♫ They say be one with the city
So I'm standing in the sun all day ♪
{Tove Lo—Anywhere u go}

It had been in a drunken daze that Coralie took advantage of someone else's night of sex to forget about her own.

She'd never admit to Bella and Delilah what she'd done that night; how she'd envisioned them in their act of pleasure to pleasure herself. How she'd used their sex sounds to relieve her stress, to shove away her anxiety. Their ecstasy was a momentary release from the torment she endured—her own fault, she knew—and by envisioning something new, something fresh, she managed to sleep without interruption.

Not that either of them would be offended, but they'd be a tad confused. Flattered, but unclear on how to take it. Coralie had never lusted after them—she hadn't last night, either. It was more the idea of their delight, the naughty noise of it, that allowed Coralie to forget her woes and dive into other fantasies. In any case, it had erased her dizziness and soothed her belly filled with liquor and pizza bites.

Yes, Delilah and Bella were both ridiculously hot women. If Coralie weren't straight, she'd pursue them both in a heartbeat. If they weren't such close friends, she'd have considered them for a threesome with Chester. It wasn't so much their actual bodies that she'd pictured as she listened to them; but her own body, moving in tune with that of a man's.

But which man had it been? That was an altogether different and complicated matter.

"Blah," she said, kicking off her covers. She checked her phone—ten a.m. "Fuck, I slept forever."

A faint scent of coffee reached her nostrils, and she heard clinking in the kitchen. Someone else was up and busying about making breakfast; or so Coralie hoped.

To her astonishment, when she sat up, no searing migraine stretched across her forehead, and no pangs of pain took over her stomach. She didn't have the urge to hurl her guts out, nor did she still taste the liquor in her mouth. Had the masturbation session eased away a potential hangover? There was no way she could feel so light and rested this morning; not after last night's torture. The show, the surprise visits, the arguments, the hot sex, the conversation with Mellie—

"Mellie!" She grabbed her phone and hurried to shoot a text to Nikita, whom she remembered, after pressing send, had been drunker than she was.

CORALIE AMBER WATSON: "Hey—hope you made it home safe. Those shots effed me up! Did you want to schedule a call to chat about my meet-up with Mellie last night?"

She didn't have to go into work today, but she hadn't told the label about how her discussion with Mellie went. To her shock, no one had called her about it, yet. Had they all stayed out late partying and were still asleep, paying the consequences of heavy booze? She didn't recall seeing anyone when she left the bar; in truth, she didn't see much of anything except for the elevator, and the Lyft, and then her ceiling.

"We're all drunk idiots." She laughed as she tried to review the night in a comedic light; wasn't it better to chuckle about it all, anyway? As far as she knew, no one had gotten physically hurt, and she'd spared a few feelings; though Ryan had been furious, Michael flustered.

Well, at least Chester had left with a satisfied stride, right?

Her phone pinged as she stood to stretch. A slight nausea woke in her once she was on her feet, but it dissipated after a chug of the water bottle on her nightstand—that she didn't recall grabbing before bed.

What had happened between when Bella had spoken to her at the door, and once she'd found herself in bed, fumbling with her panties to touch herself? It was all a blur. Hadn't Bella and Delilah been arguing, too? How had they gone from upset to moaning in tandem in the room next door?

NIKITA: Coralie! I'm so proud of you! No need to call—we'll discuss it on Monday. But as far as I'm aware, everyone is thrilled. Mellie's agent already reached out and wants to set something up in the coming months! Well done on the networking, girl! Enjoy your weekend off ♥

Coralie didn't want to imagine how sick Nikita likely was, after all they'd had to drink. Nikita was already far gone when she sat beside Coralie and encouraged her to do shots; was she able to get out of bed? Was she even in her bed?

When she braved out into the kitchen, Coralie found Bella making pancakes.

