Her hand is all over my thigh as she drives, from my knee to my hip and then over my dick and she rubs and rubs, half-chafing, half-pleasurable. I have to close my eyes every time she touches me so I can feel it.

Otherwise, I’m oddly numb. Is it her? Is it me? I feel like I’m watching this happen from the hood of the car, looking through the windshield.

She does a tiny striptease at every red light, and with every button she unfastens, the question pounds in my temples:

What is your name?

What is your name?

What is your name?

It matters. Would it have mattered two weeks ago? It might have been funny; a story I shared with the team about the-time-I-fucked-a-girl-at-her-place-and-never-got-her-name. But now not having a name only makes me uneasy. London made it matter.

I squeeze my eyes closed again and my stomach lurches as she careens into a parking spot, tires squealing as she stops.

Her building is only about a half mile from my place, and once inside the lobby she presses me against the stairwell, kissing me, smearing lip gloss on my chin and mouth. Each time she pulls away, it feels like a sticker being peeled from my skin until all the lip gloss is gone and it’s finally her soft mouth, the feel of real skin on skin. She’s making these tiny giggling moans every time I grab her ass, dig my fingers into her waist. I switch it up, hating this sound she makes because there’s nothing genuine about it, nothing honest.

Turning, she takes my hand and leads me up one flight of stairs to apartment 2A, and I’m shaken by a wave of déjà vu. She rubs her ass against my crotch as she bends to unlock the door and then turns, pulling me inside by the hem of my shirt. I look behind her into the apartment and concerned awareness warms my neck, my face.

I’ve been here before.

I look at her face—her lip trapped between her bleached-white teeth, her eyes hooded and seductive—and I suddenly need her to tell me her roommate isn’t home, her roommate is asleep. Something.

I’m terrified that I’ve fucked the roommate, and that she’ll show up and find me here and it’ll turn into a complete nightmare.

“Do you live alone?” I finally manage.

She shakes her head. “Melissa’s at work.” Now her eyes glint. “Why? Do you think she should join in? She’ll be home at midnight.”

I exhale in relief. That’s two hours from now. “I’m good like this.”

She gives me a wolfish smile and grabs my belt loop before turning and pulling me down the hall behind her.

In her bedroom, she shoves me against the wall and grabs the collar of my shirt, ripping the buttons off. It’s so comical, so over-the-top that I want to laugh. This girl is all Blue Steel Porn Star. I stare in bewilderment as she starts to strip, whipping me across the chest with her shirt, wiggling out of her jeans, dragging her panties down my chest.

I have the most ridiculous thought: if Margot could see this moment, she would be on her ass laughing. It’s so funny, so absurd that I want to be laughing with her.

But God, that is not helping get my dick hard.

I close my eyes and let go, give in to the rush of hooking up with a complete stranger. Her hands are determined and rough, scratching down my chest, jerking my jeans down my hips. On her knees she’s everything women think men want: all tongue and teeth, big eyes focused on my face, sucking and popping and cooing on my dick.

Condom on. She wants to ride me. I’m hard in a desperate way, like I might lose desire, not like I might go off in a flash. Her sounds are over-the-top and all for my benefit: gasping, screaming, little growls about how big my dick is, how she’s going to come all over it, how she wants me to fuck her sore and then something incomprehensible. Her hands are in her own hair, pulling in the agony of the pleasure of it.

She’s a terrible actress, and if anything it’s making me lose steam. I’m a lazy asshole, falling back on easy habits. I squeeze my eyes closed harder at the mild sting I feel at the thought.

But when I close my eyes, on impulse I think of London—her warm skin, the weight of her breasts in my palms, and the sounds that burst out of her, escaping as if she’s losing a battle—but there is nothing reminiscent of sex with London in this moment, no matter how desperately I dig for the memories of her.

Suddenly, the idea that I need to think of London in order to stay hard lights a fuse of panic in my chest. I’m a fucking idiot. I know what I want, and I’m wasting time not being near her. I’ve earned my college degree, played water polo with some of the best athletes in the world, but I’m exactly the same person I was over four years ago, the day I walked into the beach condo and fucked Ali Stirling.

I reach for the overacting beauty riding me, needing it to be over before I think too much, get too deep into introspection and freak out right here. I stroke her just right—pressing, circles, steady—and she surprises herself when she starts to need more, and faster, and the pleasure turns real. I recognize the stutter in her hips, the jerking tension in her thighs.

Desperate eyes meet mine. “Slap my tits!” she yells. “Slap my tits!”

Startled, I blink up at her. “Wh-what?”

“Slap them. Bounce them. Fuck, just do it!”

I hesitate, and with my blood instantly cooling with dread, reach up, doing as she asks and feeling myself wilt inside her even as she’s coming with a scream, nails dug into my chest.

Like it’s flipped some switch, I know why she didn’t tell me her name.

I know why the apartment felt familiar. I never fucked her roommate.

I’ve fucked this girl before.

And forgot.

* * *

MARGOT CAN BARELY breathe she’s laughing so hard.

“You were so wrong to tell me,” she gasps when she finally comes up for air. “I am never going to let you forget this night. Not ever.”

This has easily been the worst night of my adult life. I am so disgusted with myself and I know there are only two people I can share this with who will hold me accountable: Margot, and Dylan.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” I growl. “I called Dylan first, but he was too high to engage in a conversation. I had to talk to someone.”

“God, I can see why. This is so bad. Like how could you not recognize her? Her face? Her boobs? Anything!”

I shake my head against the phone, lying down on my couch with a groan. “I don’t know! I think she was blond before? She looked sort of familiar? But Margot—and this is the worst thing I’m ever going to say but too fucking bad, you’re stuck with me—she sort of looked like a million other girls. Long brown hair, skinny, big tits, lip gloss.”

“So when did you figure it out?”

Slap my tits! Slap my tits!

Shaking my head, I say, “No. No way am I telling you that.”

“Oh, God, you’re right, I don’t want to know.”

We both fall silent and I can hear her television in the background. “Will you come sleep here tonight?” I ask.

“Luke, it’s late.”

“Margooooooot,” I whine. “I feel gross and this house is so big and empty.”

“Are there even sheets on my bed?”

“I’ll put some on.”

She huffs out a little breath and I know I’ve won. “Fine, you big baby. I’ll be there in ten.”

* * *

MY BIG SISTER makes me popcorn and hot chocolate and then lets me have the good throw pillow. Her price: a foot rub while we cue up Jimmy Fallon on the DVR.