"Hello?"
"Shannon," Will said. He stretched my name out into a long, rumbling sigh, all kinds of "Stella!" and A Streetcar Named Desire. "You aren't in Mexico."
There was a party on the other side of the door, with music and laughter and people happy to spend time together, but I didn't want to be there. I moved deeper into the bedroom, and headed for the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind me. "Are you drunk?"
"Yes," he drawled. "My sister ordered shots. Lots of shots. Like, all the shots. I can't believe I taught her to drink tequila. And you know me. I can't let a little girl drink me under the table."
"Of course not," I laughed. "If this is the state you're in, how's she holding up?"
Will laughed. "She said a few things I never thought I'd hear out of my sister. I kept drinking with the shady hope I'd forget the whole experience."
"Oh yeah, she's a dirty bird," I said, settling on the edge of the tub.
"Please don't tell me those things," he said. He grunted, and if I listened closely, I could hear waves crashing.
"Are you on the beach?"
"I'm looking at the Pacific Ocean and my ass is in the sand," he said.
"It's a rough life," I said, threading my necklace between my fingers.
"I hate you right now. You know why?"
I laughed. "I believe the tequila will tell me."
"Because I've spent eleven days with you in the past eight months and that's all it took for me to fall for you. Because I've sent you over five thousand texts and called you two hundred and eighteen times and you know what I have to show for all that? I f***ing love you, and you're there and I'm here and that's why I hate you."
The necklace was wrapped tight around my fingers, the delicate gold chain digging grooves into my skin that bit enough to keep those words from hitting my heart all at once. "The tequila isn't going to remember this conversation tomorrow, honey."
"That's where you're wrong. Tequila never forgets," he sighed. "You were wrong. You should have come."
"That's where we still disagree," I said. I wanted it to sound pleasant and light, but it came off harsh. Cold.
"You should have come," he repeated. "My parents would probably fight over which one of them liked you more. They'd just chop you to pieces and eat you because you're so perfect. And this place…I could've taken you out sailing or diving. Or shots. You're a fun drunk. And there's a huge bed in my room, too. I can't look at it without thinking about you."
I stayed quiet. He was drunk and rambling, and he didn't mean any of this. It didn't matter whether those words—the ones I didn't want and certainly didn't need—were wrapping me in a painfully sweet embrace right now, or that a thick, confused blob of emotion was pulsing in my chest.
“I'm tired of secrets, Shannon.”
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The Cornerstone in
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