Page 27 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Gen

I feel like a shell of myself as the sun peeks through the blinds. I crack my eyes open and immediately regret it. Nausea roils in my stomach, intensifying when my brain starts to replay the events of the previous night.

The argument with Will. Sobbing at the bar with Olivia. Seeing Grant.

Grant .

I feel my face flush as I remember waking up on his chest in a janitor’s closet, the memory of him and Sloane taking care of me softening the dull ache in my head.

I roll my lips together, fully aware that I’m laying in bed more hungover than I’ve ever been in my life, smiling to myself.

My mind shifts again, a different closet coming into focus as my eyes catch on the winter coat I had on over my gown, now sprawled over the chair in the far corner of my room.

The coat closet. A girl—not Liv. Will’s walk of no shame at all.

The acidic remnants of last night’s drinks crawl up my throat and I sit up, bolting to the bathroom in a blur, barely making it into the toilet before retching.

My eyes water from the force of it as I rest my forehead against the palm of my hand, waiting for another wave before I get up to wash my face.

I stare at the back of the toilet seat, remembering everything Will and I said in the car, and sadness threatens to overwhelm me.

Olivia sat at that bar, commiserating with me to an extent, but she was so okay while I was…

distraught. Watching Will walk out of that closet with that raven-haired girl felt like the biggest slap in the face.

It wasn’t that he’d hooked up with someone who wasn’t me—I mean, story of my life, at this point.

It was the realization that I can’t stop his spiral like I once thought I could.

It was the look in his eye when he saw me spot him.

Like he wanted me to see him be so reckless, wanted to try to hurt me because maybe I hurt him by not being there for him the way I always have.

Did it because the thought of me not needing only him is new and maybe painful.

The memory has my bones feeling heavy, makes it hard to stand up off the floor and wash away the remnants of last night. I love Will. I will always love him, but not in the way I have. I can’t.

The realization has hot tears bleeding into the water I’m splashing on my face.

Letting go of the way I loved him feels like a betrayal. But holding onto it won’t help him, and it’ll only hurt me.

I look at myself in the mirror, try to manifest this new, done version of me.

A shower helps, the lather of my shampoo and the hypnotic rinse of my body wash lulling me into an avoidant trance.

But as soon as I step out of the shower, there’s Will calling me, the pieces of my fractured heart floating to the surface.

I ignore the call, knowing it’s far too soon for him to have meaningfully reflected on who he’s become, and immediately see hours old texts from Grant.

Grant

I know you won’t see this till you wake up, but I just wanted to tell you how glad I am I got to see you tonight.

And I hope Sloane’s driving didn’t scare you.

If you’re hungover, try ginger tea.

The warmth that floods me makes me temporarily forget how shattered Will left me. And that’s really it—Grant makes everything better, makes me better. Every moment with him, the entire Earth tilts on its axis, and I’m in no way eager to put it back.

It’s hard not to believe that the crack Will made in our little world wasn’t intentional, that it isn’t the universe's way of telling me it’s time to push myself out, Grant’s entrance in my life the final shove out of the gaping wound Will created inside of me.

One that I’ve been living in for so long, became so used to that it was hard to see what it really was.

Something dead, decaying even. Something that can’t be resuscitated.

I throw on an oversized ballet company tee and some leggings before moving into the kitchen, letting my legs make their way to the coffee pot sitting on the counter, convincing myself caffeine for the headache is more important than ginger for the nausea.

The beans are already ground and put in a filter ready to be brewed.

I smile seeing a little post, left behind by Sloane .

I thought you might need this. Call me when you wake up so I know you’re still alive please.

I can’t help but chuckle as I snag my phone off the charger and dial Sloane’s number. She picks up on the first ring.

“Well hello my sleeping beauty! Glad to see you’re alive. I was actually beginnin’ to get worried.” Her light southern drawl is like sunshine, slightly lessening my hangover.

“I can’t believe I slept until two pm,” I reply, pouring the freshly brewed coffee into my mug before moving to the fridge to pull out my favorite creamer.

“Honey, I can. I thought you didn’t really drink?” She’s laughing now, the sound even more melodic than her voice and I envy her easy carefree nature, the kind that seems to invite everyone in. I can’t help but wonder if Sloane tires from everyone wanting a little piece of her.

