Mine Would Be You (11)

I shrug my shoulders as the chill spreads over me at the sound of my name.

But the elevator doors are already closing, too late for me to stop them, and his figure disappears as I lean my head back on the cool silver doors. I brush my fingers over my lips as I descend, trying to chase the ghost of the memory I have of his lips on mine.

We were here, not at the bar.

From what I gather it was in the hallway next to his room. I was pushed softly against the wall, and my hands were curled into the nape of his hair. And I just barely remember the softness of the curls and smoothness of his skin.

The quick flash of his dimples.

His hands cupped my cheeks, and I vividly remember his thumb brushing over my skin, those intense eyes focused on me before he leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to mine.

But that’s where it ends. After that, it’s all a dusty blur.

As the elevator door opens with a ding, I realize I forgot something. It was probably the same reason he shouted after me.

I don’t have his phone number.

• • •

“You didn’t get his number?” Sloan asks incredulously as she sips her mimosa. Harper is leaned in next to me, eyes focused like she’s waiting for me to spill something else.

I down the rest of my mimosa.

“I could barely think straight. I was so confused; my brain wasn’t functioning. You don’t think I’d like to have his number? Or his last name? I can’t even internet stalk him now.”

I could go back to his apartment but that’s taking it too far, even for me.

“Oh, babe, it’s okay.” Harper says, taking a sip of her disgusting Bloody Mary.

I grab the pitcher of the endless mimosas I ordered before letting my head fall into my hands. The sun streams in the large window we’re crowded against at our favorite brunch spot. It’s unusually sunny for a mid-February day, and I’m basking in all the sun I can get. After I called a ride home in my outfit, I walked in to my two best friends awaiting my return. Sloan was spread out on the couch with a coffee mug and her tight curls in a bun while Harper was curled into the armchair with her eyes closed.

As soon as I entered, their heads whipped around to me and the biggest, cheekiest grins I’d ever seen spread over their faces. I tried to ignore them and made a beeline for the shower, but they just followed me, taking their seats on the steamy bathroom floor as they bombarded me with questions.

The hot water was the only thing that could wash away the blurry night and the embarrassment sitting on my skin. The only thing I didn’t want washed away were the images of a blurry kiss against an apartment wall. Even now, the ghost feeling of his lips are enough to send a blast of heat over my body and to flood my cheeks pink.

I break off a piece of the chocolate chip muffin. “He built a pillow fort between us because I was so drunk. Said if we hooked up, he’d want me to remember.”

Harper lifts her head from where it rested on my shoulder moments ago, and her mouth falls open.

“He didn’t.”

“He did,” I say, frowning. “I’m an idiot. How is it that the one person I was attracted to is too nice and sweet and builds a pillow wall? Because I was too drunk? And I don’t get his number? What are the odds?”

Even after showering and getting somewhat ready, we all have a disheveled energy surrounding us. That’s loud and clear by the pitcher of mimosas, Harper’s third Bloody Mary, and an overwhelming number of appetizers.

My hair is in a loose bun on the top of my head, curls framing my bare face. Sloan’s curly hair is pulled tight into a cute puff with a simple headband, and Harper’s hair falls in waves down her back. We’re all dressed appropriately because Harper wanted to get some photos today, and her camera sits on the edge of the table.

“I’m going to assume stalking him is out of the question?” Harper’s eyes light up. I stare blankly at her. A smile plays at her lips. “You should honestly get a comedy show or something.”

“We’d be such a good supporting cast,” Sloan sighs and finishes her own drink.

“Honestly, even though nothing frisky happened, I’m proud of you. He was hot. Like really hot. Even his name is hot.”

I roll my eyes as Harper wiggles her eyebrows and leans forward on her elbow, and Sloan nods in agreement. They had seen me dancing with him upstairs, and I had avoided them just so their eyes wouldn’t pop out of their heads.

“Jackson. Yeah, he is hot. Like disgustingly attractive.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll see him again,” Sloan says, always the picture of optimism. She can turn any situation around if she tries hard enough.

I latch onto her brown eyes with my own. “What are the odds of that, Sloan, seriously?”

“Like negative ten,” Harper chimes in.

“All I’m saying is you never really know.”

Our food arrives after our resident optimist has finished speaking. I turn and watch people pass by the window, clad in jackets on their bikes. Groups of friends walk by in hordes, clutching their shopping bags, and cars turn down the street one after another.

I try not to feel discouraged at the stupid, silly encounter, at the fact that I’ll most likely never see Jackson again. It’s funnier than anything else, and I know I’m just being dramatic, but still, it’s another tally on my bad luck in love journey. While I’ve accepted that maybe it’s just not for me, at least not right now or anytime soon, those brief moments had felt like a new chapter. But it was just another paragraph on an already turned page.