She winked at her, offered her a cup of steaming java, and nudged her towards Delilah, who was lounging on the couch, watching TV. "She's in a good mood," whispered Bella, biting her lip to hold in her smile.

"Gee, I wonder why." Coralie made a face at her and meandered into the living room, nestling her mug against her chest.

She was quiet, trying to keep to herself, to not disturb Delilah's show—a reality program Coralie hated—and settled on the opposite end of the sofa.

"Nice job, last night," said Delilah, without removing her gaze from the screen. She had her phone in her lap, her oversized mug in one hand, the remote in the other. A strap of her silky pajamas had slid down her arm, and her hair was braided, out of her face.

"Thank you." Coralie took a sip and grinned—Bella's coffee-making skills were better than Delilah's, but she'd never say that out loud.

Delilah lowered the volume and turned towards Coralie. "And I'm sorry." She sighed, shrinking in her seat as she rolled her eyes. Dried mascara stained beneath her lower lashes, and though she was frowning, a certain peace seemed to swirl around her. "I've been on edge, hiding my thing with Bella from you—while you've been having your affairs and being cryptic and confusing. I think, as roommates, we've sucked, lately."

"Agreed." Coralie tried a tentative smile—and her heart warmed when Delilah returned it. "I'm sorry, too. I swear, I'm planning to sort my shit out. It's getting the best of me. Catching up to me." She took a quick sip of her coffee, then gaped into the mug, uncertain how to look at Delilah while she confessed that things had gotten worse. "They were there last night."

"They?" Though Coralie kept her gaze lowered, she saw Delilah's bushy eyebrows perk up. "Who?"

"Them. The guys." Coralie drew one leg onto the couch, under herself. She let the other dangle, her foot near the floor, bracing for an escape, if she needed one. If Delilah yelled, or Bella scowled too much—she didn't have the strength to deal with their judgment this morning.

"Which ones?" Delilah moved some papers off the coffee table as Bella arrived with plates of hot pancakes. She deposited them on the table, squeezed Delilah's shoulder, then hurried back to the kitchen to fetch her own java, a bottle of syrup, silverware, and napkins.

Coralie waited for her to sit between her and Delilah before clearing her throat. "All three. Michael ambushed me in the service hallway; Ryan found me right after and almost ran after Michael. And then Chester," she gulped, unsure how much to reveal, "chatted with me by my dressing room, before my nap."

She didn't know why she'd lied—did it matter, anymore? Bella could read through her, and Delilah usually smelled the sex on her. Was it any use trying to hide the full story from them?

"Shit." Delilah took a pancake, without putting syrup on it, and bit into it. Her eyes fluttered in delight as she chewed. "This is bomb, babe," she rubbed Bella's arm, "doesn't even need syrup. But yeah, shit," she focused on Coralie, "the Facebook post, right? It drew all three to the bar?"

"I'm surprised about Michael," said Bella, drowning her pancake with the sugary syrup. She used a fork to cut off a bit, stuffed it into her mouth, chewed, and nodded. "Yes, not bad for a first time." She glanced at Coralie and winced. "You told him the truth, and still he was there?"

Coralie shrugged. "I'm as confused as you, if not more. He said he wanted to talk about it. It took me completely off guard."

"Ryan got pissed that he was there, huh?" Delilah looked ready to snort, but with a quick glimpse at Bella, she refrained. "I'm not saying it's your fault, but you do keep them hanging, don't you? What's in your vagina, girl; magic?"

Coralie almost spat out her coffee. Bella giggled, and Delilah finished off her pancake before leaving them so she could shower.

Alone with Bella, Coralie relaxed. There was less tension with her; Delilah's explosive temper and Bella's calmness were an interesting match, for sure.

"If your vagina is magic," Bella jutted her chin at Coralie's lower half, "then you need to figure out how to turn it off. Put the magic in your brain, your heart. They keep coming back for the sex, and that's great; but you're more than legs and boobs, Cora. Remember that."

