The Boy on Bike Nine Part II

*Trigger warning*

Part II

I woke up to Julian's hands exploring my body. Boundaries. You need to set boundaries, Sarah, I told myself. 

"Your boobs are incredible. Even in a sport’s bra but God damn…” I lay there, frozen, unable to swat him away. It usually feels good when people play with my nipples, but only when it's consensual. Julian thought his hospitality gave him authority to touch me. 

I remembered his comment from the night before. He was groping the body parts he fantasized about and admittedly stared at during each $35 spin class he purchased. I wondered if he liked my music, coaching, or just my perky tits. I felt cheap, but I didn't leave. Instead, I excused myself to the bathroom. He pouted and asked me to come back to bed. I ignored his request and pointed to my toothbrush in my mouth to avoid any verbal interaction. My mouth began to fill with minty foam and dreads. I could smell the bacon wafting its way from the grill on the patio. 

"Why did you come then?" He asked, annoyed.

I lied. "I enjoy your company, but we don't know each other too well." I don't know why it was so hard for me to tell him the truth, that I wasn't interested. That even if I did get to know him better, I was using him for his Hamptons share house just as much as he was using me to look cool in front of his friends for bringing his fitness instructor. 

"Ok," he said. "I guess I respect that."

Oh, you guess? I thought. "Friends?" I asked. 

"Yeah, friends," he scoffed and stormed downstairs to make breakfast before the pool party the Harvards were throwing that afternoon. A Hamptons cottage pool party was a standard daytime move if you didn't buy a table at one of the beach clubs, like Gurneys. Blowup swans floated atop the glistening water, which stayed still and serene moments before the phalanx of Harvards cannonballed in. 

It didn't take Julian long to start flirting with the other women in revealing bikinis the Harvards had invited over for the day party. I watched as his eyes fixated on another girl's breasts, who undoubtedly came over for the free booze and pool. What a thirsty hoe, I thought, as I sipped on a White Claw from the cooler. The liquid became hard to swallow when I realized I was judging her while I did the Exact. Same. Thing.

That night, the Harvards booked a table at Ruschmeyers, a dive bar with picnic tables and string lights in the middle of the woods. Everyone was drunk from drinking by the pool all afternoon, but they rallied thanks to the drugs. I took a bump, even though coke makes me irrational because I wanted a pick-me-up. Maybe I would meet some nicer people at the bar. 

Time goes by differently when you're shitfaced. Bits and pieces of the night blend into each other, not seamlessly, but more like patchwork; a quilt of random interactions sewn together into a blanket of alcohol and haze. Before I knew it, hours had gone by, and Julian and the Harvards were nowhere to be found. I texted him, "where are you guys?" but he didn't reply. I called but got his voicemail. I stood on one of the picnic tables to gain some height and perspective—maybe he was still in the crowd. I checked Uber, but the surge prices were upwards of $80 to go a mile! Screw that, I thought. 

"Hey! Hey, I know you. You're Sarah." I saw a tall, blonde guy but couldn't place him. "You led the charity ride for the Special Olympics last month. We talked about the marathon…"

I had forgotten his name but feigned recognition.

"Josh."

Right, Josh, of course, yeah. The hazy fog from the alcohol lifted momentarily as I began to put it all together. At that particular charity ride, we gave out prizes and T-shirts. Josh came early to help set up. He seemed genuine and sweet. Selfish assholes don't run marathons to raise awareness for the less fortunate, right? 

"Need a drink?"

"Actually, more like a ride. My friends—uh, well, the people I came here with are gone."

"What? That's wack," he said. "Stick with us. You can crash at ours," he assured me, handing me a bottle of tequila. I was already drunk, so I cocked my head in hesitation. The word "no" didn't leave my lips. He pulled back the bottle slightly, still lingering it in front of my face. "But you gotta help us finish this." I snagged the bottle and took a swig, forcing the bitter liquid down my throat trying to counter-act the bile forcing its way up.

That night I went home with Josh and his friends to their share-house in East Hampton, a thirty-minute car ride away. Josh let me sleep on the bed, and he took the couch, despite my objection. I felt safe. 

"Serafina," he mumbled in his drunken stupor.

"What?"

"Can I take you there next week for dinner?"

"Sure," I said. A proper date at a standard time with a nice guy whose eyes locked into mine when we spoke. "That sounds nice." Josh never took me to Serafina. In fact, I never heard from him again, but I remember his altruism. 

