I open my mouth and shut it, not sure what to say.
“Was the sex not up to your standards?”
I turn my head. “Can you just leave?”
“You’re embarrassed? I don’t understand…” Of course I’m embarrassed. I called a gigolo out of desperation, because it sounded nice, because I knew it would relieve something in me that ached for it. I wish I could be one of those girls who has the guts to do it because they’re exploring their sexuality, but with me, I needed him to fulfill a desire, one that does nothing but torment me. And he’s reminding me of everything I hate about myself. That I let my downstairs brain control my night. That I can’t be a normal girl and just forget about sex for one second. Just one.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, sounding concerned now.
“No,” I say quickly. “It was great. I’m just…” lost. “…thank you.”
My words spin his features into sadness. “If I leave, you aren’t going to do anything…” He thinks I’m suicidal?
I inhale deeply. “I need you to go so I can head to a family event.”
He nods, understanding. “Okay.” He buttons the last of his shirt and adds, “You’re fantastic in bed by the way.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, stripping my sheets.
The door closes, and my muscles don’t relax like I thought they would. The conversation replays, and I feel strangely about it. He saw through me. Not many people do.
I don’t have time to wallow in a self-deprecating puddle. The luncheon starts in less than an hour. I trip over a pair of sneakers on my way to the shower. While I wash off last night, I contemplate waking Lo. I’d rather let him sleep off his drunken stupor than force him to interact with my family.
By the time I hop out of the shower and change into a mint green dress, I decide to check on Lo and make sure he’s sleeping on his side. He rarely pukes when he passes out, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Before I retreat from my room, I scour my closet for a rare purse. To avoid my mother’s ridicule, it’s best to be as normal as possible. I find a white Chanel with a gold chain （a birthday gift from Rose） shoved beside a broken pair of heels.
I unclick the latch. My runaway phone has reappeared, which is pretty worthless considering I already transferred my number and contacts onto a new iPhone.
I scroll through the old missed calls and few text messages that were delivered before I purchased my new cell. My heart stops as I open a text from Rose. Sent about the same time she last left my apartment.
Jonathan Hale is coming to the luncheon. Tell Loren.
No, no, no. Lo maybe, possibly, could have stayed home today. I could have formed a weak “he’s sick” excuse. Ditching on my family is a minor infraction. Ditching on his father is suicide.
Hurriedly, I toss the phone on my bed and head to his bedroom with less than half an hour to get ready. We’re cutting this close.
I knock once and let myself in.
Unlike my bedroom, Lo’s walls and shelves are covered with personality. Penn paraphernalia fits in nooks and crannies, like a red and blue clock and a Quakers bobble head. Photographs of us hang almost everywhere. Mostly for appearance sake. On the dresser sits a framed portrait of Lo kissing my cheek. It looks forced to me, and little things like this make my belly flop, reminding me of our biggest lie.
My sisters believe I store my clothes in the guest bedroom closet for more space. In truth, I like staying in that minimalistic room. No photographs. Just brightly colored Leonid Afremov paintings of Paris. Though, sometimes they make me dizzy.
Lo lies fully clothed on his champagne-colored duvet. He’s curled up on his side, and his light brown hair sticks in different directions. In his right hand, he cuddles an empty bottle of Macallan, a ten thousand-dollar whiskey.
Five more liquor bottles scatter the ground. Some half-full, others dry. But those have to be from other nights entirely. He has a high tolerance, but not that high. All of these bottles would knock out a whole football team and probably kill him. I try not to think about that.
I go to the bathroom and wet a hand cloth with warm water. Back in his room, I sidle to his low bed, the mattress coming up to my legs. I bend over and press the towel to his forehead.
“Lo, time to get up,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to wake Lo up for something important.
I abandon him passed out on the bed and race around his room, sweeping empty bottles and locking away full ones. When all the alcohol disappears, I turn my attention back on him. “Loren Hale!” I yell.