***

Weighing Bella's words, Coralie decided to spend some time in Central Park. She filled a bag with notebooks, pencils, pens, and hailed a Lyft, this time—no walking for miles and exhausting herself.

It was a cool but sunny day, with sunlight reflecting on the water, a gentle breeze bristling through the leaves. The park was busy, as always, but she found a spot on a patch of grass near the shade of a massive tree, and got straight to writing. Not songs—she chose to jot down ideas in her journal.

"They were blocked—but all three showed up. I felt ambushed. Attacked. Why would they do that? If they cared about me, why wouldn't they respect the space I asked them for?"

Did she have to unblock them to yell at them once more? Or maybe to tell them all the truth, and set them on one another like animals? Why not have them figure out who was most worthy of her? A battle to the death, the winner being the one who'd get to be with Coralie.

"Ryan would win—he's the burly, broader one. Though Michael is swift and well-built, too; and Chester has been in one too many bar fights, and I've seen his swing—it's deadly."

To a chorus of chirps overhead, Coralie set her pen down and rolled her wrists. In half an hour, she'd written four pages worth of thoughts about Ryan, Michael, and Chester. And she hadn't even gotten to the description of their ambush, of their abrupt reappearance into her life.

She lounged, stretching out her legs, admiring a group of kids playing soccer nearby. So carefree, so liberated; they had no idea of what adulthood would reserve for them. Heartbreak, danger, stress, impatience, loss, depression—the works.

She seethed and returned to her writing to avoid hating the kids for giving her negative feelings they hadn't meant to.

Reopening her journal, she resumed on the fifth page by detailing the happenings with all three men, from the night before. How Michael had stayed composed, but seemed to boil under the surface. Why had he come? Why did he want to speak to her at all, ever again? He'd mentioned being familiar with cheating; had he been cheated on before? If he had, she had no doubt he'd never forgive her. She'd be lucky if they could remain friends, after all this. Was that what he'd wanted to chat about? That he'd loved her, that he'd tried, but that he couldn't get over what she'd done?

I'd understand; if anything, I'd prefer to push him away. I'm no good for him.

And Ryan, oh, Ryan—she gritted her teeth when scribbling his name on the paper. How he irked her, pushed all her buttons, created a rage in her; and yet how he enthralled and aroused her. He had a soothing touch, a melodic voice, a godly body. She couldn't stand it. He was polite, poised, well-read. Impeccable manners, a decadent wardrobe, exquisite taste, a sharp sense of humor. He had time to give, money to spend. Behind closed doors he was a beast; but that beast also unleashed outside of the bedroom, when his emotions got the best of him. He was dangerous, and tended towards violence. Not that he'd ever hit Coralie; but the thought of his savageness made her cringe.

The element of surprise was, and always would be, Chester. He was, she had to admit, the only one she could truly pour her heart out to, be honest with. But did that mean he held the keys to her heart? Or was it an illusion? Did he intoxicate her with his pretty gazes and his fancy words? He had her wrapped around his finger, in a similar daze to how Ryan hypnotized her, yet she trusted him more than she did Ryan—and that wasn't much to begin with. She trusted Michael most of all.

"Fuck," she said, throwing her pen. "Why is this so fucking hard? Why can't I just pick one and get it over with?"

Her stomach growled—she'd forgotten to bring a snack, and Bella's pancakes, though delicious, hadn't been enough of a breakfast for her. As she reached into her purse to grab her phone and browse a few sandwich shop menus, a shadow moved over her—one that had nothing to do with the tree she was sitting near.

"Huh?" She looked up, sun in her eyes, but detected someone handing her a pen—her pen, that she'd thrown. "Oh, thanks." She took the thing without bothering to pay attention to who had given it to her; until that person lowered to her level, out of the sunlight.

She could have sworn she did have magic in her vagina. Had it summoned him here? Had it read her words, the names she'd written down, and brought them to life?

