Friday
My palms are sweaty, and there’s only one reason. He’s the only reason. Less than a foot away, I can smell his cologne. I knew it when I entered the party. This is far too elegant to be just a “party,” which I knew full well. But, to calm my nerves, I referred to it as “just a frat party.” It’s not like I haven’t been to one before.
The first I went to was with Sophie, actually. Maybe I should have realized then that she had a problem. We were 16.
It looked very different than this, though. It smelled like old socks and body odor. Sweaty guys ran around the house, and a thick mist surrounded us. Everyone here is classy, put together, and intimidating.
That asshole left me feeling awkward because of the situation that he created. And who was that guy calling him. He looked pretty rough for a posh gathering on the Upper East Side. His spiked hair was cut short, and it glistened stiffly under the mood lights. The black sleeves of his clean cut button-up were pulled to his forearms, revealing an array of colorful tattoos. This man looks gang-affiliated, not to put it lightly. What the hell is he in a fraternity for? Whatever, he’s not my concern. I prod over to where Nick and Cas were sucking face, and lightly tap her shoulder. “Can we go?” I pout like a 5 year old.
“Wow,” Aaron looks at me with hungry eyes. Usually I would enjoy his attention, but right now I feel awkward, like I’m under a microscope. He rubs his chin, ruffling the ginger stubble. Dad lightly taps the table. That’s his tell—when he’s slowly growing impatient or aggravated. I can sense the wheels of thought turning in his brain. “Where exactly were you?” “I forgot to tell you. I went to a party with Casandra.” Aaron shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, okay. Just remember to tell us,” he finishes. Phew.
My senses stop functioning for a second, and when they return, that god-awful smell lingers in her wake.I’d been resigned in my decision. I wasn’t going to make any more snarky commentary, I wasn’t going to see him outside of this setting, and I most definitely wasn’t going to meet him in his office.And yet I found myself placing one foot after the other on the way into that very place.After lightly shutting the door, I wait for some type of response or indication from him. He probably just wants to increase my morale or something.Instead, he focuses harder on whatever document he’s holding, and we remain in silence.“Umm, you called for me?” I ask shakily.With the same distant and lightly cool expression as ever, he gestures to the seat in front of him.I take a shallow gulp and sit down. What the hell is this about?“You’re in high school.”I know it&rsqu
Ouch.Here’s a tip: do not sleep with a laptop on your head.All that research took a lot out of me. I still don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about for that definitive and crucial personal essay.Do I write about my accomplishments, my experiences, or my trauma?Does nursing my best friend to health after drinking a dozen too many count?Another tip for my health: don’t skip too many morning coffees at Saxby’s.Sure, my archnemesis works there. Sure, she very well could poison my order. But I am brave, and I am strong.I sneakily enter the doorway of the establishment. Clad in a sports bra and yoga pants, I’m prepared to book it if Sarah’s working today.“Vanilla latte with some honey, please.”The barista nods and starts making my order.I take a seat at a secluded table and pull out a book that I borrowed the other day. I can finally relax and finis
I turn to use the bathroom and get a drink of water. Once I exit the bathroom, Drake’s waiting for me. “Um, hello.” Why am I so freaking awkward? “My office,” he says softly. I nod subserviently. When we’ve arrived, he closes the door. I struggle to let out a deep breath. “You okay?” “Um, yeah.” I cough discreetly. It quickly turns into a coughing fit, and he comes behind me to pat my back. “Ah, I’m fine,” I muster out—still coughing. “Please don’t die in my office.” Shut the fuck up. Finally, I clear my throat. “Okay, okay. I’m fine.” His palm is still on the small of my back, keeping me steady. “Um, why exactly am I here?” He stills then moves behind his desk. “We need to sort out some logistics of the offer I made you the other day.” The internship. “You’ll be a consultant in the law department of Staple Oil.” Oka
“Gen?” I whip around to the direction of the mystery voice. Claire’s feeding some pigeons with crackers from her bag. “Jake?” “Hey, what are you doing here?” I brush some fly-aways from my face. “Enjoying the park, I guess. I’m here with a friend.” He nods with a bright grin. I can hear Claire in the distance, rolling her tongue, trying to communicate with the pigeons, I guess.
