Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

“I’m sorry, too, Cara,” I said quietly.

  “Serena and I are just talking about how we’re desperate for a smoke.” Lilly gripped my forearm, her eyes still on Cara. “Do you mind? I just can’t seem to beat the ol’ habit.”

  I felt unsteady on my feet as Lilly pulled me up from my chair.

  “Of course! Go ahead,” Cara said. “Should we pause the game?”

  “Oh no, not at all! Keep the party going without us! We’ll be quick. Won’t we, Serena?”

  I followed Lilly outside as I shrugged on my coat, grateful for the fresh air. The entire restaurant wobbled around me. I was tipsy, maybe even drunk, and I hadn’t even meant to drink. The lightness I’d felt earlier transformed into a dense, dead weight in my chest.

  “I’ve been at eighth grade birthday parties better than that,” Lilly said, the moment we were out on the street.

  As much as I hadn’t enjoyed Cara’s regimented idea of a girls’ night out, Lilly was being pretty rude about a woman she didn’t really know.

  “It was interesting,” I said, leaning back against the brick exterior of the restaurant. “That’s for sure.”

  “Interesting? Aren’t you in advertising?” Lilly laughed. “I thought you’d have a better word for it.”

  “Beguiling?” I offered.

  “Ha! Mortifying.”

  I hesitated. “Eerie.”

  “Pathetic.”

  I didn’t respond. I thought about going back inside, but the cold air felt good on my skin.

  “There’s this party tonight . . .” She fished her phone from her pocket. “You should come with me. I’ll call us a Lyft.”

  “Like, now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can’t leave right now . . . Dinner isn’t over—”

  “Why not? We already paid Cara online. Remember, we had to ‘preorder’ our fun?”

  I laughed nervously, thinking about how rude it would be to disappear. I suppose it wouldn’t be any worse than my behavior the whole evening.

  “Our driver will be arriving in one minute.” Lilly smiled.

  “Lilly,” I hesitated, feeling pulled in three directions. (Back inside, away with her, and, groggily, to the ground.) “We can’t.”

  “We can,” she said, gingerly. “And we will. But they won’t let you in if you look drunk, OK?”

  Did I look drunk to her? Maybe I was. It felt awful to think it. To be honest, it felt plain awful.

  I didn’t want to go back inside, but I didn’t feel like being alone yet, either. So when a red sedan pulled up and Lilly crawled into the backseat, I got in after her. I closed my eyes as soon as I buckled up, and I must have fallen asleep because suddenly, I felt her hand on my knee, shaking me awake.

  “It’s just there.” She pointed to a town house as we got out of the car. I blinked hard, looking up and down the street. I had no idea where we were.

  “I used to come here all the time with my ex-boyfriend. Got the taste for it . . .”

  Lilly linked arms with me as I half tripped over the flat pavement. She whispered something, but I couldn’t make it out over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

  A bouncer let us into the house. Why there was a bouncer at a house party, I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t in a state to question things.

  “Do you want to get me a vodka tonic?” asked Lilly, once we were inside. She disappeared behind a beaded curtain before I had a chance to reply, so I took in the room. It was empty except for a bar with nobody standing behind it, and almost ghostly in its lack of decor or character. I could hear noises coming from somewhere else in the house, but it didn’t sound like music. At least, no music that I’d ever listened to.

  “Drink?” A head popped up from behind the bar, a young woman. I admired her neck tattoo, much bolder than my own, and then tried not to look too much at her top, which was so transparent I wondered if it was meant to be lingerie.

  “One vodka tonic,” I said, approaching her. “And a water? A big water.”

  She smiled at me, and I took a seat on one of the stools. I propped myself up on my elbows and let my head fall into my hands as my eyes closed. The whole room was spinning, faster and in wider circles. I don’t know how long I was sitting there, but I was jolted from my reverie by a gruff voice to my left.

  “First time?”