Because the man stooped before her, his locks glowing gold, his eyes matching the grass, was the last one to have accessed her magic. And as he plucked at a few blades, he grinned at Coralie. "Hey." So simple, so subtle—as if he hadn't fucked her senseless the night before.

"Chester?" She took in his appearance—baggy sweatpants, long-sleeved but lightweight shirt, sweat striping over his forehead; he was on a run. In Central Park? At the same moment as she was resting there, taking time to herself?

"Fancy finding you here," he said, gesturing to a space beside her.

She nodded, though internally, she wanted nothing more than to tell him to go. She wasn't ready to see him again; not so soon. Not after the mess they'd made in her dressing room.

"You... um... coincidence?" She hurried to shut her journal before he caught a peek of her sentences—they'd grown childish in the last few paragraphs, and he didn't need to witness that side of her. "Or were you following me again?"

He chortled as he fell against the grass and let out a heavy breath. "I was running, silly. It's a coincidence."

If they'd been at work, and in the elevator, she'd have believed it; even if he had been avoiding her as he'd claimed, there were still many chances for them to bump into each other. But Central Park? A massive green space filled with people, with a multitude of pathways leading to various secluded spots or open fields of flowers or cozy coves of trees? On a breezy Sunday afternoon, boring as any other day? He didn't live close-by, nor was it his habit to run there. So why?

He lay close to her, the heat from his body radiating into her arms. She smelled him—a deodorant and sweat fragrance that reminded her of their brief after-sex moment on the rug. That same aroma of endorphins and happiness.

He didn't look at her, but focused up at the sky—or what he could view of it from behind the giant leaves sheltering them. "I was slowing down, stopping for a drink at the water fountain—" Coralie spotted said fountain across the way, "—and saw you. You've worn that outfit with me before." She snickered at her attire—red-orange leggings and an off-the-shoulder black sweater. "Your hair's pretty recognizable. And who else would be sitting there jotting away in a notebook without a care for her surroundings? You always did that, back in the day, too."

She hated how observant he was, and squinted down at him. His shirt clung to his torso, and she saw the defined lines underneath, plunging her into recollections of him fumbling with buttons while biting his lip. "You didn't have to come over and greet me."

He scoffed. "You threw your pen. I figured you'd need it."

"Great, you gave it to me, so we're good, yeah?" She didn't know why she was being so defensive; perhaps to ward him off, because the longer he stayed beside her, the more she sensed her craving grow, her memories from last night gathering in her mind, haunting her. Her legs were still sore, and she'd found a few scratches on her shoulders and back—the mere thought of them made her shake.

He raised up to his elbows and peeped at her with a mischievous air—one that resembled his pre-sex gazes from last night. "I asked—you agreed to let me sit here. If you didn't want me to, you should have said so." He raised a shoulder and huffed. "Too late now. I can't get up. I'm pooped."

His boyish innocence almost reeled her in again. He smirked at her as if they could flirt with ease, as if there was no heavy baggage shared between them. As if they hadn't destroyed a dressing room with their sexual antics the night before, and left each other in silence afterwards. As if there was no unfinished business looming in the air, no talks of taking breaks and staying distant for a while.

Fuck. He's going to make me say it, isn't he?

"You shouldn't be here, Chester—"

"—Cora," he rolled onto his stomach, colliding into her side, "you can't deny it. Our paths always cross, and that has to mean something, right?"

It meant something, all right. It meant that he was a stubborn but sexy asshole, and that the pull between them was out-of-this-world. Or that he was a sly, sassy boy who was following her and instigating all their meet-cutes on purpose.

She should have believed the latter. She should have put all her things away and stood and left him there, at once. But she was too overwhelmed by him and his audacity, too impressed by his poetic tongue and his fingers brushing through his humid hair. Too exhausted to deny the attraction, the constant tug of her body towards his. If he hadn't been following her... then it was fate, wasn't it? And who was Coralie to ignore that?

♥♥♥