8. Fallon

Warm, calloused hands knead my breasts. He’s firm yet achingly gentle. I meet his caramel gaze, marveling at how inhumanly gorgeous he is.

“Fallon?”

The hand on my shoulder isn’t calloused or warm. It’s cold, and the bright red nails shake me from my thoughts.

It’s been two days since my one-night stand with the dark-haired stranger. Two days since he was inside of me, easing the ache that has taken up permanent residency between my legs. Two days since my body began craving something more than oxygen or food.

I shake my head and smile at Aunt Janice, recalling I’m in the dining room of the beach rental, surrounded by women, including Adelaide’s best friend and Lexie’s often nemesis, Quinn, who’s seated across from me. “I’m sorry. What was that?” I ask.

Aunt Janice smiles affectionately. “Did you sleep okay?”

No. Despite my humungous bed and top-rated sheets, I haven’t slept well all weekend. My body yearns for the scratchy, musty bedspread of the hotel, the weight of another person—him—on top of me, beside me, under me. Every time sleep finds me, I experience near-fever dreams, imagining him in every setting. They’re not all sexual, either. I think it would be easier if they were. Instead, I’ve dreamed of us stealing glances at each other, walking hand in hand, and causing strangers to weave around us as we get caught up and lost in languid kisses, and laughing at inside jokes. “I was up too late last night,” I tell Aunt Janice.

She pats my shoulder. “It’s because the noises here are different. We’re used to the cicadas and crickets rather than the waves.”

I smile. It’s our last day here, and I’m regrettably relieved. I’m hoping that once we return to Oleander Springs, the dark-haired stranger won’t feel so close, and the memories of him will fade away as I establish a new routine.

“Want some cake?” Lexie asks, passing me a small plate. “I’m going to finish packing so we can get going.” She looks from me to Quinn and then her mom, assessing the situation before deeming it safe and disappearing down the long hall to our rooms.

My stomach grumbles. I slept through breakfast, and with it being our last day, there were slim pickings when I ambled into the kitchen, still wearing my pajamas.

“I thought you couldn’t eat sugar?” Quinn asks, though it sounds less like a question and more like judgment. This is the most common question I’ve received over the past eleven years as a type one diabetic.

“Oh, she can eat anything she wants,” Aunt Janice says.

It’s not that simple, but I don’t clarify. Instead, I take a large bite of cake and smile at Quinn. We’ve known each other for a decade. She’s seen me eat cake before.

Aunt Janice glances at her phone. “I need to make sure the fridge is empty and check the dryer.” She stands and heads for the kitchen, greeting two guests by name as she goes.

Guilt prods me, feeling like a bruised rib. I’ve been so distracted by Chrissy, my dark-haired stranger, and trying to play buffer to Lexie and Adelaide and Lexie and Quinn that I’ve barely made an effort to talk or interact with the other girls here. They likely think I’m unfriendly and stuck up. That’s how many have labeled me over the years, mistaking my introverted tendencies as being rude rather than the simple truth that I rarely feel like I belong anywhere except for on a soccer field.

“But you shouldn’t eat sugar,” Quinn says, eyeing my next forkful.

“Then you wouldn’t have diabetes.”

I slump in my seat. It probably makes me look bored, maybe even annoyed, but since it’s Quinn, I don’t care.

“I’d still be diabetic,” I remind her. “My body can’t produce insulin to process and break down sugar to be used for energy,” I explain, “That’s why I have to take insulin.” Once again, it’s not entirely that simple, but we’ve had this conversation half a dozen times already.

Quinn stares at my cake and then my face. “But if you didn’t eat sugar, you wouldn’t need insulin. So why eat it?”

“I’d still need insulin,” I tell her.

Every joke about too much sugar causing diabetes is likely what she’s thinking about as she looks at me skeptically.

“If I don’t take insulin, the sugar can’t leave my bloodstream, and my body will start using stored fat and producing acids that would eventually kill me.”

“My grandma’s been diabetic my whole life, and she can’t eat cake.” Judgment flares in Quinn’s gaze.

I want to mention her grandma might have type two diabetes, which is more common and treated far differently than type one, but she might also have type one like me and follow a different set of rules. I learned years ago when my parents used to sign me up to attend diabetes camp every summer that despite being the same, we’re all vastly different. For two weeks during those summers, I was surrounded by other kids who lived with the same rare condition and quickly learned how many different ways there were to live with the disease. Some counted carbs differently, everyone needed a different amount of insulin, and everyone’s blood sugar goal was different. Then there was eating. Some avoided all gluten and sugar, while others refused to eat anything with high-fat or complex carbs like pasta. Everywhere I turned, people seemed to be pushing their beliefs and practices. And though there was an air of camaraderie, I sometimes felt just as judged then as I do now with Quinn staring me down.

Those summers taught me there’s never a single way to do anything, but before I can explain this to Quinn, Chrissy appears, her purse slung over a slender shoulder.

“Are you leaving?” Quinn asks, looking genuinely disappointed, her voice soft and overly friendly—a tone she has never used to address Lexie or me.

Chrissy gives me the barest of glances as she straightens her sundress. “Yeah. Tobias and I have a date tonight.”

I take another bite of cake and hope they get food poisoning on their date.

“I bet he’s missed you this weekend.” Quinn’s tone is suggestive.

