young. She’s pretty. She wears her vintage style like armor. The victory rolls in her hair, the red lipstick and arched, plucked brows, the historical tattoos all up and down her bare arms and on her chest. She’s not unique or edgy, not really, and she knows it. I can see it in the way she shifts closer to him even when she looks away, as though she doesn’t care what he says. When I was young and uncertain of myself, I used to do the same thing.

  He leans closer as I watch, to say something in her ear that makes her tip her head back in laughter. He lingers a little too long, his face hidden by hers. He touches her bare shoulder at the same time.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  He looks at me then, and I think he knew I was there all along. Will doesn’t smile or beckon me closer. He lets his fingertips graze the girl’s naked skin from the curve of her neck all the way down to her wrist, and his fingers brush over hers before he takes away his hand.

  People come between us. I stand still. I’m not sure I can make my feet move toward him, but I can’t stay here, buffeted by the crowd, my feet trampled by drunk girls who can barely walk in stilettos when sober. The cold splash and tangy scent of beer on my hand from someone’s spilled cup is what pushes me forward, finally.

  “Elisabeth!” As though he’s surprised to see me. It’s a game, and not for my benefit but hers. Will moves closer, to pull me into an unexpected embrace I allow because I can’t refuse it, even if I’m already on my way to being angry with him. “Chelsea, this is Elisabeth.”

  Chelsea tilts her head to look at me, and her smile is wide and warm and inviting. She doesn’t shake my hand, but she does lean a little closer to me. “Hi!”

  I look from her to Will and back again. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  Will’s arm slips around my waist, draws me close. Hip to hip. “What’re you drinking?”

  I glance at the girl in front of us. She has a glass of something fruity. I look at him. “Dirty martini.”

  He appears faintly surprised, then nods and leaves us. We look at each other the way women do when there’s a man between them, only I’m being careful not to be a bitch, and she seems more curious than anything.

  “So...how long have you known Will?” She sips her drink. Her lipstick is perfect.

  “A few months. You?”

  “I just met him tonight,” Chelsea says. “A friend of mine hooked us up. He takes pictures, right?”

  “Yes. He does.”

  “He’s good,” she adds. “I mean, I saw his stuff. I’m looking for some work. I want to do pinup stuff, get into some fetish magazines. Stuff like that. Naveen says—”

  “You know Naveen?”

  Chelsea pauses, arched brows knitting. “Yeah, he was here a while ago. Do you?”

  Before I can answer, Will’s back with my drink. He presses it into my hand, and the glass is cool and slick with condensation. The taste is sharp. Tart. I let it linger on my tongue, and watch him follow the motion of my throat when I swallow.

  I finish the drink and set it on the railing. To Chelsea, and without looking at Will, I say, “I should let you two get back to talking about pictures.”

  But when I turn to go, Chelsea stops me. “Don’t leave on my account. Hey, I love this song. You guys wanna dance?”

  Suddenly, it’s all I want to do.

  We find a place on the dance floor and move to the music. The drink went right to my head—not an excuse, just the truth. I’m buzzed. I let the music push and pull me, closing my eyes for a moment when the swirl of lights threatens to make everything spin. When I open them, Will’s behind me with his hands on my hips, but I saw how he looked at the girl in front of us.

  I move and he moves, and he’s between us. We aren’t the only threesome on the dance floor, because the DJ’s playing that Britney Spears song “3” and all at once the entire room has tripled up. The whole crowd moves. Writhing, grinding, thrusting. Someone’s on my ass and I’m pressed to Will’s back as he dances with Chelsea. I can see her face over his shoulder. She’s smiling at him, and I’m the one who put her there. I told him to find someone else. I just didn’t want to be here when he did.

  I shouldn’t have come.

  “I’m leaving.” I have to shout for him to hear me, and he probably doesn’t catch anything but the mumble of my voice, but he can’t miss that I’m pulling away and pushing through the crowd. Or at least I would be, if the group in front of me didn’t have me gridlocked. I suffer the random grinding from a guy in a suit, his tie pulled loose, before I manage to step to the side and find a clear space.

  A hand on my arm turns me, but it’s not Will. Chelsea frowns. “Hey, don’t go.”

  “I really...I need to get out of here.” The room is too hot. The drink was too strong. Everything’s too bright and pulsing, and my heart’s beating too fast. The pain is back, but when I hold my breath I feel even worse.

  “Me, too!” she cries. “C’mon, let’s go!”

  Will comes with us, the three of us on the sidewalk outside in seconds, where the air is marginally cooler and I can breathe a little easier. He puts his arm around me, pulling me close to look at my face. He frowns.

  “You okay? What’s the matter?”

  I shake my head. What could I tell him? “Drank too fast.”

  “I’ll call a cab,” Chelsea says, and I’m more impressed with her than I was at first because she hails us a ride without hesitating. When we all slide into the backseat, her knee presses mine on one side, Will’s on the other. To Will, she says, “What’s your address?”

  By the