Playing, p.73
Playing, page 73
Tom kisses his pretty lap girl on the cheek and sends her away. Once she's out of earshot, he leans in close and makes eye contact with Miles. "I'm not sure what you two are doing, but Drew will kill you if you fuck things up with that slutty girl, and then I'll be out a guitarist and a singer."
My hands curl into fists. "Hey, asshole, that's my best friend, and she's not slutty. She just has big boobs. And even if she was, she wouldn't appreciate you talking about her like that. So why don't you shut the fuck up?"
"Or you'll ask Miles to shut me up," Tom offers.
Miles presses his lips into my neck. "Please ask. I'd love an excuse."
I shake my head. "I don't want to hear another word about my friend or about Drew. Got it?"
Tom nods. There's annoyance all over his face, but he nods.
Pete laughs. "Damn, you're not even getting pussy and you're whipped. Banging those drum sticks must be frying your brain."
"You play bass in an emo band, asshole. Do you actually do anything?" Tom asks.
"You still doubt that I'm the sexiest member of Sinful Serenade?" Pete asks. "Meg, back me up. I'm way hotter than your boy toy, right?"
Tom butts in before I can even fathom a response. "'Cause that whole 'girl you know I've got steady rhythm' thing is so hot."
Pete winks at me. "Meg knows what I'm talking about."
I blush and squeeze my legs together again. Miles laughs, and he tilts me so my knees are facing away from the guys, so I'm only at risk of flashing the wall.
"Cindy knows what he's talking about," Miles says. "And we've heard what he's talking about in lurid detail."
Pete blushes, but there's a wealth of confidence in his eyes. "You have to admit—I last a long time."
"And he's quite creative, too," Miles says.
I'm lost. I turn to Miles. "You're going to have to explain this to me."
Miles runs his fingertips along my thighs, right under the hem of my skirt. "Pete is a phone sex devotee."
Pete shrugs, playing sheepish but clearly proud as hell. "You'd both understand if you ever tried taking a relationship on the road." He chuckles. "Or if you ever tried a relationship. Period."
I turn ever so slightly, so I'm looking into Miles's eyes. I still can't place his expression.
Feelings well up in my stomach. Is this what relationships feel like? I have affection for him, I do. I'm just not sure where the line stops. We are friends. We do have sex. But is there more to it than that?
"Jesus, now Miles has to prove he has the skilled hands," Tom says.
Pete shakes his head. "Miles convinces girls he's tortured inside, that he needs them to wipe his pain away."
"Right," Tom says.
Pete chuckles. "He has a mouth and he knows how to use it."
"Is that right, Meg?" Tom asks.
I turn back to them. "My lips are sealed."
Miles whispers in my ear, "Want to get out of here?"
A rush of heat passes through me. I do want to get out of here. I do want Miles to take me home and to drag me to bed. But not like this, not with him guarding all his secrets.
I turn to him the best I can. "Only if you're going to explain what Tom was talking about. Or should I ask him right now?"
Miles grabs my hips and slides me off his lap. We're almost facing each other, and his expression is almost serious. The closest thing to serious I've seen in quite a while.
He nods.
I nod.
And suddenly, this chat with the band is the most boring conversation I've ever been a part of.
* * *
We take a cab to my place, touching instead of talking.
He trails his fingers over my thighs, all the way under my skirt and so, so close, but not quite where they need to be.
My body is at war with my heart. His hands feel so good. His breath feels so good. Hell, his words feel so good, so perfect, so easy.
He wants me. Maybe this is the only way he'll ever want me. Maybe this is as good as it's ever going to get.
But I made our terms for a reason. No secrets, no lies. He's keeping a secret from me.
I can't have that. Not after everything with Rosie.
No matter how badly my body is screaming, begging my brain to take a hike for the rest of the evening, I can't give in.
He slides his hand under the fabric of my top. All that heat rushes through me. I can't bring myself to ask him to stop. I can't even admit I might need him to stop.
Instead I close my eyes and surrender to the sensation he stirs inside me. His hands belong on my body. His lips belong on my skin. It feels so good, the two of us together.
I don't want to give it up.
But I might have to. He gets one chance to tell me the truth. That's it.
The car stops. Dammit. We're parked outside my apartment. No more of this. We have to step back into the ugly world, and I have to demand an explanation.
Miles pays the cabbie and escorts me to my apartment. The elevator feels tiny. The hallway feels tinier. The key is slippery in my hands, and my legs have never felt more wobbly.
We step inside my apartment. Miles presses the door closed behind me. He takes my hands, pulls them over my head, and pins me to the door.
His body is heavy against mine. His kiss is hot, needy. Like this is more than sex to him.
Like he needs more than my body.
Miles tugs my skirt down to my knees. He drags his hand to my thighs.
No teasing this time. He strokes me over my panties.
"I need you." He tugs at my top and pulls it off my arms.
I'm pressed against the door, almost naked, and he's still wearing all his clothes.
He still has all the cards.
I break his grasp, plant on the bed, and wrap a sheet around my chest.
Miles stares into my eyes. "Megan."
