Sterling and Sloane

I hate Hamptons parties. I hate the girls who wear dresses that cost more than my entire semester's rent. I hate the boys who think "What do you study?" is foreplay. I hate the fact that every single person here is filming everything for Instagram like they're going to die if they don't prove they were invited.

"Come on, Sloane, it's our last party before you become a scary law robot!"

Maya, my cousin, my roommate, my personal chaos manager, drag me by the wrist. "It's Sterling Vance's house! THE Sterling Vance! Imagine he likes you, I can finally quit my internship!"

"This is exactly why I don't want to come," I hiss, holding my $40 dress from Zara like it's armor. "He throws a party every night. Who does that?"

"A hot, depressed billionaire heir? That's literally the plot of every book you read," she say.

She is not wrong, but still. The Vance glass mansion was exactly what you expect. Too much light, too much glass, too much everything. A DJ, a pool full of models, a bar that was literally made of ice. And in the middle of it all, a couch. On the couch was a guy in a wrinkled designer shirt with ketchup on his collar, eating an entire pizza box by himself while everyone else dances. He sees us staring.

"Yo! Are you here for Sterling's existential crisis party?" he shouts over the music. "I'm Kevin! I live here! Not like, live live, but like, I never left after sophomore year and now they just let me stay!"

Maya blinks. "You're eating pizza in a $50 million house?"

"It's free pizza," he say, completely serious. "Free pizza is free pizza. Economics. Do you want a slice? I have... eight slices left but I can share one.

Maybe." This must be the famous best friend. Kevin Park. The human golden retriever the blogs talk about.

"Where's Sterling?" I ask. Kevin point with his pizza slice toward the crowd. "Somewhere being mysterious, hot and brooding. He does that. He stands in a corner and looks like he's in a cologne ad. It's his thing."

I look, and yeah. Sterling Vance is standing by the bar, but not drinking. Dark hair, black suit, white shirt open at the collar, hands in his pockets. He looks bored out of his mind while three girls try to get his attention. He doesn't even look at them. He looks at the door, like he's waiting for someone to leave. Or waiting for a reason to leave himself. "Go talk to him," Maya whispers.

"He's hot when he's depressed."

"No."

"Sloane Parker, you have not had fun in six months. Go be a person for ten minutes." She pushes me. I stumble forward, straight into the path of a waiter, and to save myself, I escape to the balcony.

It is quiet. The ocean, the cold air, no music. I breathe for the first time tonight.

"You're hiding too?"

I jump. Sterling Vance is on the balcony. He wasn't here two seconds ago. How did he get here so fast? He's leaning on the glass railing, looking out at the beach. Close up he's even more annoying. Perfect jaw, annoyingly expensive watch, and tired eyes. Like really, actually tired.

"I wasn't hiding," I say quickly. "I was... getting air."

"Same," he says. "There are 200 people in my house who want something from me. You're the first person tonight who ran away from me."

"Don't get used to it," I say. He finally looks at me and smiles.

"What's your name, Zara Dress Girl?"

"Sloane. And it's not Zara... "

"It is Zara," he says. "I know. My sister has the same one. In blue."

"Okay, Mr. Knows Zara," I say, crossing my arms. "Why do you throw a party every night if you hate everyone here?"

He doesn't get offended. He thinks about it. "Because if the house is full, I don't have to hear how empty it is," he says quietly. The honesty knocks the air out of me. For a second we just stand there. Two strangers hiding from the same party.

"You know, for a guy who has everything, you look like you don't actually like anyone here," I say, softer this time.

"For a girl who hates parties, you came to the worst party in New York," he says.

"I was dragged."

"By the girl who is now trying to steal my best friend's pizza?" I look inside. Maya is now sitting next to Kevin on the couch, arguing over the last slice. Kevin is losing. I laugh.

Sterling looks at me like he's never heard someone laugh at his house before. "What do you study, Sloane-who-hates-parties?" he asks.

"Law. Columbia. Senior year. I want to be a public defender."

"That's... not profitable," he says, teasing.

"Not everything has to be profitable, Sterling-who-throws-parties-to-not-feel-empty." He winces, but in a good way. Like I hit something true.

"Touché."

We talk. I don't know how long. The music inside gets louder, then quieter. People come and go.

Maya peeks out once, sees us, and mouths "OH MY GOD" and disappears. We talk about law school. About why I want to defend people who can't afford lawyers. He talks about the sketchbook he had as a kid; an eco-resort that his father told him was "cute, but unprofitable." He says he's never told anyone that.

"You should build it," I tell him. He looks at me like no one has ever said that to him. It's past midnight and the balcony is cold. He takes off his suit jacket and puts it around my shoulders. It smells like expensive cologne and... pizza. Kevin must have hugged him.

"You don't have to... " I start.

"I know," he says. His hand lingers on my shoulder. "Sloane... do you want to get out of here? Just... somewhere quieter? To keep talking?"

I should say no. My five-year plan does not include billionaire heirs on balconies. But his eyes are not playing. He's not flirting. He's asking. And I'm tired of always doing what my plan says.

"Okay," I whisper. "Just talking."

He nods. "Just talking." He takes my hand and leads me upstairs, away from the 200 people downstairs who want something from him. Just talking. That's what we both said. We did talk. For three more hours. And then we stopped talking.

I wake up because the sun is rude. The Vance glass mansion has no curtains. Billionaires love natural light and no privacy.

For three seconds, I don't know where I am. Softest sheets I've ever felt. Ocean view. A suit jacket that smells like cologne and pizza hanging off a chair. And a hand... a warm, heavy hand, resting very lightly on my waist over the covers.

Oh no. No no no no. Memory comes back in flashes. Not explicit flashes; my brain mercifully deleted the details, but flashes of talking, laughing, his sketchbook, my five-year plan. Him saying "You make me feel normal." Me saying "You don't have to be the disappointment son tonight." And then both of us saying at the same time: "We shouldn't do this." And then both of us saying: "Do you want to?" And both of us saying: "Yes."

I had one glass of wine at 9pm. He wasn't drinking at all. We were sober, awake, conscious and we made a choice. A mutual, clear, adults-making-a-bad-decision choice. Which makes it