Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(24)
“Honestly, I had no idea we were in the same city.”
And it was the truth. Sure, Asher Reyes was People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, but he was wildly hush-hush about his private life. He performed the studio-mandated PR circus for one Oscar darling after another, and then he found remote islands to hide out on. He ignored personal questions in interviews, said very little about his family, and never commented on his relationship status. He was an enigma, and I liked keeping him that way. I stopped googling his name in my early twenties as a form of self-preservation. There was a lingering pang after our breakup, and for the first few years that followed, a giant “What-if?” consumed my mind: What if Asher Reyes was The One, but I met him too soon? I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t also visit me into my thirties. But we no longer knew each other, and keeping up with a celebrity ex-boyfriend who didn’t keep up with me made me feel small.
“So, he’s going to be at the DGA event tonight.”
“The what event?”
“Director’s Guild. He’s speaking on some panel, and then there’s a cocktail hour after. It’s only for members, but because I’m the most amazing human ever, you’re on the list.”
A dizzying wave took over my body, and I gripped onto the boat’s railing to keep from tipping over. I would be seeing Asher, tonight. It had been eighteen years…
“You know, it’s a rite of passage to backslide around a big birthday,” said Summer. “The confirmation that time has passed and your ovaries are withering away is a perfect excuse to finally find and fuck your super-famous summer camp boyfriend. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long.”
“I don’t want to have sex with him, Summer.”
“Sure, sure, sure,” she said. I could picture her in her spotless West Midtown office, rolling her eyes at me.
“I don’t.”
I didn’t. Having sex with Asher Reyes was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted something more from him.
13
FIFTEEN
ALL I WANTED IN THE world was to have sex with Asher Reyes that summer. I wasn’t trying to rush us, but I had the entire sophomore year to think about what my long-distance boyfriend might look like naked, and what his naked body might feel like pressed against mine.
My insides were screaming with the thought as the large bus entered the gates of Buck’s Rock Camp grounds. I was sandwiched in a bus-full of loud New York City kids, while Asher’s flight in from San Diego had already landed. Knowing he was waiting at the bottom of the hill for me made my heart race faster.
The past school year, I spent nearly every night with the phone cord wrapped around my fingers, whispering so my mom couldn’t hear, discussing everything and nothing with Asher until my eyelids grew heavy and my cheek hit the pillow. And now, I’d get to do it in person. I could still taste our first kiss on my lips. Lilacs and salt and fireworks and Mountain Dew—explosions in the sky over the lake. I could taste our last—full of salty tears, blubbering voices making promises we actually kept. We’d made our long-distance relationship work since we left camp, even with him in San Diego and me in New York City.
We had spent every free moment of last summer together. We snuck out of our respective cabins after our counselors were asleep, our lips colliding under the moonlit gazebo. We pulled each other farther toward the outskirts of campgrounds and talked for hours under the stars. He’d read me poetry, I’d sing him a fresh love song. We were in love, intoxicatingly and blindly. And now, after three seasons apart, we’d get to do something about it.
I ran off the bus like a bullet, straight toward his wide grin, my large backpack banging against my spine, my body in a free fall until my arms were wrapped tightly around solid ground—his neck. He smelled the same: like sunblock and musky citrus. But he was taller now, and his shoulders were broader, allowing him to lift me above the ground with ease. I clenched my eyes shut and exhaled—the way I exhaled when I walked into my bedroom after a long day. I was home. He was home.
Asher set me down and put his hands on either side of my face, tucking the windblown hair behind my ears. There were giddy tears in my eyes. And my heart soared, seeing the tears in his. Asher was a lot like me: casual about nothing. He saw the world as intensely as I did, and he made me want to dig deeper—to see the underbelly of everything. He was gorgeous, moody, creative, and he was standing right in front of me in screaming color.
14
THIRTY-FIVE
THE STAGE FRIGHT OF MY early adolescence had returned and decided to attack every cell inside my body. Thanks to the subway breaking down on the way to the Director’s Guild, my nerves had an extra hour to multiply, so by the time I arrived outside the Midtown brick-and-glass complex, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I had missed the panel, and was ushered to the small reception, where I kept my eyes on the floor and chewed on my bottom lip as I darted toward the open bar, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Finally, tequila and lime swirled hot in my chest, slowing my heart rate to a normal pace.
Asher Reyes and I were in the same room, and I would need more than a stiff drink to quiet my insides: I would need a tranquilizer dart. My eyes dared to scan the crowd of professionals wearing their best creative casual, as my trembling hand clenched around the cold glass. I flicked my attention to my phone, pretending to read an important email, so as to not look entirely out of place. In many ways, I wasn’t. I was surrounded by creatives who loved the sound of their own voices—there wasn’t a quiet talker in this room, which is what happens when you gather impassioned people under one roof. Normally, I would join in on these conversations and match their intensity word for word. But these weren’t normal circumstances.