One Night Read online

  One Night

  A. J. Pine

  InterMix Books, New York

  Published by the Berkley Publishing Group

  An imprint of Penguin Random House

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  ONE NIGHT

  This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2015 by A. J. Pine.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / April 2015

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19229-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  Version_1

  For S and C—you fill my heart every single day.

  And for Jess and others who find it hard to believe—there is hope. And help. And love.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Pretending comes naturally these days. It’s like a cozy blanket, wrapping me up in what used to be. All it takes is a couple of drinks, closed eyes, and strange lips traveling down my neck. I conjure the memory of a boy—my first love, my first everything. And when I fall asleep, it’s his arms I feel around me. If I don’t open my eyes, for one night I keep the dreams at bay and live in the fantasy.

  ***

  I wake up cold. Not the kind that can be fixed with blankets or the body heat of the person lying next to me. An empty cold—a revelation or realization. No, a reminder. Because that’s what mornings do. They remind us of everything we tried to forget the night before when “One more drink ought to do it” seemed like a good plan.

  I roll to my side and see Jim—or is it Jeff?—spooning one of my pillows. I guess it’s back to reality.

  With a less-than-gentle pull, I free my captive pillow, and the body next to me stirs. I look at the clock. Ten a.m., and I have a lecture in an hour. This guy needs to do a hell of a lot more than stir.

  “Hey.” I push his bare shoulder. Man this guy is solid. I remember why I brought him home last night. But it’s morning now, and Mr. Solid needs to leave.

  “Hey,” I say again, nudging him harder. “You need to go.”

  And then I hear it, my version of the alarm clock, the beans grinding in the coffee maker. God I love that timer and how the jarring sound of metal on solid gets Jim/Jeff to sit bolt upright in my bed.

  “What the hell was that?” His voice is tinged with sleep, but he’s awake.

  “That,” I say, handing him his shirt I find still strewn at the foot of the bed, “is your breakfast to go.”

  He pulls the T-shirt over his head, but this does nothing to tame what the night has done to his hair. I’m not worried about his hair, though. What I don’t like is the way the corners of his mouth quirk into an almost diabolical grin.

  I hop out of the bed, noting I am wearing nothing other than my tank and bikini briefs, but then again, he saw more than this last night. Not that it matters. What we did before sleeping—it’s just a means to an end, to fool myself into feeling wanted. Our little game of make-believe is over now, though I’m the only one at the slumber party who knows the rules of the game.

  “Sorry, buddy.” I open the door, my hands performing a grand hey-you-should-exit gesture. “Last night was last night, but this morning all you’re getting is coffee.”

  He’s standing up now, collecting his jeans and then his shoes. Once dressed, he joins me at the door.

  “Maybe another time then, sweetheart.” He kisses me lightly on the cheek, but there is nothing sweet about the kiss.

  I follow him out into the kitchen/living room/dining room.

  “How do you take it?” I ask, heading toward the almost brewed pot of coffee.

  That look on his face is back. “Wow, sweetheart. You’re almost a full-service operation. Aren’t you? Cream and two sugars.” He licks his lips, and bile rises in my throat.

  Full-service. Right. If that’s what he wants to call what we did. I may not love myself the morning after, but at least I can say I have standards, that I draw a line. Sex with Mr. Pillow-Spooner—off the table. Everything else, though? That’s fair game. If I gotta give a little to get a little, so be it. I don’t know many guys who’d take a girl home for one night of spooning. Come to think of it, I don’t know any. And it’s not like the everything else doesn’t have its perks. I choose who comes home with me, enjoy myself for a night, and know that morning means good-bye for good. No delusions. What’s that saying? Accept the things I cannot change? I may be lonely as hell, but it doesn’t mean I have to be alone.

  With my back to him, I allow myself a small chuckle. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for a latte. Coffee with anything else in the cup is not, in fact, coffee. Cream, sugar, foam, whatever it is—it dilutes the truth, what’s already perfect on its own. Black coffee may be bitter, but sugarcoating it is worse. Give me a guy who doesn’t taint his beverage . . . then again, don’t. It’s always easy to say good-bye to a high-maintenance coffee drinker. And Mr. Solid is exactly that, with his sweetheart and his sweetener and cream—a sugar-coater. Not that it matters. It’s good-bye either way.

  I fill his to-go cup as ordered—yes, I have to-go cups—and inch him toward the door.

  “Well, Jim . . .”

  He raises his eyebrows, and I have to admit he is cute. Rumpled brown hair and green eyes, plus that whole solid body thing, it’s tempting even with a hangover. But I mess with him just the same because we both know the drunk girl who brings home the horny guy is nothing more than the drunk girl who brings home the horny guy. That’s the only way he sees me, the only way I want him to see me.