  It was raspy, clearly male, and I sighed, still not opening my eyes. I hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  “Look, I’m not really in the mood for this.”

  “What aren’t ya in the mood for, hon?”

  “This,” I said, rather curtly.

  Did I really have to spell out that I was half asleep, and not really in the mood to get chatted up?

  “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m simply buying my wife a drink and thought I’d be friendly. My apologies, miss—”

  “Oh!” I opened my eyes, feeling terrible for making assumptions. “Sorry, I . . .” I trailed off when I turned and caught sight of the man sitting next to me.

  He was old. Very old.

  And very . . . naked.

  I stuck my hand out in front of me to shield the view. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Pardon? I was just being friendly!”

  “No, not that!”

  “What’s going on?” cried a voice to my left.

  I turned. A woman, an older, naked woman, was standing next to me. She crossed her arms over her bare chest, waiting for the naked man to reply. It was a gesture of curiosity, not one of modesty; it was if she didn’t even know her breasts were out.

  “Harold,” she snapped. “What are you doing? What did you say to her?”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “I told you. We can’t come here if you’re going to be a creep!”

  “I’m not a creep, Mary-Jean. I just said hello, and she got all hostile with me!”

  “Hostile?” Now the naked woman’s arms were crossed at me. She was the same height as me sitting down, and it was hard not to look at her nipples. “Why are you being hostile?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to figure out if I was hallucinating. The bartender reappeared and set down the drinks I’d ordered. Even she was gawking at me.

  “I . . .” I stammered. Why was everyone looking at me? I was the only one wearing real clothing!

  “I’m really confused and don’t understand why you’re naked . . .” Just as I finished my sentence, Lilly appeared from behind the beaded curtain.

  My breath caught.

  Except for the nipple tassels, Lilly, too, was naked.

  Where the hell was I?

  “She looks lost, doesn’t she, Harold?” I heard the naked woman say.

  “I . . .”

  I didn’t finish the sentence. I lost my words and my bearings when I registered the scene behind Lilly, appearing and disappearing as strings of beads swung back and forth in her wake.

  More naked people. A blur of naked people laughing, drinking.

  Screwing.

  I was in a sex club.

  No. The Twilight Zone. A naked Twilight Zone.

  “So, what do you think?” Lilly asked me, drawing closer. She slapped a twenty down on the bar and grabbed her vodka tonic.

  “I don’t know what to think, Lilly.” I massaged my temple, dumbfounded.

  “It’s couples night.” She shrugged. “They wouldn’t have let me in if I turned up by myself.”

  My throat started to close up, and I grabbed my water and chugged it until I’d swallowed every last drop.

  The first time I put myself out there, and this is what happens?

  I felt used and small. Downright foolish. It wasn’t that she had brought me to a sex club. (The naked couple next to me and the people behind the curtain looked like they were having a hell of a lot of fun.) It w
as that she had lied to me. She had been rude to all those women back at the dinner, and to make matters worse, I had gone along with it. I had egged her on. Is that who I was?

  Was a woman like Lilly the only kind of person I deserved to be friends with?

  I knew it would be hard making new friends as an adult. But I didn’t know it would be like this.

  9

  Is it a hangover, sweetie? Or heartbreak?”

  Becket was teasing me. He had also never called me “sweetie” before. I rolled over on my pillow, pressing my cell into my other ear, and refused to acknowledge either comment.

  “It’s tough out there—”

  I groaned, cutting him off. Everything hurt. Even the sound of his voice.

  “You’ve got to be careful of those players, you know. They’ll say anything to get you into . . . a sex cl—” He burst into a fit of giggles, unable to finish his sentence. I couldn’t help but laugh, too, but the vibrations made my temple throb even harder.

  “You’re killing me, Becket.”

  “Aw, hon. You sound awful. Should I come over?”

  I shook my head into the pillow.

  I hated that a few (or more) sips of cosmos could render me hungover, that I was hungover in the first place. Had I really turned to alcohol because I was sad? That felt even more pathetic than hearing the Spice Girls gossip about me in the restroom.

