“Where’s your friend?” he called over the noise.
“Who knows.” I clasped my hands around the back of Jake’s neck, pinning my chest against his. God, I wanted him. I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life.
I ran my fingers through his hair, relishing the feeling of our bodies being pressed together again. Joy struck through me.
“I miss you,” I said, knowing with every ounce of my heart that he missed me, too. I moved my hands down the length of his torso, stopping at his belt, grasping it lightly. I felt good; I knew I looked good. I tipped my chin forward, ready for him to lean down and kiss me in the expert way that only Jake Danner can kiss.
But then, horribly, I felt him retreat. He placed his hands on my shoulders cautiously, stepping back.
“Sisi.” His eyes grew serious, almost offended. “I’m with someone else now. I’m happy.”
My stomach plummeted, churning. I was too drunk to feel the pain, but I sensed it looming, waiting eagerly on the other side of the alcohol. The pain would obliterate me. It would kill me, I was sure.
“Jake, can we … what happened, Jake? Can we just talk?” I was nearly choking out the words; I hated myself for being unable to veil the desperation in my voice. “Just for a minute? Outside?”
“No, Sisi.” Jake turned his head to the side, his discomfort palpable. The music continued to blare; Bruno Mars morphed into something hammering and awful from Swedish House Mafia. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Let me call you a cab.”
“Fuck you,” I spat. “I’m not drunk. Why her? Tell me why her.”
Jake closed his eyes, exasperated.
“Go home, Sisi,” he said. And then he disappeared into the crowd, under the flashing lights, gone from me again.
But I didn’t go home. Instead, I wandered up to the second floor of the club, devastated, enraged. I stood near the edge of the balcony and looked for Martelle, but she was nowhere in sight. From above, I noticed Jake had wandered back to one corner of the dance floor with Sam, Hale, and the rest of their group.
I didn’t think too hard about what happened next; I only knew something had to be done, and the opportunity was now. Now or never.
The two girls next to me were college-aged, wearing glittery eye makeup and drinking Amstel Lights. I could tell by the way they were dressed—tacky polyester getups, probably from the bargain bin at Forever 21—that they could use the cash.
I moved closer to them, lingering at the perimeter of their conversation for a few moments before I pounced. “You want to make a grand tonight? Each?”
They glanced at me, their eyes narrowing in confusion. The trashier one—a short, curly-haired platinum blonde—scowled. “We’re not hookers.”
“I know that. See that guy over there?” I pointed at Jake, down on the dance floor. “The tall one with the dirty-blond curls? Navy T-shirt?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“If you walk right up to him and start kissing him…” I looked at the blonde, then turned to her friend, a pudgy redhead. “And you take a picture of it—a clear, relatively close-up picture—and then text me the picture, and never tell a soul about any of this, I’ll wire a grand into each of your bank accounts tonight.”
Big Red looked at me like I was some kind of mental patient, which, in the throes of my obsession, perhaps I was.
The blonde nudged her. “That’s, like, two months’ rent, Sally.”
Big Red placed her hands on her hips. “How do we know you’re not full of shit?”
“You don’t,” I said, crossing my arms. “But see this Cartier love bracelet on my left wrist? That cost six g’s, and I have the matching ring at home. The diamonds in my ears are real, and I have a trust fund so deep, I can buy whatever I want. You can choose to believe me; if not, no big deal—I’ll find a couple of girls in this club who do.”
I began to pivot on my heels, turning forty-five degrees before Big Red placed her meaty hand on my arm. “We’ll do it.”
And that, Molly, is how you ended up with the photo in your email inbox, the photo of Jake kissing a random blonde at a sweaty club in West Palm Beach.
It was easy to get your email address—all I had to do was call Bhakti Yoga and pretend to be a student who adored a teacher named Molly, who was dying to write her to thank her for such a life-changing class.
It hurt to see that picture, I’m sure. I can imagine the sting. But like I told you before, Jake belonged to me first. I was well within my rights to do everything in my power to get him back.