Chapter 19 NINETEEN
Lena’s POV
The phone vibrates like a possessed bee on the nightstand, shattering the fragile silence of my hangover. My head throbs in protest, a dull hammer behind my eyes, the room tilting slightly as I roll over in the tangle of sheets. I slept late last night because I cried my eyes out all night—ugly, heaving sobs that left my pillowcase soaked and my throat raw like I’d swallowed sandpaper. The cab ride home from Central Park blurred into tequila shots from the emergency bottle under the sink, then half a bottle of cheap red wine, then passing out fully clothed with mascara streaked down my cheeks. Jet-lagged? No. Just emotionally annihilated.
I squint at the screen through crusty lashes: a video call from Avery. Of course. Her custom ringtone—a ridiculous remix of some 2010s pop anthem—blares again. I swipe to answer, propping the phone against a crumpled pillow, not bothering to fix my face. The screen flickers to life, and there she is: Avery, glowing like a tropical goddess, teal hair tousled by ocean breeze, sun-kissed cheeks flushed, oversized sunglasses perched on her head. She’s lounging on a plush white couch, the Hamptons ocean glittering turquoise behind her through floor-to-ceiling windows. A neon-pink drink in a coconut sweats in her hand, tiny umbrella bobbing.
“Lena! Babe!” Her voice is sunshine and espresso, way too chipper for my corpse-like state. “You look like a raccoon that lost a fight with a mascara wand. What the hell happened?”
A few seconds into the call, and Avery could already tell something was wrong. Her brows knit together, sunglasses sliding down her nose as she leans closer to the camera. “Spill. Now. Don’t even try the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit.”
I open my mouth to deflect—just tired, long week—but the words stick like glue. My eyes are puffy, red-rimmed traitors. She squints, reading me like an open book. “Wait. This is about Sebastian, isn’t it? Your boss. He did something, didn’t he? Yelled? Fired you? Bent you over the copier and—”
“No,” I croak, voice hoarse from crying and tequila. “It’s Wes.”
Her face softens instantly, the teasing evaporating like mist. “Oh, honey. The park meetup? You actually went?”
I nod, throat tightening, a fresh wave of tears threatening. “I know you’d probably scold me for seeing him, but I already knew it was stupid. I just… needed to end it. For good.”
Avery shakes her head, not scolding at all. Sympathetic. Empathetic. “I’m not going to fault you, Lena. I get it. It took me eight months to stop drunk-texting Jake after he ghosted me for that yoga instructor with the weird toes. Eight. Months. You’re allowed to be human.”
I manage a watery smile, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “Thanks. He tried to justify it—said Sienna seduced him because I missed his game. Then admitted to telling her everything. All of it.”
Avery’s jaw drops, coconut pausing mid-sip, pink liquid sloshing. “He did what? Oh, that little trust-fund prick—I’ll fly back just to kick him in the nuts!”
“I already did the yelling,” I say, voice cracking. “Caused a scene at the fountain. I told him to go to hell and never contact me again. Then cried in a cab like a rom-com cliché.”
“Good girl,” she says fiercely, eyes blazing. “Proud of you. I’m so sorry I’m not there to hug you tight, stuff your face with Ben & Jerry’s, and burn his Columbia jerseys in the sink.”
“It’s alright,” I say, sniffling. “I’ll survive. Enough of me. How are you? How are the Hamptons? Rich people tipping in diamonds yet?”
She sighs dramatically, flopping back against the couch, the ocean framing her like a postcard. “Not sure everything will go well, but I’m praying to the cocktail gods. I put in work—custom menus, molecular mixology, and practiced flair tricks till my wrists screamed. Spent a fortune on this trip—flights, outfits, that spray tan that makes me look like a golden statue. My day could’ve been better if the Latino hottie I’ve been eyeing noticed me. The security guy for the host—tall, dark, abs like a Greek god, and a smile that could melt panties. But he’s preoccupied. What a shame.”
I laugh, the first real one in days, the sound rusty but welcome. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks you get laid before you come back. Celibacy’s never lasted past day three with you.”
Avery gasps, clutching her coconut to her chest. “Rude! I’m taking this celibacy vow seriously. New leaf, Lena. Spiritual cleansing. Have some faith in your girl.”
“Uh-huh,” I tease, rolling my eyes. “Speaking of celibacy, getting laid, and all that—what happened with Sebastian after your sugar daddy bomb? Did you get some? Desk? Supply closet? Tell me everything.”
“Of course not!” I say, cheeks heating at the memory. “You almost put me in grave trouble. He overheard. Thought Iwanted a sugar daddy. In his fifties. Loaded. Like, him.”
Avery cackles, nearly spilling her drink, the umbrella toppling into the sand. “Oh my God, classic. What did he do? Spank you over his mahogany desk? Whisper dirty commands?”
“Close,” I mutter, fanning my face. “Caged me in with his arms. I couldn’t breathe. Nearly passed out from the tension.”
“Girl, he wants you,” Avery sing-songs, waggling her brows. “Bad. Like, tie-you-up-in-his-penthouse bad.”
“No,” I say, but my voice wavers, the club flashing—his lips on mine, hands possessive. “Anyway, I was asking for Tessa.I snapped at her—said she didn’t know marketing. Mia joked a hot older guy would distract her. Late forties, early fifties, rich. I thought you could hook her up, soften her up so she stops gunning for my probation.”
Avery’s quiet, staring past the camera, lips parted. “Ave? Are you even listening to me?”
“Oh my fucking God!” she squeals, bolting upright, coconut sloshing. “You’re not going to believe this, Lena. The hot Latino is walking towards here. Fucking Jesus! He’s staring straight at me. I’ll catch you later, Lena. Take care!”
The call ends with a beep.