Page 33 of Mating Theory
I search through them, wondering if I’d even recognize Ky with the distorted lights. Breaks in the music reveal moans and rhythmic thumps. Someone’s having sex in one of these corners.
Deep in the back I finally find Ky. He’s by himself—or as close as you can come in this place. Somehow he’s got a two-seater couch to himself. There are track marks on his open arm. His mouth is open, as if he’s sleeping. Except he’s not. His eyes are open.
He’s dead.
For a terrible moment he seems dead—cold and clammy and unmoving. Then his eyes focus on me, and he snaps alert. “Ashleigh. Hell. Hell. I thought you were dead.”
I’m almost hysterical with worry, with the emotional seesaw of seeing him this way and wondering if he’d overdosed before I could find him. “I thought you were dead, you big dummy.”
That makes him laugh, a wild and raucous sound. He’s high as a kite. “When you didn’t come home for two nights I thought some sick fuck had driven you out to the woods and killed you.”
“So you decided to come spend all your money on a freaking needle?”
He squints at me. “Were you in the woods?”
“Close enough,” I say on a sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you home. You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow. And you won’t get any sympathy from me. I’m the one who’s gotta clean up the rats.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sutton
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, becoming aware in an instant, certain that I’m alone in the house. My heart’s made of lead while I check the bathroom, the kitchen, even the goddamn front porch, as if she might be swinging with her toes on the scarred wooden boards. Even the crickets are quiet at this hour. The world feels ungodly silent. I step out into the grass and look up, wearing jeans and nothing else. The dark sky leans down on me, as if filled with water, heavy and threatening.
When I go back inside I find my phone on the breakfast table, set neatly beside my wallet, and a note written on a Post-it. I took the money you promised. It continues on the back. Left some for Uber. I stare at the loops as if her handwriting can somehow tell me about her soul.
Why the hell do I want to know about her soul? I don’t. I wanted sex from her and I got that. Plenty of sex. A truly ridiculous amount of sex. I climaxed so hard I had a goddamn stroke.
The only reason I feel bereft now is… that I’d have given her a bonus. It’s not nearly enough money, what I promised, what she took. And I’d have given her a ride back myself. The whole thing would have felt demeaning and cheap, but hell. It’s not like waking up sad is any better.
“Why didn’t you wake me up, Ashleigh?”
The Post-it note doesn’t answer.
Because she didn’t want to say goodbye, asshole. This isn’t the standard morning after. This is a paid service. Except I know she didn’t think of it like that. I didn’t, either.
I grab the wallet and keys and shove them in my pocket. I’ll go after her. The app says she was dropped off at the Den, but I should check on her. I should make sure she’s okay. I should…
I should leave her the hell alone. Jesus.
When would it end? Never. I’d pretend I was doing it to help her, but in reality I’d just install her in my house as my personal sex slave. I’d be the laughingstock of Tanglewood, like she said, but I don’t give a shit about that. I swore I’d never be like my father. Panting after Christopher. After Harper. Now Ashleigh. Do I fall in love every six goddamn months? I always knew he fucked a lot of women. I never realized that he may have actually loved them all.
Slowly I pull the wallet and keys out of my pocket. Toss them onto the table.
I’m not goddamn Mother Teresa to help people on the street. And I’m not going to be a man who takes advantage of her. That leaves me with no rights to her whatsoever.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand over my face.
The irony is that there are only two people I could talk to about this who’d understand. Both of those people are currently on their honeymoon in Bali.
I wonder what Harper told her in the steeple. Don’t think about Ashleigh.
The sun exhales a dim light for hours before dawn. I walk the length of my fence in boots and jeans, no shirt, trying to connect with the land. I used to love every blade of grass, every grain of dirt. Every molecule of air. I still do, but it feels a little emptier somehow. As if Ashleigh gave a piece of herself to the trees and the animals and the earth. Now that she’s gone, they don’t know what to do.
