11. Fallon

“Gah!” I cry, erasing yet another text message to the dark-haired stranger. I have no idea what to say.

How do I sound cute? Fun? Flirty?

The version of me that seduced him is still in the Outer Banks, still in that hotel. I know because I dream through her eyes, feeling the dark-haired stranger’s ragged breaths against my heated skin as he thrusts inside of me.

“Just say hi,” Lexie says, sliding on a light jacket. “Two letters. That’s it. You need to text him, though, because if you wait much longer, it’s going to be awkward.”

“It’s already awkward,” I whine. “I told him I didn’t want to exchange details and we’d remain anonymous. No attachments, remember?”

She laughs at my distress. I know how ridiculous I sound, but I’m too conflicted to care. Sense has been telling me to burn his number so I can’t text him, forcing me to push him out of my thoughts, but reservation has been louder and more demanding, insisting I see if his words can be as impressive as his mouth and hands were.

A shiver runs down my spine at the reminder, and my thoughts quickly divide into two camps: hope that he’ll be a decent person and fear that I’ve seen the extent of his talents.

Lexie clears her throat. “Are you done having that conversation in your head?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

She laughs as she threads her purse high on one shoulder. “That was before you knew he was a sex god. The rules have changed. And the only way to find out if he idolizes Thor or tortures small animals is if you talk to the guy.”

I sigh, not ready to admit she’s right. “Where are you going? We still have two and a half weeks of summer together. We’re supposed to be stapled together. Remember?”

“Yes…” She hesitates, and a slight frown replaces her smile. “I was going to invite you, but I’m going to wrap wedding favors, and since Quinn’s in charge of this task, I don’t know who else she might have invited…”

Which translates to she doesn’t know if Chrissy will be there.

I should tell her it doesn’t matter, that seeing Chrissy won’t bother me, but instead, I reach for my laptop. “I need to get some work done, anyway.”

“What project are you working on?” She rummages through her meticulously organized purse. My cousin is the most orderly person I know, aside from my Aunt Janice.

“A menu for a restaurant in New Hampshire.”

“Right up your alley. You love typography.” She grabs her purse. “Well, pray for Quinn. My horoscope says I’m on a warpath today.”

I grin and nestle deeper into the couch. “Call if you need backup.”

She shakes her head. “You’re not allowed to leave this apartment until you message Matt Daddario’s lookalike.”

We spent all of last night trying to figure out who the dark-haired stranger reminded us of and had a slight freak out when stumbling across an old episode of a show with Matthew Daddario. The hair, jawline, and long lashes were so similar the two could be brothers, but the dark-haired stranger has Henry Cavill’s smile, broad shoulders, and muscles.

“Your horoscope says it’s a day to take chances. The universe wants you to jump his bones again. Text him.” She blows me a kiss and heads out the door.

I sigh as I lean back, cuddling into the throw blanket with jack-o-lanterns printed on it. Lexie is obsessed with Halloween and all the decorations that come with it. Half of our apartment is covered in skulls and pumpkins despite it being the second week of May.

I slide my laptop to the empty seat next to me and take a breath to steel my nerves as I type out a text to the dark-haired stranger.

Me: What does the tattoo on your side represent? The scratches.

The dots beside his name appear instantly.

My heart staggers, drunk on hope and fear.

Has he been waiting for me to reach out? Is it the right number? Is he only going to ask for sex again? Was that his sole intent? Will he even remember me?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Who is this?

I wince. If he can ask that question, how many others have seen him shirtless recently? It’s only been less than two weeks.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Fallon?

Me: Is this weird? Did you mean for me to reach out?

Dark-Haired Stranger: It’s only weird if we make it weird.

Dark-Haired Stranger: What are you willing to trade for the history of the tattoos?

Me: …I gave you my name.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I gave you my number.

Me: I live in NC.

Dark-Haired Stranger: In Corolla?

Me: You haven’t answered my question.

Dark-Haired Stranger: They resemble a period of time.

I read his vague response twice, wondering if he’s trying to be allusive or avoid the topic.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Do you live in Corolla?

Me: No. That was my first time.

I blush as soon as I send the text, feeling more na?ve than I should.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Hopefully, it was memorable.

If I could see my reflection, I have no doubt my flush would reach my chest. He’s opening the door for me to flirt with him. Do I admit it was?

Not yet.

Me: Do you live in Corolla?

Dark-Haired Stranger: No, but I also live in NC.

My heart should not be racing, and I definitely shouldn’t be questioning how far away he might live from me.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Want to know where?

More than I’m willing to admit.

Me: What’s the price for that information?

I imagine him grinning that perfect smile, revealing that slightly turned tooth that was so damn flawlessly perfect.

Dark-Haired Stranger: You share where in NC you live. City or town name.

I chew my bottom lip and debate what harm could come from sharing this. Oleander Springs is huge. One of the largest and most populated cities in the state. In addition, it’s a sprawling city, which makes it even easier to remain invisible if he reveals he enjoys torturing small animals.