  “Jeff?”

  It’s not really forgetting a name if I actively don’t remember. A name is personal, and I don’t get personal.

  “It’s Jake, sweetheart, but I’ll forgive you this time.”

  He’s less cute every time he says the word sweetheart. I resist reminding him my name is Jess. As if there’d be a next time. I’ve learned well enough there never could be.

  I pull the door open and hand him his coffee. “Well, Jeff, it was
nice meeting you.”

  He opens his mouth as he exits the apartment, but I don’t wait for him to correct me before I close the door. For a minute I stand there, eyes closed and forehead pressed against the door. It’s not that I want him to stay. It’s just that closing the door, even on a stranger, is like watching Bryan walk away again. But when I measure the pain of sleepless nights against regret-filled mornings, I choose a random guy’s arms around me every time. Maybe the next time I close the door, it will hurt a little less. And the next, maybe even less, until I’ve numbed myself completely. It’s a good plan, the only one I’ve got.

  I turn around and gasp. Zoe, my roommate, stands less than six inches in front of me.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” I say, stepping back into a more comfortable circumference of personal space.

  She doesn’t respond at first, only looks at me like she’s doing a math problem in her head. But I know it’s not numbers she’s trying to figure out. It’s me.

  We’ve lived together for only a few weeks, but I’ve already learned this is a thing she does. She studies before she speaks to me, so I study back, counting, like I often do, Zoe’s visible piercings. Left eyebrow. Nose, left side. Bottom lip, right side. Her hair is short except for her long bangs, but I can see both ears. That’s where I lose count of the tiny hoops and studs lining each. Belly button! I know she has one there. I’ve seen it. She claims there are more visible only to certain viewers. I take her word.

  “I like it. No names. Good system, Elliott. Looks like it’s working for you.”

  Her tone is as curious as her smile. She doesn’t accuse me of anything, but still, I play defense.

  “Whatever. It’s not like my name is Sweetheart, but I’m not complaining. I don’t think he’s complaining either.” I nod toward the door. “He got what he wanted and a coffee to go. It is a good system.” I cross my arms and hope my self-righteous grin looks convincing.

  Our apartment is shaped like a T, with the kitchen/living room/dining room separating my bedroom and bathroom from Zoe’s. Still, the place is small, and I know she has assumptions about what goes on in my half of our living space. I’m sure she has judgments too.

  I walk back into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee—black. Zoe hops on one of our stools and watches me over the breakfast bar.

  Before I can enjoy my coffee, I need to address another issue, my hangover. My mouth is dry, and I swear my brain has its own pulse. Either that or it’s getting ready to free itself from my skull.

  I open the medicine cabinet. There it is—reality. I glance back at Zoe, who’s still blatantly watching me. With limited space, we share the cabinet. I never thought of hiding the bottle, never cared if she saw it, which she has. All that’s in the transparent orange cylinder is ibuprofen. Yet she’s never once asked why I keep my ibuprofen in a bottle labeled with an expired prescription for an antidepressant. That’s how I know this roommate thing is going to work out. Zoe may give me a hard time about “forgetting” a guy’s name, but she gives me my space without any real questions.

  I hold the bottle in my hand, my eyes closing as the memory takes hold.

  ***

  I love you, he’d said. His sandy hair hung over his eyes, and I remember pushing it back before pressing my lips to his forehead. And god I loved him too. I loved him with the kind of trust that makes you believe you can conquer anything as long as you do it together. I was naïve, trusted too easily, believed with sheer abandon.

  My shoulders shake, and my stifled laugh comes out as a snort. He was the one. I saw my life mapped out with him beside me. Instead I have to-go cups and boys with maps that lead only to one place—my bedroom. It’s not funny at all, but I laugh just the same.

  I can feel her stare, the back of my neck prickling with recognition that it is, in fact, a target. I wonder if Zoe can tell I’m laughing or if she thinks I’m crying.

  My finger swipes the skin beneath my eye, but nothing’s there. Not even when I laugh do the tears come. I’ve trained my body well.

  So I grip the bottle, my reminder of how quickly I love you can change.

  I don’t think there’s a future for us anymore.

  For him there is. But not for me.

  Not one tear since he said those words because crying won’t change a thing.

  No one could ever want me long term, not the way I am now.

  Broken. Unfixable.

  I take what I can get. I don’t need a promise, only to be wanted, to let myself be wrapped in someone’s arms, just for one night.

  2

  Scrubs, clogs, ponytail, headband—love the daily uniform. I don’t have to wear the scrubs to class, but with the time it takes me to get to the hospital after my last lab, I’d be changing in a public bathroom. No thanks. Plus, there’s Tracy, the physical therapist in charge of my PT internship. For her, on time means ten minutes early.