"It's Megara. Not Megan. It's right on my driver's license. And, no, it's not from the Disney movie. It's a mythology thing."
"You have a driver's license?"
"Yeah."
"You never drive."
"Not really the point."
"Tom was just running his mouth off. It was nothing."
"If it was nothing, tell me." I take a deep breath. I have to be strong here. I have to resist how much I want him. "I only left with you because you said you'd talk to me."
He runs a hand through his hair. His brow knots with frustration.
"Miles. We agreed. No secrets. No lies. I heard you two talking. He asked if you'd told me something. He threatened to tell me if you didn't."
"It's nothing." Miles sits next to me. His eyes turn to the ground. His voice softens. "Tom is nosy. That's it."
"If it's nothing, tell me."
"I can't talk about that." He leans closer. "That's how it is. We agreed that this is casual."
"We agreed not to keep secrets."
His eyes darken. "I'm not talking about that. Take it or leave it." His voice drops to something. It's needy. "This isn't supposed to be complicated."
"You're the one making it complicated." I push myself off the bed and press my back against the wall. It only puts three feet between me and Miles. That's about as good as I can do in this apartment. "Why won't you tell me if it's nothing?"
"Meg. Don't do this. We have a good thing here."
"You're the one doing it." I pull the sheet tighter around my chest. "You asked me if I trust you. I do. I want to keep trusting you. Please. Just tell me."
He swallows hard. "I can't."
"Then you need to leave."
Miles pushes himself to his feet. His eyes meet mine. "Wouldn't you rather I leave after?"
"I'm not in the mood anymore." No matter how much my body objects.
"This is supposed to be fun."
"Yeah, well it's not fun for me anymore." I press my palm flat against his chest. "If you're not going to tell me then fucking leave."
"Meg..."
"Now."
He holds my gaze for a moment. There's something in his eyes—that same hurt I saw earlier—but he blinks and it's gone.
I press my eyelids together.
The door slams shut.
That’s it. He’s gone.
I'm affecting him.
But somehow it's not any consolation.
Chapter Eighteen
Routine washes away any hint of Miles. I go to class. I go to work. I go to Kara's on Sunday and try to avoid any topic related to men or music—especially men who make music.
The goal proves impossible. She turns twenty-one at the end of October, and she's throwing a birthday-slash-Halloween-slash-week-before-midterms party at the Sinful Mansion in Hollywood. I consider calling Drew and begging him to take over my duties as best friend.
The next two weeks are miserable. Sinful Serenade launches their new single No Way in Hell—the song about me.
It's an overnight success. It hits number one on the alternative chart, number four on the pop chart. The music video hits ten million downloads by the end of its first week. The thing is gorgeous and stark. It's in black and white. Half is the band playing on the beach, waves crashing around them. The other half is Miles in an empty bedroom, his eyes filled with hurt.
I understood In Pieces like the words were written in my soul. Why can't I figure this song out? I'm sure it's about me. But I'm not sure what it means.
How can he write a song about me in one breath then tell me I don't deserve to look into his heart in the next?
The song follows me everywhere. It's on every Spotify playlist and Google Play Music station. The damn thing plays every hour on KROQ. I can't go into a store or a restaurant or a coffee shop without hearing it.
The words mock me.
Three a.m. and I can't sleep.
A common refrain, I know.
As a sentiment, it's cheap.
Someone to call, to hold,
to love. No way that word—
She smiles and I drift away—
Oh hell no.
This can't be.
No way I, no way she.
Anyone else, maybe,
but not me.
I don't do this kind of thing.
Love. He's using the word love in reference to me. He can share his feelings with the world, but he can't share them with me.
He's not talking to me. Not texting me. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't even ask to cash in on our benefits.
I mean nothing to him.
Chapter Nineteen
The Friday before Halloween is particularly busy. I barely have the energy to make it through my shift. Kara's party is tomorrow night. I have no idea how I'm supposed to survive the war my heart and my body are going to wage being in the same room as Miles.
A teenage girl is rushed into the ER. She's unconscious, barely breathing. Her lips are blue. She's thin enough the breeze could break her, and her arms are covered in track marks.
One is fresh.
A few hours old max.
Her mother is at her side. She's clueless. She's lost. Confused. She had no idea her daughter was on drugs.
How could she have no idea? There's no way this girl is any older than sixteen. She's covered in track marks. How the hell did Mom miss that?
The girl is dying.
Dr. Anderson, the doctor I scribe for, pushes me out of the way. "Take five, Meg."
I can't move. I can't pry my eyes away from the girl.
One of the nurses pushes me out of the way. They're rushing to her. But it's too late. It's not going to work.
I know how this goes. The paramedics should've given her Naloxone. It's supposed to counter the opiates in heroin. It's supposed to restart her heart and her breathing.
The sounds around me swirl together until they’re this awful mix of air conditioning, squeaking rubber soles, the erratic beep of the heart rate monitor as the girl's pulse fades away. Nothing they're doing is working. This girl is too far gone. There's nothing anyone can do.
Just like Rosie.
