A roll of tingles sashays up my spine. “No. I mean . . . sex with a woman.”
Steph spins round. “Hang on. This girl Luna . . . Is this a date?”
“Maybe. She’s superhot, in a Eurasian Ruby Rose sort of way. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“You,” Steph says, “and a girl?”
“You’re being surprisingly judgy for a lez.”
“I’m not being judgy,” Steph says. “I just didn’t think you’d actually go through with that one.”
“Why not?”
“I love you, darling,” Steph says, turning back to her closet. “But you’re a boring heterosexual, and you always will be.”
I can’t conjure a retort. As much as Steph covets an all-access pass to my brain, she doesn’t know everything about me. I like Luna. And not in a let’s-do-spin-class-then-get-smoothies kind of way. In a put-your-mouth-on-my-mouth-and-let’s-get-freaky kind of way.
Steph holds up a short blue tent dress. “What about this? It’s so short you can see pubes.”
I pretend to consider it. “No. You’re a boring T-shirt and jeans girl, and you always will be.”
“Lace.”
I grab Steph’s towel from the back of her door. “You’re just jealous. That I’ve got a date with a girl and you don’t.”
Steph’s face flickers. I’m right. I’m vindicated and ashamed at the same time.
* * * *
I try to relax under blasting hot water. I shouldn’t have said the thing about Steph not having a date. That was childish: I’ll apologize. But, I’m also annoyed. Of all the people who should understand sexual fluidity, Steph should be number one. Isn’t that some sort of cornerstone of psychology school: anyone can be anything because it’s the fucking twenty-first century?
Elan still hasn’t called. Or texted, or anything. I can’t believe that one day, I’m privy to what he sounds like when he comes, and the next, we’re not speaking to each other. It’s more than sad. It’s scary. This factor of dating, the anyone-can-leave-at-anytime clause, shakes me to my core. It’s enough for me not to get into something to begin with. If I can’t be sure someone’s not going to fuck off with all of my feelings, what is the point of giving them away in the first place?
Is that why I like this Luna girl? Because ultimately I am a boring heterosexual, and so ultimately she can never really hurt me?
This is what is on my mind as I barrel out of the bathroom and straight into Noam Cooper. Also in just a towel.
We both say, “Oof,” and stumble back.
“Coop.” I pull the towel as tight as I can. “I—thought you were still in Germany.”
“Got back last night.” His eyes dart above my head, as if trying to find a nonsleazy place to land.
“Good trip?”
“Tolle reise! Sorry, that’s German for, ‘I’m a pretentious ass.’ ”
I giggle. His chest looks like it’s been carved from marble. A bit like a Montauk surfing instructor’s chest. “How long are you back?”
He leans against the hallway. Warmth from his body rolls off in waves. “How long do you want me back?”
My smile widens. I love the way he flirts with me. I want to run my fingertips down his chest. Feel the hard heat of his stomach muscles under my hand.
His towel twitches.
Steph sticks her head out of her door. “Oh, hey, Coop.”
We both stiffen.
She strolls out of her room. “How was Berlin?”
“Reliably Berlinesque,” Cooper says, his voice shifting into something more assertive and this-isn’t-weird.
Steph stands between us, forming the world’s most awkward triangle in the narrow hallway. “We’re going out tonight. Lacey has a date. With a girl.”
I shoot her a look—What the fuck?
She looks back evenly, calling my bluff—You do, don’t you?
“Wow.” Tired defeat edges into Cooper’s gaze. “Good for you.”
“Yes, it’s very exciting,” Steph says. “Lace is being quite the Don Juanita these days.”
“Excuse me,” I mutter, resisting the urge to run back into Steph’s bedroom and burn it to the ground.
38.
* * *
It’s a sweltering night, the kind where the heat feels like a giant tongue. Sweat trickles down my back, into my underwear. Our costumes—mandatory, apparently—are a little last-minute, but I think we’ll get a pass. Steph’s gone for sexy librarian: black-rimmed glasses; a white button-down, open to reveal generous cleavage; and tight black pants that show off her amazing ass. A Reading Is Sexy pin and a bold red lip completes the look. My look is a little more out there. Ripped fishnets, big hair, stripy bodysuit, cropped jacket. Black lipstick. Heels. Blade runner meets circus freak.
I know I look good. But underneath all this armor is an unlocked door in the form of a microscopic gene. Maybe I’ll come home and everything will be as I left it. But my body is twitchy. Despite the pleasure I have been spoiling it with, it suspects an attack.
The venue’s a few minutes from the subway. The neighborhood is industrial and devoid of greenery. We walk past shuttered metal doorways. In winter, it’d be spooky, but it’s high summer and a Saturday and people are everywhere, roaming and reveling. Things between Steph and I, however, are tense. We haven’t said much to each other since the spat at the loft, and the fact I’m wheeling between guilt, fear, and anger is not putting me in the mood for a dance party and sensual experience. We’re almost there when Steph stops short. “Should we talk about it?”
I play dumb, like a total monster. “Talk about what?”
Both eyebrows raise to her hairline. “Our fight.”