“No, he doesn’t hit me,” I sigh. She nods slowly. “Just, lately I’ve been going through some things,” I shrug, hoping she won’t delve deeper. She still looks suspicious. “I swear, you can trust me. What things?” I play with my fingernails—a nervous tick for me. I used to bite my nails until I got down to the skin, sometimes even chewing on that, too. &n
“Jake,” Claire says, staring up at him.“Hey Jake,” I wave.She can’t keep her eyes off him. They’re practically twinkling because of his presence. Jax who?He nods dismissively at her, then he turns to me. “Do you want a drink?”I glance at Claire, and she’s biting her lip. Shrugging, I say, “Sure. Claire, are you coming?”She nods silently. We follow him to the kitchen island, where bottles of brown and white liquor litter the marble countertop.Jake reaches up for a plastic party cup. Well, he doesn’t have to reach that high. He has to be at least 6’3.“Um, are there any beer bottles… or wine coolers?” I ask.He sets the cup back down. “Oh, yeah sure.” He opens the cooler and pulls us out two cold bottles. I offer one to Claire, but she declines.“Shouldn’t you be 100% sober?” she cro
How many rational excuses can I use to get out of this meeting?"Dad, I'm so sorry, but I actually planned to hang out with my friend Claire," I lie."Nice try," he says sternly.Drake purses his lips in amusement, probably thinking about how juvenile this all is."You know where to meet me," he says before hanging up quickly after."Shit," I mutter after the dial tone."You okay?" he asks, with no sign of sarcasm or plain disinterest."Yeah, I'll be fine," I clasp my hands, shutting myself off emotionally. Before turning to leave, I stutter, "I-I'll think about the yearlong internship."He
“Iced Matcha Latte for Gen,” Sarah calls. I didn’t even know what Matcha was. I just googled it while waiting for my drink, but I felt like I needed a change. I’m not the Caramel Macchiato Genevieve anymore. It’s weird to say, but it’s true. Crushed tea leaves. The color puts me off, but I’ll try it. I’ve already invested $4.50 into the new me. And Sarah didn’t even add a demeaning nickname to my cup. Progress? I think she moved onto a new victim to torment. I don’t have any fight left in me. I sip the drink slowly, and it’s pleasantly sweet. A little green tasting… don’t ask. It tastes like nature, but not in a gross way. Starting up the car, I head into the city. Approaching the office building that I had a key to just a few months ago, I sigh. I hate awkward interactions, but it’s time. I buzz the gate, stating my name. I was skeptical about if they would remember me, but the guard let me right in. I park in my usual
Without looking back, I lead him to grandma’s pool house.We never break the kiss as we continue down the stone path. I consider skinny dipping, but it’s November, and the pool is closed. Luckily, the pool house is open. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, swirling it around his. His hands trail my body, over my hips, over my chest—my ass.I just know his face is some smeared, muted shade of my lipstick.I’ve never done something like this. I’ve never just taken risks for the hell of it.He pushes me onto one of the couches and peels my dress up.“Wait,” I say, breathlessly panting.“Something wrong?” he whispers roughly. He’s panting, too—hard.I can see that he already has a yellow wrapper from his wallet. This is really happening.“Are you—”“No,” I say.“—okay?” he finishes.“Oh,”
“Grandma’s or grandpa’s?” I ask.“Hmm?” mom mumbles as she puts on another layer of makeup.“Which one should we go to first?”Great—another reminder that marriage doesn’t last—at least in her eyes. She told me about her big romantic awakening with dad. How he promised never to hurt her like my grandparents did each other. How he promised to love her till death do them part.In her eyes, it’s all a lie, and I’m starting to think so, too.So, here we are: picking which Thanksgiving to go to first, not mentioning dad, and pretending like everything’s okay.I’m avoiding my “friends,” and mom has a new guy over every week: perfectly normal. And clarentonsecrets—aka. My best friend—is here to document it all.“Let’s go to grandma’s,” she chrips.She’s always been her favorite, seeing as gran
NovemberDrakes POV“How much do you want us to take out?” The overalled man grumbles, clutching a clipboard.“Everything. Take out all the office supplies, except for the desk. Put it in a box, and leave it in my office,” I say.I haven’t seen her since she sent me that email: “Going to have to take the day off tomorrow. Family emergency.”All the interns headed back to school or to wherever they traveled from before starting here, including her… I guess. We’re closing the office, and this is my last thing to do before going en route to the dreaded family Thanksgiving.
“I think you missed the exit,” I whine. We’ve been on the road for at least 40 minutes. “I know the way to my friend—and co-worker’s—house, thank you very much,” Don smizes.I roll my eyes. “Would you rather be wrong or late?”She huffs and takes the nearest exit, while I refresh the navigation. Eventually, we end up in Stevie’s neighborhood in some obscure town in New Jersey.As soon as we park in front of the house, the door swings open, but it’s Stevie instead of his brother. They’re roommates.“H-Hey, Don. Gen,” he smiles gingerly.
Drake’s POVWe’re coasting down 9th avenue in pursuit of a seat at one of my favorite restaurants in the city.“Where are we headed?” she asks, tapping the black leather arm rest. She pushes some fly-away curls from her face, staring out the passenger side window.“Just a place.”“As long as I don’t end up getting kidnapped, I’m fine with anything,” she mumbles.“Steak?”“Sure.”I pull the Audi up to the restaurant’s valet with ease
Drake’s POV“What is it now?” I snap.“Problem at the oil rig,” the tattooed beast mumbles.“What fucking oil rig? We have hundreds of—”He dangles a bag of white powder before I can finish my sentence.Oh. Oil rig.I sigh, rubbing my temples. “What kind of problem?”“Some managers”—law enforcement— “stumbled on”—busted—“some weird activity”—our illegal drug business— “among the
I feel like I’m in an action movie. You know, one of those where there’s some social security threat, and the CIA enlists some rogue agents—whom they suddenly trust to competently do their jobs—to “save the world.”I’m rapidly clicking my computer keys, searching for any digital trail from secrets109428@hotmail.com. Subtle.“Find secrets109428@hotmail.com on White Pages Today!” a random link says. No, thanks.