In the morning, I left early, even though I was invited to stay for breakfast. I wanted to get my stuff and get the hell out of the Hamptons. In the Uber back to Montauk, I rerouted the driver to drop me off in town instead of the house. My hangover was creeping in, and I wanted a bagel. 

The line at Goldberg's, the only bagel spot in town, was down the street and had an approximately forty-five-minute wait time. I stood there, in my outfit from the night before, alone, and waited silently, wishing I had sunglasses to hide the droopy makeup that had run down my face. 

There was Julian, sitting down, chowing on a bacon egg and cheese on an everything bagel, a classic New York-style hangover cure, at a table outside with half of the Harvards. We locked eyes, but he looked down, this time at the floor, not my breasts. My once-made-up face began to melt in the sun. My breath still smelled like tequila. 

Julian sheepishly shuffled over in my direction, eyes still on the ground. "Do you want me to, like, wait for you?" he mumbled.

"I'm good," I said, and he turned around and headed back to his Benz. 

The rest of the Harvards dawdled to Goldbergs not long after his departure and waved at me, awkwardly, not enthusiastically as they had upon my arrival. It was obvious to be they felt embarrassed for Julian. I asked the couple standing in front of me to hold my spot and marched over to the group. 

"I'll grab the bagels," I offered. "I'm twenty minutes ahead of you guys."

"Are you sure?" they said, "Sorry for leaving you last night."

"It's ok," I said, even though it wasn't. 

"Just put your order on my card," a Harvard said with arrogance. It's one thing to offer me expensive drinks and a place to spend the weekend when you're trying to 'get it in', but his offer to buy me breakfast the morning after I had been humiliated by his friend made me feel small. Like I couldn't afford a fucking bagel.

When my turn came, I placed their order and got myself a dozen bagels, half a pound of lox, and a pint of OJ – freshly squeezed, not Tropicana, which I charged to his Platinum Amex. My meal probably cost a hundred bucks, but I doubt he would notice. 

"Want a ride back?" the miscellaneous Harvard asked. I refused and told him I'd come by to pick up my things. Luckily, my friend from High School was staying nearby. Her share house was full, but she told me I could wait there until the next train arrived. The two of us Ubered to Balfour road so I could have some backup. 

When I walked in, the Harvards sat around the oak table in the kitchen snorting more cocaine, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. I marched upstairs to the master suite. The California King was unmade, and the room smelled like sex. 

One of the Harvards crept into the bedroom as I gathered my belongings. Julian and the other woman had carelessly thrown my stuff all over the floor – before, during, or after their sexcapades. I hoped they had the decency not to fuck atop my shit. 

The man who entered the room — the one on whose credit card I charged my family-sized order — apologized for leaving me the night before. He told me he wanted to make it up to me as he inched closer. I told him not to worry about it as I stepped back. 

 "So, uh, can I have your number? The least I can do is take you to dinner. On me, of course." I noticed his eyes shift from eye level then lower, looking at me like a lion looks at a hyena before it pounces. 

This particular Harvard had invited a girl he was talking to on Bumble to the share house. The two of us talked for almost an hour about music and how excited he was for his lady friend to arrive. When she finally did, he was MIA. His girl and I bonded and went inside to find him fucking someone else on what was to be their bed for the weekend. Even after I witnessed that encounter he had the audacity to ask me out.

Who the fuck do you think you are? I shouted, but only in my head. I stood there, bags in hand, as he blocked the doorway. He reached into his pocket to pull out his iPhone. "No, I insist," he continued, reaching to help me with my bags. I was still struggling to say "no." 

I took a deep inhale. "I'd rather not," I said. 

"Really? I'll take you anywhere you wanna go."

"I SAID NO!" I bellowed as I pushed him aside. "I don't want Julian, I don't want you, I want to go home, so BACK OFF."

Although Harvard hovered over six feet and I'm only 5'3.5, which I round to 5’4, on a good day, I felt big — like Popeye does after he eats his spinach – and it felt good. 

He scoffed before returning to the kitchen with the rest of them, eager to shove shit up his nose and wait for the next crowd of unsuspecting innocent girls to arrive and most likely treat them the exact same way.

As I walked proudly out of the door I heard the Harvards shitting on Julian. “You fucked up, man.”

Julian texted me an apology when I was halfway to Manhattan. Perhaps he was too ashamed to do it face-to-face. 

The following week there was someone else sitting on bike nine. Julian never took my class again. I saw his Instagram pop up a month or so later with a happy anniversary post of him and his girlfriend. I wonder if she ever found out. Regardless, I assume he’ll be headed back ‘Out East’ this weekend to do it all again.