I swallow instinctively. There isn’t a ball in my throat anymore. That response faded months ago, but there’s a ripple of something that makes the cake feel too dry, and every one of my shortcomings feels more pronounced.

Chrissy smiles. It’s a polite response, considering she could easily make a quip. “Yeah. We only have a few weeks before we start classes again.”

Summer school is the bane of all collegiate athletes. Sometimes, it feels like we never have a break. Last year at this time, I was comparing Tobias’s and my class and practice schedules, searching for every window of opportunity for us to spend time together. Looking back, I should have realized then he wasn’t committed to me. He was never the one to skimp on sleep or miss time with friends to hang out—that was always me.

It makes me want to warn Chrissy to be firm now and ensure he’s giving as much as he’s receiving because he will constantly ask for more and contribute less.

I don’t, though, because I have no clue how girl code applies here, and I’m not sure I’d be ready to forgive her even if she were to apologize.

“I’ll see you at the wedding,” Quinn tells her.

Dread steals my full attention, realizing that I’ve been too distracted to realize that Chrissy will be Tobias’s date at Adelaide’s wedding. I’ll have to see him and her—together.

I toss what’s left of my cake and head for my room, ready to leave behind every confusing and conflicting part of this weekend.

I pack my bag and then find Lexie so we can say a quick round of goodbyes. Adelaide’s still miffed that we’re leaving before all the guests are gone, but I’m happy to accept the blame with the excuse Lexie issues about my soccer training regimen before climbing into Lexie’s SUV.

“I’m so glad to be going home,” Lexie says with a sigh, navigating us over the sand.

My gaze is on the receding tide, a sense of melancholy and a fresh pang of disappointment for not stepping foot on the beach sinking into me. We spent the entire weekend indoors doing Quinn’s planned activities.

“Do you have any gum? I swear, I taste hairspray after all those goodbye hugs.” Lexie wipes her mouth with her fingers.

I smirk and grab my purse from the floorboard. I sort through the contents that haven’t been organized in months, pulling out my phone, wallet, stray tampons, and a handful of receipts before pausing at the sight of the flimsy notepad with the hotel’s name across the top. The minimal beige pages are bent and folded. As I pick it up, a rush of memories hit me again, recalling the dark-haired stranger’s caramel eyes, the deep timbre of his voice, and that expansive tattoo across his side. With my heart thrumming, I smooth the pages and feel my heart jump at the sight of the numbers written across the back.

“What’s that?” Lexie asks.

I swallow, loathing how quickly hope and anticipation lead my thoughts on a wild ride of possibilities. “He gave me his number.”

Lexie’s eyes go comically wide as she turns to look at me. “The guy from the bar? Why didn’t you tell me.”

“I was going to, but between sneaking back into the house, my mom leaving yesterday, and the Chrissy drama, I kind of forgot… He gave it to me for number nine on our list. I’m not even sure it’s his real number.” I trace over his handwriting, liking it too much. It’s clear and easy to read. I’ve never cared about penmanship.

“Of course it’s real. Did he write his name?” She peeks at the notepad.

I shake my head. “It was supposed to be one night.”

She gives me a side-eye. “You have to text him.”

“What would I say?” I don’t mean to sound so exasperated, but I am so overwhelmed my shoulders are tense. Again.

“Where do you live? I want more mind-blowing orgasms.”

As we turn onto the narrow road that weaves us into neighborhoods, I cover my face with one hand, still holding his number in the other. I don’t want to set it down, which is maybe even more concerning than how I’m considering texting him.

“I told you he was interested in more than sex.” Lexie was nothing short of appalled when I told her about the anonymity rule I had established.

I release a shallow sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s better just to leave that night remembered as the perfect one-night stand. If I message him and he sends me dick pics or tells me he believes the earth is flat, it will ruin everything.”

“Or, hear me out, what if he doesn’t? What if he’s obsessed with you? What if he’s perfect?”

I roll my eyes. “He probably idolizes Thor. Did you see the size of his muscles?”

“Not as up close and personal as you did.”

I cover my face again, embarrassment a rash I can’t escape, even with Lexie.

“Message him. What’s the worst that could happen? If he’s a total asshat, you block him and move on.”

“He probably lives in California. Or Maine. He didn’t have a Southern accent. Not even a drawl.”

“We don’t have Southern accents.” She points out. Our parents all moved to North Carolina after our grandparents moved here following their retirement, and Grandpa suffered a stroke. They wanted to support our grandma and not miss time with him. That was twenty-three years ago. Now, our families are firmly rooted here.

“Why not at least try?” she says.

“Do you want to hear my full list of concerns?” I ask. “Because there’s probably close to a hundred, starting with the fact he’s a stranger, and everything in my life is about to be new.”

“But what if it’s a chance encounter? What if you’re supposed to take this risk?”

“Not all chance encounters are positive, hence Anne Boleyn,” I counter, despite how quickly her words cast doubt over my own.

Lexie isn’t amused. “If he were going to behead you, he would have done it when you went to a hotel alone after midnight.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She gifts me with a grin, then slowly shakes her head. “What do you have to lose?”

“My dignity. My sanity,” I start to list off.

Lexie giggles as I try to ignore the ache in my chest, which reminds me that those would be the easiest and most painless things to lose.