Reluctance steals the reins again. I don’t want to rush into something.

Me: That feels like inflation.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Okay. Here’s a less personal question. You said this year has been really strange. What’s been so strange?

His question transports me back to The Leaky Starboard, the bar where we met. I can still feel his chest pressed against mine as his caramel eyes turned me into putty, making me brave and wanton, leading me to suggest sharing one night of bliss as I confessed what a strange spring I’ve been having.

I consider skirting his question and trying to say something flirty but find myself wanting to be honest with him. I want to show my hand and see if he runs. Maybe I want him to run. It would be so much easier if he’d step off this damn pedestal that my thoughts have continued constructing since meeting him.

Me: I got out of a long relationship, transferred colleges, and changed majors.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Did you have to relocate when you transferred?

I think of how I’ll have to move into the dorm in just a few weeks. Technically, I’m not moving cities, but those fifteen miles feel like another state.

Me: No.

Dark-Haired Stranger: What were you majoring in?

Me: Graphic design.

Dark-Haired Stranger: What are you switching to?

Me: General business.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Didn’t like graphic design?

In truth, I love graphic design. Aside from soccer and my family’s weekly game nights, my passion exists in art, but most graphic designers are independent contractors, and those jobs don’t come with paid benefits like healthcare. Since I rely on medical equipment and prescriptions that cost thousands of dollars every month, healthcare is essential, but telling him this seems like an invitation into the most private parts of my life, so instead, I choose to be vague.

Me: I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do or be before college. I’m still not.

Dark-Haired Stranger: You’re keeping your options open.

Me: Ones that don’t involve math.

Dark-Haired Stranger: *trying to think of something that isn’t misogynistic as I imagine you in what is likely a misogynistic daydream of you standing in front of a whiteboard, teaching formulas*

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do.

Me: Bonus points for honesty.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I’ll always be honest. Lying is my biggest pet peeve.

Me: We have something in common.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I imagine we have a lot more in common…

I stare at that ellipsis—those three little dots—wishing I could crack them open like a book and find out what they mean. Is he flirting? Or referring to basic things like we both live in North Carolina, breathe, and walk on two legs?

I crumple dramatically, my thoughts too heavy for my neck to hold up.

Me: What about you? Do you go to college? Work? Sell pictures of your feet?

Dark-Haired Stranger: I’m pretty sure I could make more money selling photos of another body part. Don’t you think?

Dick pics suddenly hold an entirely new meaning, and I’m caught debating my reaction if he sends me one.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I’m 22. I’ll be a senior this year, majoring in mechanical engineering.

Too cute and too smart.

I bury my face in the palm of my hand and set my phone down, hating that my initial reaction is to feel inferior. “Badass, Fallon. Channel badass.”

Dark-Haired Stranger: Did you two win the scavenger hunt?

Me: We did not. We took third place. I got distracted.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I can’t say I’m sorry.

Me freaking, either. That’s the problem.

Me: Significant other?

I hate that I’m asking now, post sleeping with him, but I realized on my way home from the hotel that, though he clarified I wasn’t using him, I never reciprocated the question.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I’ve dated a few people but haven’t been in a serious relationship in over a year.

Me: How long did that serious relationship last?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Nearly a decade.

Me: A DECADE!? You began dating when you were 12?!?!?

Dark-Haired Stranger: 13

Me: I didn’t even kiss a boy for the first time until I was 15. Meanwhile, you were celebrating your 2nd anniversary.

Dark-Haired Stranger: We grew up as best friends. Our parents work together.

Me: Why didn’t it work out?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Lots of reasons.

That sentence holds more intrigue than a damn ellipsis.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Your turn. Same question.

Me: I dated someone for a year and a half, and then was the last to find out we weren’t actually in a monogamous relationship. I’ve gone on two dates since then, but I’ve been pretty busy.

Dark-Haired Stranger: He sounds like an asshat. I’m sorry.

Me: I’m not.

Me: All right. Enough ex-talk. Rapid fire this or that: Cake or pie?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Pie.

Me: Pie?!

Dark-Haired Stranger: Whipped cream is a superior topping.

Me: One word: frosting!

Dark-Haired Stranger: So many innuendos…

Me: Morning or Night?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Night

Me: Morning.

Me: Ocean or Mountains?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Both

Me: That’s not how the game works

Dark-Haired Stranger: 50/50 split

Me: Iced or hot coffee?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Hot. Are you going to answer any more of these?

Me: Only when I disagree. I’m searching for your faults.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I didn’t realize I was in the hot seat.

Me: Audiobook or podcast?

Dark-Haired Stranger: … music

Me: Audiobook. Hands down.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Summer or winter?

Me: Searching for my faults?

Dark-Haired Stranger: Genuinely curious.

Me: Autumn.

Dark-Haired Stranger: And you say I don’t play by the rules.