“Please, don’t remind me.” I bring the steaming coffee to my lips and inhale the scent deep into my lungs.

I hear shuffling in the background, then another lively voice yelling “ Bonjourrrr” in a familiar sing-song.

I narrow my eyes in concentration, trying to sleuth my way into knowing who is coming through in the background.

“Are you with Jean?” I ask, the surprise in my tone palpable. Sloane giggles.

“Yes, we’re besties now.” I hear Jean chime in with a “ She’s mine now, bitch” . “We’re actually on our way to you with a delicious, but room temperature, bacon egg and cheese.”

I cringe, my nausea coming back in a wave. “I still resemble death, so come at your own risk. ”

“A risk we are willing to take!” The phone clicks and I quickly start tidying my apartment.

My place is simple—definitely not as grand as some of the apartments the other kids at Astor have—but Ken didn’t necessarily skimp.

It’s typically pristine, but with the endless Sugar Plum rehearsals and the time I've been spending with Grant, things have sort of gotten away from me. The all marble island is littered with ballet gear, homework, and coats that I haphazardly threw down. I quickly gather the debris, tossing most of it on my bed before making my way back to the bathroom to wipe down the counters. I’m just putting the towel away when I hear the doorbell chime.

I open the door only to be met with a disgusting level of attractiveness, a level that no two people should have at their disposal.

Sloane looks like she just stepped out of a country music video with her low rise jeans and cropped band t-shirt exposing a small belly ring.

Her perfectly scuffed cowboy boots make her model-esque frame even taller, and her mid length coat with a sherpa collar is exactly the type of thing I could never pull off.

Her long blonde waves fall down her shoulders effortlessly and a pair of extremely cute aviators—that I make a mental note to ask her to borrow—rest on the bridge of her nose.

Jean, on the other hand, is stupid handsome, but not in a generic, pretty boy kind of way.

More-so in a high fashion, jawline that could kill a man way.

He’s perfect for ballet, his body long and leanly muscled.

His skin is a silky cream color, the paleness contrasting with his jet black hair.

It’s an attractiveness so obvious, he doesn’t need anything more than an indecently cut pair of jeans and weathered band tee to look like a walking Urban Outfitters ad.

“It’s worse than I expected.” Sloane’s voice drips with honey, her accent like a hug. She eyes me, taking in my hungover and disheveled appearance.

“I—I showered.” My voice comes out like a squawk, still warming up from sleeping for such a long stretch, as I grab for the damp, tangled bun I made without looking in the mirror.

“Uh huh…” Jean says, peering down before pushing past me and flopping on my couch like he’s done a million times, connecting his phone’s music to my tv.

Sloane, still at the front door, pushes her glasses to the top of her head, revealing her sapphire irises.

They’re hard to describe, almost the same shade as Grant’s, pools of blue so dark you could get lost in them.

Her dimples are deep as she smiles at me, and it’s honestly striking how similar her and her brother look.

“Gen—your starin’.” Her tone is amused and I hear Jean laugh behind me. “Can I come in?” She nods her head past me.

I blush and open the door wider, letting her pass. She plops down beside Jean like she’s been here before and takes out a tiny pink vape, offering it to me. I quickly shake my head no, causing another chuckle to escape from Jean as he casually plucks the vape from Sloane’s hand.

“This is definitely not Gen’s thing,” he says on an inhale. Sloane raises an eyebrow at me curiously, examining me not for the first time.

“So what is your thing Miss Dupont, other than ballet…and my brother, I guess?”

My face burns with embarrassment as I remember the two of them looking for Grant and I as we got lost in each other in that shack.

Jean exhales smoke from the vape billowing around him .

“Will Chapman,” he says, his voice hoarse from a cough trying to escape and I cringe.

“Ah—yes, him.” Sloane’s voice comes out almost disgusted.

Her face is pinched and I can tell she doesn’t like that answer.

I knew she met him at a random team dinner, but her disdain is clear.

Sloane doesn’t seem like the type of girl to fall at anyone’s feet, much less a guy like Will’s, and for that, I’m grateful.

“I’m over that now,” I say, straightening myself as I lower beside Jean on the sofa. He pinches his eyes at me, observing. “Olivia ended things with him and…well?—”