My insides seize up, every organ on guard. “It wasn’t a fight.”
A slow, irritated breath out. “If you say so.”
“Let’s just go,” I say, taking a step and then stopping again. “What do you want to talk about?”
“It’s fine,” she mutters, walking ahead of me.
“No, what?”
“It’s just—holy guacamole, is that the line?”
A colorful queue of people, fifty deep, are waiting to get into the world’s most unassuming building. From inside, muted music throbs, spiking louder whenever someone enters or exits. “We’re on the guest list,” I say. “C’mon.”
I stride to the front. A woman with painted flowers over her boobs and cheeks swirled with silver glitter is holding a clipboard. “No photographing nudity,” she says, in a way that sounds very rehearsed. “Always ask before touching someone for the first time. Don’t assume consent for one activity means consent for all others—”
“Excuse me.” I elbow forward. “Excuse me, we’re on the list. Guests of Luna: Lacey Whitman and Steph Malam.”
“Guest list still has to wait.” Glitter Face gestures to the end of the line.
“But we’re on the list,” I repeat. “We’re VIPs.”
Glitter Face looks at me as if trying to ascertain if I’m high or just a bitch. “Guest list has to wait.”
“But—”
“Lace.” Steph puts a firm hand on my arm. “Let’s get in line.”
I twitch out from her grasp. “Can you stop managing me for one second?”
She looks stunned. She backs up, hands raised, then turns and walks to the end of the line.
Glitter Face narrows her eyes.
I join the end of the queue behind two guys dressed as sailors and two girls dressed as drag kings. Steph has her phone out, scrolling.
“What,” I ask, “are you doing?”
“Checking,” she says, “Twitter.”
“We’re supposed to be hanging out,” I snap. “Socially interacting.”
“Oh-kay.” She switches off her phone. “Let’s socially interact.”
We stare at each other in hot silence for a second before we both open our mouths.
“I’m not sure what you expect from me when—”
“The thing about you is—”
; “Lacey.” Spoken coolly, cutting through the noise. It’s Luna. Black hot pants, white crewneck muscle tank, neon-yellow bra. Her dark hair is swept back in a messy side braid.
“Hey.” We hug, brief but exhilarating. “This is”—momentary lapse—“Steph, this is my friend Steph.”
Steph is staring at Luna as if she is a rare exotic animal. Her phone falls from her fingers. We all hear it hit the concrete.
Luna picks it up. The screen has shattered. “How annoying.”
“No, it’s fine,” Steph says. “Who cares? Just a phone, just a thing.”
“Very Zen,” Luna says.
“That’s me, Zen Steph. That’s what everyone calls me. Right, Lace? Doesn’t everyone call me Zen Steph?”
“No. No one calls you that.” Great. Now Steph likes Luna too, that’s perfect. I wish I’d invited Bee instead. “Can we go in?”
Luna makes a face. “Guest list has to wait. It’s an anti-hierarchy thing.”
“Yeah, we were just at the front, and this one here was making such a scene,” Steph says. “Let us in; we’re VIP! Like we’re bloody rock stars or something!”
Luna chuckles.
I pretend to smile. “See you in there.”
“I’ll wait with you guys,” Luna says. “My show isn’t for another half hour.”
“That’s so nice,” Steph says. “You’re so sweet. You’re nice and you’re sweet, and okay I’ll marry you! Twist my arm!”
Luna laughs. Steph laughs. I fold my arms because if I don’t, I think I’ll actually shove Steph.
The line shuffles forward.
Luna points at Steph’s pin. “I have that badge. I got it at the library at NYU.”
“Bobst? That’s where I got it! I’m doing a master’s in Psychology, second year.”
“No way. I did my undergrad in psych. Did you ever have Professor Lancaster?”
“She’s only my thesis adviser!” Steph screeches. “Oh my God, she is so brilliant; I’d be totally in love with her if I wasn’t so intimidated!”
“That’s exactly how I felt.”
I yank out my phone to check how much a car home will cost, putting the spending cap on escaping this awful bizarro world at approximately $1 billion, when I see a text.
From an unknown number.
Hi.
I know the number. Even though I’ve deleted it, I know it by heart.
My entire body lights up. Luna and Steph are midway through realizing they once lived with the same awful roommate—he was always painting portraits of himself! Yes, and giving them away as gifts! The worst!
Oblivious.
I shouldn’t text back. It took so much just to get through the past month. But this is the most alive I’ve felt in weeks. My blood’s running hot. Neglected body parts blaze alive with the enthusiasm of a pep squad.
I text, Hi.
Nothing. My mouth is dry. I am staring so hard at my phone, I could drill right through it.
Undulating gray dots appear. He’s typing. I’m dizzy.
Come over?
My breath comes out of me in a rush. Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking after all this time, I’d drop everything and come crawling back. I’m not your fucking servant and I’m certainly not your girlfriend, you made that abundantly clear when you broke my heart. Answering his text was another mistake in the series of mistakes that make up my so-called life, and the fact Elan Behzadi is my Jordan Catalano is so profoundly depressing, I might kill myself.
