Call it what you want, p.14
Call It What You Want, page 14
Thank you for giving me a story to tell my future daughter one day when she is going through her first heartbreak.
xx,
The girl who would’ve loved you through anything.
PART 2
NOW
21
Sloane
January 2018
I turn over on my side and, with my eyes, trace Reese’s profile. He sleeps on his back almost exclusively, which only contributes to his snoring. I watch him sleep and I recount the past several months we’ve spent together.
Reese was a breath of fresh air when I needed it the most. I remember thinking as early as our first date: This is what it should feel like. So I clung to it; I intertwined my hand with his and never let it go.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked after he insisted on picking me up before our first official date.
I say official because I slept with him the night we reconnected at Gem. I didn’t think it would go anywhere, and I wanted to get my first post-Ethan hookup over with. I definitely didn’t expect him to ask me to be his girlfriend two weeks later. It felt a little crazy and rushed. Lauren even thought so, but it also felt right.
“I can’t tell you that,” he bantered. “What I can tell you is that I know you’ll love it.”
“Not to be that girl, but how do you know? You’ve known me all of two weeks,” I argued.
“Well, if you want to get technical… I’ve actually known you for about six months. Just trust me on this one.”
He insisted on walking to dinner, and we stopped at a cocktail bar on the way. It was one of those fancy no-menu places where they ask what kind of alcohol you enjoy and make you a drink based on your answer.
“What kind of food are we having at least?”
“Italian.” His mouth curled into a smile.
As if I could read his mind, I immediately knew his thought process behind the choice. After Gem we went back to his place, had a glass of wine, and talked for over an hour. About anything and everything, including family. Which was a topic that was hardly discussed in my conversations with Ethan. I shared with him that one of my favorite things about my dad is his penne with vodka sauce recipe. Right before the divorce, a few months before I was due at college, he taught me how to make it. The recipe is stored in my notes app for safekeeping, and I make it when I miss him. Reese not only wanted to try it, but also insisted I teach him how to make it one day too. Chicken parm, sub vodka sauce, was his “secret order” at Italian places.
“If they have both on the menu, most places will do it. Especially if I flirt with the server a little bit,” he said.
I love that he listens to me, like really listens, and puts thought and effort into every interaction—no matter how big or small.
On our third date, he took me to a Yankee game because he knew they were my dad’s favorite team. Unbeknownst to Reese, it was my second game. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d been once before, and I was ready to make new memories there that didn’t involve Ethan.
“Our seats are right on the first base line,” Reese said as we waited in line for hot dogs—which were the best in the city according to him. “Nothing hits like a ballpark dog.”
At first, I was scared to go to the game. I worried I’d think about Ethan the entire time, that I’d miss him too much. Maybe even send him a text that I’d regret the next day. But Reese proved me wrong. I thought of Ethan only once, when I passed the section we sat in, and the vivid memories of anger, confusion, and embarrassment washed over me. Ethan kept me at arm’s length like he was hiding me, and Reese puts me on his shoulders like he’s parading me around town. The two feelings could not be more different.
Reese rolls over like he knows I’m thinking about him and pulls me in. My face is pressed up against his bare chest, and I inhale, taking in the exact scent of him—subtle notes of pine just lingering from the cologne I bought him. His soft hands glide up and down my back; his gentleness always has a way of calming me down. I take inventory of every part of him because I never want to forget it.
“Baby,” he whispers. “Why are you awake?”
“I can’t sleep.” I’ll never tell him that it’s his snoring that wakes me up most nights.
“What can I do?” He opens his eyes.
“How are you real?”
He chuckles. “What are you talking about?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and you were just lying here, so peacefully, and I thought about our last few months together. They don’t feel real sometimes. I’ve waited my whole life for a guy like you,” I spoke into his chest.
“Better get used to it, because I’m not going anywhere.” He presses his lips to my forehead, and then they find their way down to mine.
It took some getting used to, sex with Reese versus sex with Ethan, like the relationships were complete opposite experiences. Ethan and I had this unexplainable chemistry, like our bodies were magnets and they’d attract each other even in the most crowded of rooms. With Reese, it took some getting used to. I had to teach him what I liked—slow down, speed up, keep going, don’t stop.
Reese was gentle in everything he did. He’d kiss me for hours until I’d tell him what I wanted next, much like he was doing now.
“Take my clothes off,” I whisper.
“If I do, I won’t be able to go back to sleep.”
“So don’t. Sleep is overrated anyway.”
He follows my directions and pulls the baggy T-shirt over my head. I graze my hands up and down his neck, then into his hair as his disappear in mine. Eventually making their way down to my underwear, his fingers find their way inside of me, and I moan into his mouth.
“Sloane, you’re so—” He doesn’t even have to finish that sentence.
“I want you, Reese.”
“And I never want you to stop saying that. Tell me again, baby.”
He presses into me, and I feel my eyes roll back into my head. When I finally open them, the sun is starting to rise, the light peeking its way through his blinds and onto his duvet cover.