  I imagined telling Natasha about Cosmos and Conversations later that morning at brunch, role-playing what she would say, how I would respond.

  Are you sure you didn’t subconsciously want to let loose, sis? she might ask. I didn’t think it was true, but maybe it was. And suddenly I was angry at imaginary Natasha for asking.

  “I should go get ready,” I said quietly. I could hear Becket breathing into the phone. “I’m meeting Natasha in an hour.”

  “That’ll be nice.” He paused. “What about afterward?”

  I knew what Becket was angling at. He wanted to know what else I had planned for my Saturday, when I’d be free to see him again, even though he’d stayed over only two nights earlier.

  I had nothing planned. After brunch with Natasha, and a pedicure if she was up for it, I’d be free as a bird. I’d be free to bury myself in my work, my career, like I did most weekends.

  Free to go to a sex club, if I desired. Ha!

  “I might go shopping,” I said finally. “I left my gloves in the Lyft last night.”

  He didn’t answer, and I gritted my teeth. I hated how hard this was for me. Why did I have to spell it out for him? Why couldn’t he just understand? I liked dating him, but I wasn’t going to spend every free moment with my boyfriend. Just because I didn’t have any other plans. That was how it started. And I would never, ever do it again.

  “I’ll call you when I’m done?” I said it more like a question to myself, to both of us.

  I could hear him smile from the other end of the line, his muscles unclenching just as mine stiffened even more.

  “Sounds good. See you later, sweetie.”

  Sweetie. Hon. Sweetie again. What was next?

  I felt more human after I showered and changed into fresh clothes. Outside, the air was still cool and crisp, and I sighed deeply as I skipped down the front stoop of my building. I loved mornings, even when it was drizzling. I loved my neighborhood. And I loved going to brunch at my favorite Australian coffee shop with Natasha, where we’d go nearly every Saturday if she didn’t spend the previous night at Mark’s. Of course, that was before she got engaged, and every weekend we spent together became all about Pinterest boarding and wedding errands. Before she got married, pregnant, and moved out of my spare bedroom.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early, my anxiety rising at the idea of seeing her again. It had been nearly a month, which was probably the longest time we’d ever been apart in our lives. After putting my name down on the list, I went back outside and waited in the sun, swapping out my wire-rim frames for sunglasses.

  “Serena, for two?”

  I looked over. The host, a new guy I didn’t recognize, had stuck his head out the open window, beckoning me.

  I raised my hand, rousing myself. God, I was looking forward to some good coffee. “Here.”

  The host looked at me, confused.

  “My sister should be here any minute.”

  “We can’t seat you until you’re both here.”

  Crap. I knew that yet had completely forgotten. I told the host to seat the next two people in line, and I texted Natasha.

  ETA?? I’m at the front of the line.

  I waited, watched my message go from “delivered” to “read.”

  And then nothing.

  My stomach lurched. She would be coming from Georgetown that morning. Maybe she was on the subway and didn’t have service at the moment to respond, but I doubted that she would take public transport. Maybe she was driving? But she wouldn’t have looked at her phone then. She was a real stickler about not texting and driving; I’d made sure of that.

  When another minute went by and she didn’t reply, I texted again.

  ?

  The message went immediately to “read,” and a beat later, she responded.

  I’m on the bathroom floor. MORNING SICKNESS IS REAL. Maybe next Sat? Soz.

  Soz? That was all I fucking got, not even a real sorry?

  I was crestfallen. No. I was angry. I glanced at my watch. It was fifteen minutes past when we were supposed to meet, and she’d waited until now to tell me she couldn’t make it—and only after I texted her. Why was she so inconsiderate?

  My nose was running, and I wiped it with my sleeve as I went back into the restaurant. The host greeted me warmly in the cramped foyer, and I told him it was just me. He led me to an open stool at the end of the coffee bar next to the kitchen, and I put in my order immediately: drip coffee, milk and two sugars, and an eggs Benny.