  Today I get to the hospital a full thirty minutes before my three o’clock start time. Tracy isn’t in the PT lab yet, and I silently celebrate this tiny victory. In fact, no one is here—no doctors, therapists, or patients. I haven’t interacted with any patients yet, only observed. After three weeks, I fear today will be more of the same.

  I explore the various tables lining the room and the floor strewn with mats, stopping at a gap in the equipment. Here the wall sports a bulletin board filled with flyers on varied activities relating to physical therapy. It’s the same stuff every day, nothing exciting unless you’re into low-impact water aerobics or yoga basics. But a neon green flyer jumps at me from the board, and my eyes have no choice but to read as my foot moves forward, then backward, on a cylindrical foam roller.

  Join Us for a Knockout Workout!

  University Hospital’s Fitness Center Now Offering Boxing Classes.

  10% Discount for Hospital Personnel.

  My arms wrap instinctively around my midsection. I’m not overweight, but I’m by no means in shape. It’s part of the charm of not giving a shit. And I don’t give a shit, about working out, that is. But I still rip the flyer from the wall, folding it up to stuff in my pocket.

  “In five more minutes, I’m saying we declare Tracy a no-show. We can bail and party it up in the hospital caf instead. What do you think? The five minute rule applies to therapists too, right?”

  Great. I’m going to be in some sort of trouble for stealing a damn flyer. I spin toward the voice, anxious.

  But Adam Carson is not hospital personnel. And though I do know his name, he and I are complete strangers except for spending many a night together. He, of course, is oblivious to this fact, but anyone who knows the slightest bit about college basketball around here knows Adam Carson, a six-foot-tall point guard who can dunk. And he’s standing in the doorway to the PT lab, on crutches.

  “She’s never late,” I say, wondering if I should have covered the hint of regret in my voice. “And I’m pretty sure the rule is fifteen minutes, student enforced more so than professors.” I offer a weak smile mainly because his smile is so broad I feel like it’s rude not to reciprocate.

  I know I should introduce myself, but saying, Hey, I’m the intern, doesn’t have the ring to it I thought it would.

  “We could make it interesting,” he starts, with a raise of his dark brows. “If she misses the fifteen-minute mark, you have to run a lap around the building.”

  I watch him lean on his crutches, the toe of his right shoe barely touching the ground. He looks much taller in person. I guess that makes sense when the only place I’ve seen him is on a TV screen, surrounded by players who measure six foot five and over. At five foot five, I’m by no means short, but his six-foot frame towers over me, even with the crutches.

  “And if she makes it here in the next two minutes?” I ask.

  Still gripping each crutch, he shrugs. “You can hardly expect me to run around the building. I’m an injured man. I could propose an alternative.”

  But before he does, Tracy brushes past him and into the
lab. It’s 2:49.

  Not that he needs to accommodate Tracy’s petite five-foot-two frame, but Adam attempts a slight move to the right and for a quick second drops weight onto his right foot.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath.

  Tracy doesn’t hear him, but I do. Her back is to both of us as she looks through Adam’s chart. I start forward but stop myself. No physical contact with the patient without direct supervision.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, at least wanting him to know I know he’s in pain.

  A smile replaces the brief agony I witnessed. But his glossed-over brown eyes don’t lie.

  “Of course,” he manages. “I’m great.”

  But the words and expression are labored.

  “Of course he’s great,” Tracy reiterates as she walks back in our direction. “Our patient had damaged cartilage removed by the best sports surgeon in the Midwest. He’ll be good as new by the season opener.”

  Adam gives me a conspiratorial grin, though I’m not sure why, before adding, “Yep. That’s the plan.”

  If I knew him better, I’d swear there was something ironic in the sound of his words. But I don’t. Know him, that is.

  “Come on over to the table, Adam. I think it’s time Jess worked on her first patient.”

  My eyes widen. Everything about Tracy is small—her frame, her nose, her blond pixie, and even her age. At twenty-six, she’s the youngest in the PT department, which is why she probably earned the coveted role of overseeing interns. There’s something sweet and spritely about her when you’re looking, but then she opens her mouth and has everyone’s attention.

  “It is?” I ask, knowing my question is contrary to what I’ve been hoping, but I wasn’t expecting such a high-profile first patient. What happened to lovely, seventy-year-old Rose, who had her hip replaced or Chris, who just got back from completing her third IRONMAN? These are the patients I know, the ones I expect to see. Not Adam Carson.

  Adam navigates the short path to the table, unsteady in his new state of mobility. He hands his crutches to Tracy. He’s tall enough to sit down on his own, but he needs her help lifting his injured leg onto the table’s surface.