His groans intensify until he’s a puddle beside me.
“I want to wake up like this every morning.”
“Me too,” I reply, planting a gentle kiss on his lips.
22
Sloane
January 2018
The subway is nearly empty on my way home from work. Our office has been open since the day after New Year’s, but everyone knows that people with kids don’t go back to work until the second week of January, when school starts back up again.
Annie sent me a text asking me to cover an event tonight because she wouldn’t make it back from New Jersey in time. Now that they’ve hired an assistant to replace me, she’s taken me under her wing. The event is a launch party for a new skincare company, so I know there’s guaranteed to be a lot of free samples. I agree and start typing the details into my calendar when the crosswalk brings me to a complete halt. I shove my phone into my bag and watch for the walk signal—that’s when I see it.
Through the crowd of people in front of me, I notice a backward navy-blue New York Yankees hat poking out. I haven’t thought about him in a while—weeks, maybe months even. But seeing that hat, just like the one he has, just like the ones thousands of other people in the city have, brings back a flood of memories that I thought I buried. Apparently, not well enough.
Now that I remember, I can’t seem to forget. The touches, the kisses, the laughs, the tears, the time, the emotions, the energy. I remember everything. How can you make yourself forget? I want to forget. I want to forget him and every dreaded memory that comes along with him. Can you ever really forget your first love?
The rest of my walk home is a silent one. My thoughts are consumed by him, all because of a silly little baseball cap. Imagine if I had seen him though? Unlike the beginning of the summer, I’m grateful for all of the miles between us.
I walk into our apartment, and Lauren is already home, nestled on the couch watching reality TV, per usual.
Our new apartment is about the same size as the last but with a bit more living space, which means we spend more time together. After living in a walk-up, we knew we wanted a more modern building, preferably one with a doorman and an elevator. A lot of my coworkers encouraged us to look in Murray Hill and Kips Bay, saying they were popular neighborhoods for postgrads, and Reese’s roommate, Blake (also a Pike at Wilmington), pointed us in the direction of a good building. And that’s where we landed.
It couldn’t be more perfect, honestly. We’re walking distance from any bar in Murray Hill, we have laundry in the building, and we have AC that actually works. We’re finally living the postgrad life we dreamed of.
“Welcome home!” Lauren greets me. “How was work?”
“Quiet. I can’t believe we’re one of the only offices open this week. How are the boys?”
Lauren accepted a job as an elementary school teacher in the Bronx when we first moved to the city. She knew it would be hard; she’d make just above minimum wage, and the commute wasn’t the best. But the reason she majored in education obviously wasn’t for the money; it was to have an impact on underprivileged children. To pass the time until the school year started, she found a full-time nanny job with the Bauer family. She spent the entire summer with their two five-year-old twin boys, and come Labor Day, she resigned from the teaching job to continue nannying. They feel like her home away from home—on most days anyway.
“Annoying. It’s full days with them until school starts again. What do you wanna do for dinner?”
“Will you actually go with me to a work event tonight? It’s a launch party for a new skincare brand, and I’m covering it. They’ll have passed apps, and I bet their swag bags will be good,” I offer.
“You already had me at free food and drinks, but merch? Now I’m a thousand percent in. I’ll go get ready.”
In my tiny bedroom, I’m able to fit a vanity, which is a necessity since we share a bathroom with a pedestal sink. I take a seat on the stool and look at myself in the mirror. I think back to when I would get ready in college; my face was a little fuller and my eyes a little brighter. After the move and breakup, I lost a little bit of weight. You can tell the most in my face—my cheeks and jaw are more defined now, which I think makes me look more mature. I turn on a playlist as I reapply mascara, blush, and a light coat of lipstick. What seems like seconds into the first song my phone starts vibrating.
Incoming call: Reese Thompson
“Hey,” I answer a bit coldly.
“Hey! Busy tonight? I got off earlier than I expected to and was thinking we could try that new cocktail lounge around the corner from my place.” I could hear the hustle and bustle of the city in the background, which told me he likely just stepped out of the building.
“There’s a collab event tonight I’m roped into. Lauren’s coming too,” I say, the words clipped.
“Shit, I’m sorry, baby.”
Baby. God, I hate pet names. “It’s okay, I’ll manage.”
“Some other time then? Maybe Friday?”
I pause, a beat too long. “We’ll see.”
“Everything okay?” he asks. “You seem upset.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I sigh, knowing my feelings toward him aren’t about him. “It’s been a long day, and I’m not looking forward to it getting even longer. Let’s plan for Friday.”
“Well, I hope it gets better. Have a drink to lighten the mood. I’ll text you later,” he says before hanging up.
I feel a little bad treating Reese like he’s done something wrong, because he hasn’t. I haven’t thought about Ethan in a while until today, and now that I have, it’s hard not to. It’s hard not to compare my relationship with Reese to the one I had with Ethan. Both are so different. Both guys are so different.
