Page 12 of No Place Like You

I’m sitting on my couch, filling the frigid silence with the TV volume on low and a televised showing ofWorld War Zflashing on the screen while I mindlessly scroll through my phone. I stop when I see an Instagram story Lucy posted a mere thirty-eight minutes ago.

The same Lucy I saw earlier through a fifteen-inch laptop screen while my eyes glazed over her sideways scowl and sassy smirk.

The same Lucy I can’t seem to expunge from my memory, no matter how many lousy first dates and Hinge setups I go on.

In the short video, Lucy is tossing back a small shot glass, her friends cheering around her. She screeches in a slurred voice, “Squeeeezeme, baby!”before everyone in the video breaks out into a fit of hysterical laughter. There’s a series of stories from her night out, and it looks like she and her friends are celebrating something. I stop when I see a five second snapshot of her in a green dress. It’s the same green dress I met her in. I remember it because of how it draped across her thighs, the silky fabric brushing against her tanned and toned skin. She wore heels, and with her height, it brought her at eye level with me. Meaning, when we stood a little too close to each other, our mouths sat parallel. And if I’d angled my jaw a little to the right when her nose tilted in the opposite direction, we would’ve fit perfectly.

When I met her three years ago, I didn’t think she could look sexier than she did in that green dress. But now, with her short hair baring her smooth shoulders and the dark color contrasting too well against her skin tone…she looks fucking stunning. It’s an impulsive move when I tap on the message icon and hover my thumbs over the keyboard.

That dress looks familiar.

It’s flirty and suggestive and a little dangerous considering I’m talking about more than just a simple dress. So much more.

It’s just past two in the morning, which means the night is still young in Seattle. Which also means she may still be out, and she might see the message. Or maybe she won’t even notice it until the morning when whatever remains of that liquid courage has seeped out of her, and she’ll just ignore the message altogether.

My wondering is answered approximately seven minutes later when my phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming call from Lucy.

“Dexter!” I hear Lucy’s slurred voice call through the phone. “So you like my dress?”

My brow quirks.So she’s a little drunk.“Hi, Lucy,” I call through the phone, my voice low and raspy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you howgoodit is to hear the sound of your voice.”

Okay, maybe she’s alotdrunk. “You like the sound of my voice?”

“Can you keep a secret?” she whispers in a hushed tone instead of answering my question. I instinctively lean forward like I need to cup my ear to hear her better. “I have not had a good lay since you.”

I sit up from my slouched position with my elbows resting on my knees. I should hang up. I should remind her how drunk she is, tell her she should call me when she’s sober so she doesn’t say things that make my insides tingle.Jesus, the tingling.

Why the fuck is there two thousand miles of distance between us? Why am I here? And why the fuck is shethere?

“And why is that? Why can’t I seem to get you out of my head?” she continues. “Instead, my options are narrowed down to my vibrator or these boys who can’t even tell the difference between a good sneeze and an orgasm.”

I stifle a laugh. She won’t remember a single word of this conversation. Hell, she might not even remember calling me, but this is so much fun. While the miniature angel sitting on my shoulder coaxes me to do the right thing by giving me firm instructions to tell her good night like a gentleman would, its devil counterpart sitting on the opposite shoulder is egging me on.Ask her why you’re such a good lay,it urges. And I almost want to give in. I almost want to hop on Google and type in “flights NYC to Seattle now.”

“Lucy! Get off the phone! We’re getting chicken wings!”

Lucy answers whoever she’s talking to, hopefully one of her friends who’ll get her home safe, with a high-pitched squeal and an elongated “waaaaangs!” And the line cuts.

She can’t get me out of her head.

7

Lucy

My stomach feelslike the green blob from the movieFlubberhas taken residence at the pit of it and it’s trying to climb up my throat. I lift my head off my pillow only to be welcomed with the sight of my tumbled heels on the floor, right next to a small heap of green satin.

“Ughhh…” I moan, just as my alarm goes off. The fact that I have to be out the door by eight in the morning with all of my luggage stuffed into Annabelle’s BMW causes the blob in my stomach to tumble. What was I thinking?

I drag myself off my bed and trudge to the kitchen, where Annabelle is shuffling two mugs on the counter next to a fresh pot of coffee.

“How are you up already?” I ask, walking past her to the fridge for a bottle of water.

She pokes a finger in my direction. “While you girls drank yourself silly, I stopped after the third tequila shot. There’s no way I would’ve been able to drive you to the airport if I didn’t.”

She extends a mug to me, and I sigh with relief. It’s not my usual Starbucks, but the toasty aroma of coffee is more than enough to shoo away my hangover, just a little bit.

I slump onto the barstool lined up against our breakfast counter. “How much did we drink?”

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