I hide out in one of the single-stall bathrooms, trying and failing to will myself to go home. I can't sit in my bed alone. All I'll feel is her absence. We used to live together in a two-bedroom place in the same building. The landlord was understanding when she died—helped me move all my stuff into a studio and offered a discounted rent.
I miss my big sister so much. She was funny and bright and full of life. She understood things that flew right over my head. I thought she had it all figured out, that she knew the secret to balancing school and having a life.
That she really was that effortlessly happy.
I wish she was here. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her, how much worse our parents got after she died. They've always pretended but now they're shells of themselves. They're broken.
She'd know what to do to fix them. She'd know how to cheer me up. She'd definitely know what to do about Miles. She'd take me out, get me drunk, and send me home with the perfect guy to wipe my memory clean. Then, she'd take me to brunch, stuff me with pancakes, and squeal over me finally growing up.
She had me fooled. She seemed okay for so long. She'd look me in the eyes and smile, and I'd feel it in my gut—everything had to be okay if my sister could smile like that. Even though I knew better, I believed it was okay. She'd never lied to me before, not like that.
I call Kara. I've kept all my grief to myself for so long. I can't do it anymore. I need to be with someone who understands so I can cry my heart out. It's stupid I didn't do it sooner. Kara's dad died when she was in high school. She knows how this feels, knows enough to drag me out for my own good, knows enough not to press for details.
Damn. Voicemail. I call again. Voicemail again. One more try.
"Hey, Kara, just wanted to say hey… text me tomorrow." I end the call and wrap my fingers around the smooth plastic of my phone.
I need to feel something else, something beyond how much I miss my sister. There's no one else to call. None of my other friends would understand. My parents certainly don't understand. There's no one who knows what this feels like.
No one except Miles.
I dial before my senses can catch up with me.
Damn. Voicemail.
"Hey, Miles. I thought I wanted to talk to you, but now I'm not sure. I'll see you tomorrow I guess. I…" I hang up before I can tell him I miss him.
* * *
It's a half-hour walk to the top of the hill where Rosie and I used to hang out. We called our outings hikes but we spent most of the time talking about school and friends and especially about our parents.
There are houses here, expensive ones. We used to make fun of their blandness. Everything is beige. Everyone drives a black sedan or luxury car. Everyone looks perfect on the outside. Like our parents do.
Like she did.
I find an empty patch of grass and take in the view of the city. I can see the entire UCLA campus. To the left is Century City. To the right is the ocean. It's cloudy tonight. I can't see downtown. I can't see the stars.
I can't see the path to being okay without her.
My phone buzzes. It's Miles. Calling me back.
I stare at the screen. My fingers refuse to move. I'm not sure I can handle hearing his voice. It's already in my head, singing that song over and over.
Again, my phone buzzes. This time, it's a text.
Miles: Are you okay?
Meg: No.
Miles: Where are you? I'll pick you up.
Meg: Is that a good idea?
Miles: I'll take you home. If you want me to leave after that, I will.
I send him the address of the nearest house. It's pure impulse. I want him here. I want his arms around me.
Miles: What happened?
Meg: There was this girl in the ER… I'm not sure I should discuss this with you.
Miles: Let me help you. I want to.
Meg: Would you let me help you?
I stare at the phone for minutes, but there's no response. That's as good as a no.
The world is heavy. I pull my knees to my chest and bring my gaze to the sky. Still no stars but the half-moon is a beautiful shade of silver.
The neighborhood is quiet. No sounds except the wind Then there's a car. It parks. The door opens. Footsteps come closer.
Someone kneels next to me.
"Hey." Miles slides his arms around me. "Come on. You'll be okay."
I shake my head. But I soak in all the comfort of his arms anyway.
Chapter Twenty
He won't share himself with me but he's here, in my apartment, taking care of me, singing songs about me.
How the hell am I supposed to make sense of that?
I tug at the zipper of my hoodie and shrug it off my shoulders. "You want something to drink?"
"Whatever you're having."
"Do you drink?"
"Drink what?" He sets my bag on the counter.
"Alcohol."
"There's never been any alcohol in your fridge."
"There was none at your place in Malibu?"
His brow furrows. "You checked?"
"No, but am I wrong?"
"You're right. There's no alcohol there."
I look at the available beverages. It's green tea, water, or grapefruit juice. I pour two glasses of juice and hand one to Miles.
"Thanks." He takes a sip and sets the glass on the counter. It's a delicate movement. Careful.
"Do you drink?" I ask.
"No," he says. "You don't either."
"Why not?"
"I don't like the person it makes me." He moves into the kitchen. His eyes find mine. "I want to help you, Meg. I know what it's like to lose someone."
"I don't want to talk." I hold strong. This time, I'm the one who wants sex and he's the one who wants conversation. But it's not like he's offering to tear his heart out for me. It's still him withholding what I want. "I want to fuck you."
"I'm not your shiny distraction."
"You won't be my distraction. You won't share your secrets. What will you do?"
"Listen to you."
"Listen to me pour my heart out while you stay closed off?"
He says nothing. There's all this vulnerability in his eyes, but still, he says nothing.