Reese is like no one I’ve ever met. He’s attentive, always makes plans for us, and he’s great at communicating. Almost too good at it. Reese is the opposite of Ethan. Things with Reese are simple and fun, which is why I like him. I think that I could maybe love him one day, but I’m just not there yet.
***
The party is stunning. Upon arrival, a server hands us each a glass of champagne and a branded card with the night’s agenda on it. It’s being held at a bar in the Moxy Hotel, and the room is full of lifestyle, beauty, and fashion editors. I already know it’ll be all I’ll see on Instagram for the next forty-eight hours.
“I would kill for your job,” Lauren says as she reaches for another glass of champagne from the display wall. “Tonight, I’ll pretend I’m a big-shot fashion editor. Tomorrow, it’ll be back to running around Tribeca with two little gremlins.”
“Oh, stop it, they’re not gremlins.”
“I know, they’re so cute. William won his soccer game yesterday and was so proud of himself. I’m sure it will be all he talks about tomorrow.” She manages a quick eye roll, followed by a smile. Even though some days are tough, I know deep down she loves her job—it’s so very Lauren.
“That sentence just made me feel like we’re forty-year-old moms having our monthly ladies’ night.” I laugh.
“Touché. Let’s get martinis and mingle. Who should we talk to first?”
We approach the bar and order two extra dirty martinis, mine with olives and Lauren’s without; then I scan to see if I notice any familiar faces.
“I see the head of marketing over in the corner. I’m going to grab a few pictures and a statement from her for our Instagram. Make us some new friends!”
I leave Lauren and nervously walk toward the group of people I only know by association. After an hour of small talk, I find Lauren sitting at the bar wrapped up in conversation.
“Hey, are you ready to go home?” I say, tapping her shoulder.
“I think I’m gonna stay, I have a late start tomorrow morning.” She turns to me and throws a slight head nod to the guy sitting next to her. “Text me when you get to the apartment!”
I hand her the rest of my drink, knowing it’ll go to waste otherwise, and pull out my phone to call an Uber. There’s no way I’m taking the subway this late alone. I’m not that much of a New Yorker yet. The car pulls up to our building, and I notice our doorman perched right behind the double doors. Doormen are one of my favorite things about the city—they make me feel safe, like I’m coming home from a date to my dad waiting up for me on the couch.
“Thanks, Phillip!” I greet him as I step through the open door and into the lobby.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Sloane. Want me to get your mail while you’re here? Unit 405, correct?” he asks.
“Sure, that’d be great.” I pull out my phone to text Lauren that I’ve made it home when I hear the buzzer that signifies someone is entering the building. Out of instinct, I look up, and my heart immediately sinks to my stomach.
Are my eyes deceiving me? Did someone spike my drink? Am I going insane?
“Hey, Hart.”
Something about hearing him speak makes it real. I’d know that voice anywhere. He isn’t just a figment of my imagination. Ethan Brady is standing right in front of me, in Manhattan, in my apartment building. I want to run. Turn around and run right back through the front door, or escape into the elevator and stay under my covers for at least five business days. I want to be anywhere but here right now.
“I guess now would be a good time to tell you I moved to New York, and by the looks of it, I moved into your building,” he says, barely able to look at me.
“You live here?” I stutter.
Phillip returns and realizes that he interrupted something. He sets my mail at the front desk and walks back to his office.
“I thought you were on the Upper East Side? But yes, Sloane, I live here.” I hate how he says my name like he’s using it against me.
“That was only ever a six-month sublease until we figured out what area we wanted to be in long term,” I state. “How did you end up here?”
I have so many questions, but that’s all I can manage to get out.
“Do you know Blake King? He was an older Pike, might have graduated before you started coming around.”
Of course I know Blake. He’s my boyfriend’s roommate. I nod as he continues.
“He suggested it, said he lived here last year before moving to the West Village. I met some guys at work who have been dying to get out of Brooklyn, and we got lucky. We took the last three-bedroom they had available until summer. I really had no idea you lived here.”
Anger boils inside of me, but so does something else. Sadness? Heartache? Nostalgia? All of the above? I wasn’t quite sure.
“You didn’t think to reach out when you accepted a job offer here?” I ask. “A text? A call even? Didn’t I deserve that much?”
“I was going to.” He sounds genuine. “I wanted to. I didn’t know what to say.”
“Hey, Sloane, just wanted to let you know I’m moving to New York?” I suggest.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I should’ve said something. I didn’t want to open this up again and make it a whole thing.” He looks to the ground.
“Well, it’s definitely a whole thing now.”
This time he looks at me. He finally looks at me. It’s funny how people don’t change. I mean, not really. He still has those same piercing brown eyes that somehow both comfort me and break my heart at the same time. When I stare into them, I see the cotton candy skies that drenched the windows at the mountain house. I see streetlights glistening through the windshield on our drives over the bridge. His eyes make me feel like I’m back in those places, in those exact moments. I miss those moments. I miss him. Even when I know there are a million reasons I shouldn’t. How did we end up here?