  Natasha always had the same.

  I didn’t want to text her back, but I did. Of course I did. I told her I hoped she felt better, that I loved her, and to let me know when she was free. After, I deleted our entire message history and promised myself I wouldn’t reach out unless she texted me first. Unless she made an effort.

  The restaurant was packed, my breakfast was slow to arrive, and I found myself hunching farther and farther down in my seat, feeling exactly how I’d felt sitting there on the toilet with my feet tucked behind me, eavesdropping on the Spice Girls.

  Pathetic.

  I craned my neck around toward the kitchen. A waiter expertly balancing four plates on his hands gave me a small shrug that said my order would still be a while. I’d caught up on all my morning news, and I hadn’t even thought to bring a book. Reluctantly, I connected to the Wi-Fi and then opened the App Store on my phone. Facebook was always the very first suggestion, as if Apple couldn’t understand why I hadn’t downloaded it.

  Maybe I should just download it, I considered. Maybe I was still living in the twentieth century, resisting the ways people made and maintained social connections. I used Facebook and other social media all the time for my career, but it was always from a consumer and business angle, never a personal one.

  Could I join a group, like the one Becket had in Ireland, and meet new people—hopefully, nice people who didn’t con me into going to a sex club? (I suppose, with Facebook, I could check out their profiles beforehand as a semblance of a vetting process.) Maybe I could even reconnect with acquaintances from high school and university I’d completely lost touch with. If I wanted things to change, didn’t I need to change?

  I decided to find out.

  My coffee arrived, and I sipped it, waiting for Facebook to download. After, I opened the app, and it prompted me to enter some information, so I offered the bare minimum—my first name and last initial, phone number, high school and university graduating c
lasses. Immediately, the page jumped forward, and I was inundated with profiles, suggested friends. I scrolled through the list, careful not to click “Add Friend” on any of them. Natasha, Mark, the girls from high school, friends and acquaintances that had flitted in and out of my life.

  Jesse was there, too. I’d been expecting him. In his profile picture, he was standing alone, a bright blue sky as his backdrop. He had gray hairs now, and there were faint wrinkles around his eyes and lips. My heart lurched. He was as handsome as ever. If anything, age had made him only more attractive.

  It had been more than a month since I’d caught a glimpse of him jogging. The red tuque. The neon green athletic jacket. Had that blur really been him? I hadn’t run after him. There was no point in finding out the truth, because it wouldn’t change a thing. And clicking on his profile right now, snooping on a life that I’d turned down, wouldn’t change anything, either.

  I could feel myself wavering as I set my phone down on the ledge, telling myself to stop. But I couldn’t. I clicked.

  Jesse Dhillon.

  There was no information in his profile about where he lived or currently worked; still, I scrolled down, unable to control myself. Finally, another picture appeared.

  It was dated four years earlier, and the location was tagged to a suburb forty minutes northeast of DC. My breath caught as I zoomed in. He was there, two small children on his lap, the arms of a beautiful Indian woman draped around his neck: Anadi. They were on a crowded backyard deck, sitting among other couples and families, everyone smiling except Jesse, who was looking at something off camera. His was mouth was half open, mid-sentence. I wondered what he was saying. I wondered who he was speaking to off camera.

  I glanced down at the photo caption, tears falling from my cheeks.

  BBQ time with the gang!

  It had been twelve years since I let myself cry over him. Twelve years since I’d felt so exposed.

  My chest ached, and I felt myself falling, right there, even with my feet planted firmly on the floor. Without eating, I left a twenty-dollar bill next to my plate and then left.

  It had started raining. Not the kind of rain meant for magical nights and first kisses, but really pissing down. I trudged toward home, soaked, my thoughts swirling. I thought about calling Natasha and then kicked myself, forgetting the promise I’d made only thirty minutes earlier to keep my distance. But I wanted her to say the words that I desperately needed to hear right now.