Page 7 of One Night Only
“It will be good for you. There’s a reason I go to some nameless, extremely sunny beach every year. You never take a break.”
“I take breaks,” I protest.
“Sex with random men when you feel like it is not taking a break.”
“It is to me,” I mutter. “This is my plane outfit,” I add, ignoring her look as I hold up the sweatpants and sweatshirt.
She nods in approval. “And don’t forget to put on a face mask before you land.” She pats the skin under her eyes. “Helps those bags.”
“I don’t get bags.”
“You definitely get bags. And let’s try some serum, shall we?”
Claire’s obsessed with her skin-care regimen. Our bathroom is crammed with cleansers and exfoliators and strange contraptions that look like they belong in a doctor’s office but apparently “stimulate blood flow.” All of this plus her quarterly Botox injections sometimes makes me more than a little paranoid about my one-step moisturizer routine (I recently graduated to using it morningandnight) but she assures me with my babyface cheeks and supposedly tiny pores that I don’t need to worry.
I guess it’s one upside to getting constantly carded by bouncers ten years younger than me.
“Don’t drink any of the plane wine,” Claire continues. “The last thing you need is a hangover on top of jet lag. I’m speaking from experience.”
I dump the sweatshirt onto the bed. “You’re kinda sucking all the fun out of this, you know that?”
“It’s five hours. It will fly by. Literally. And then you will be in a whole new country on a whole new continent and I will be extremely jealous.” She plants two hands on the armchair and hauls herself up. “I’m going to order too much pad thai. You want in?”
“I already ate.”
“Cold pizza doesn’t count toward your five a day,” she sings, shuffling out of the room.
Bras. Underwear. I count them out day by day, including some spares because, honestly, who knows and grab a handful of socks from the drawer. The suitcase fills quickly, especially when I add in Annie’s presents from friends unable to travel for the wedding. I keep my nicer heels in boxes under the bed and I drop to my knees to pull them out when I spy something glinting on the floor.
It’s a watch.
I don’t own a watch.
Crap.
I bang my head against the bed frame as I pick it up, the metal strap cold in my hand.
For one second, I think about throwing it in the trash or selling it on eBay. Then I remind myself I am not an awful person. I don’t have a good excuse anyway. We swapped numbers last night and I haven’t gotten around to deleting it yet.
I take a picture and message my one-night stand.I think this is yours?I keep my tone polite, not wanting to give him the wrong impression when he was so keen this morning.I’m leaving it with my roommate. Going out of town for a few days.
Friendly but formal.
Too formal?
I stare down at the text, deliberating. Smiley face? Or is that too inviting? Maybe I— oh my God just send it. I hit the button, hesitate and send another.
This is Sarah by the way.
Unless I didn’t tell him my name.
From last night.
Ugh. Too many texts. But too late to take it back.
I throw my phone on the bed and continue packing. It’s barely a minute later when his reply comes.
I’m outside now.