What should I write?
So you can break up with me again? Pass.
In your dreams.
lol
We’re two drag kings away from getting inside.
I’m not going to get dragged back into this sick spider’s web, I’m not. I type, At a sex party in Bushwick. Don’t text me again. I switch off my phone, determined not to check it for the rest of the night.
Glitter Face looks up from her clipboard. “There,” she says to me. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
It wasn’t hard at all.
Our wrists are stamped YES, in black block letters.
Glitter Face unhooks a short velvet rope. “Welcome to the Night of Yes.”
39.
* * *
I’ve been mentally preparing myself for more nudity than an average episode of Girls, but when we walk in, nothing of the sort. Relief, and disappointment. But it’s early, relatively speaking, so who knows what this night will descend into. The first room is already crowded. A long mirrored bar is clogged with partygoers. Above it, male and female go-go dancers gyrate in human-size birdcages. A DJ is lofted in a balcony above us, playing upbeat electronica. To our immediate left, a silver pole extends to the ceiling. A Zendaya look-alike twists around it in a gold bikini to a bopping crowd of focused onlookers, including a handful of people in tight black T-shirts that have VOLUNTEER on the back and YES on the front.
“Coat check’s to your left; dungeon’s to your right!” a bearded man in a tutu calls, pointing.
“Dungeon?” Steph looks scandalized. “What happens in there?”
“S and M stuff,” Luna says.
Steph and I exchange a giggly glance, the novelty of raunch putting our tension on hold. Everyone is in costume, but the theme is disparate. A guy dressed as Waldo, a seventies disco couple in plunging bodysuits and skates, a gaggle of 1920s flappers, dapper gents in suits. A lot of light-up flower headbands and obvious fishnets. Romantic fairyland meets jazz baby meets leather kink. A fun, weird mix: Burning Man in Brooklyn?
Steph raises her voice over the music. “I’m going to the loo.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and she disappears. Luna’s gone too.
A short man dressed like a drug kingpin sidles up to me. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
I look away. He melts off. Interesting that it’s easier to deflect unwanted attention at a sex party than a standard bar.
“Hey.” Luna reappears by my side, holding two pale pink cocktails.
“That was quick.” I accept a drink.
“Performer perks. Where’s Steph?”
“Bathroom.”
“Alone at last,” Luna says, with a distinctly flirty smile.
A little bubble of excitement. I haven’t forgotten how much I liked kissing Camila. Luna takes my hand and leads me to an area filled with soft cushions and potted plants—very Arabian Nights. We settle on a beanbag, looking out over the crowd. We smile at each other, and then, smile at each other again. I can’t land on something to open with, not wanting to sound pedestrian or predictable. I have to say something. Anything, I have to say literally anything at all or this becomes officially awkward in five, four, three, two—“What’s in this?” I hold up the drink.
“Not sure. I think gin?”
“Long as you’re not trying to roofie me,” I joke.
She leans closer. “What?”
I raise my voice. “I said I hope you’re not trying to roofie me.”
She knows I’m joking, but she doesn’t find it very funny. “Nope.”
Fail. Reset. I clear my throat. “I met with Dr. Ho,” I say. “He was fantastic. I’m all set.” I point to my chest and make a scissor-snip motion.
“Great,” she says. “If you have any questions or anything, let me know.”
I have a million questions, but a Brooklyn sex party doesn’t seem like the right time and place. “So when does all this turn into an orgy?”
She laughs. “Things get looser the later it gets. It’s not that wild up here. People go for it more in the dungeon.”
I’m not sure if it’s an explanation or an invitation. “The dungeon” is not somewhere that screams romance to me. “Cool,” I say, a response that is both pedestrian and predictable.
“There you are!” Steph, navigating the unstable floor of cushions, loses her balance and tumbles into Luna’s lap. “Sorry!” She giggles, taking her time to extract herself.
Luna grins and gestures to Steph’s shirt. One dark brown
nipple has escaped her bra. I’m expecting Steph to be mortified. Instead, she giggles. “I’m really getting into the spirit of things, aren’t I? Rogue nipple spotted at table seven!” She shakes her chest.
Luna laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
It is not.
Steph sips Luna’s drink. “What are we drinking? Mmm, gin?”
“Good guess,” Luna says, bizarrely impressed.
“Yummy,” Steph says. “So, what kind of performance are you doing tonight?”
“Aerial silks. It’s like aerial gymnastics—”
“I know what it is, it’s brilliant! How long have you been doing that?”
“About four years.” Luna settles back into the cushions. “I started taking classes before my surgery to get fit, but I liked it so much I stayed with it.”
“Is that your full-time job?” Steph is practically panting.
“Not full-time. I’m a part-time social worker and I teach yoga and pick up a few cater-waiter gigs here and there. Sort of a jane-of-all-trades.”
“Jane-of-all-trades!” Steph throws her head back and howls. “That is hysterical!”
Luna laughs too. Did they both manage to get high behind my back? Because all this is about as funny as a funeral.
“Okay, I should head backstage and start warming up.” Luna squeezes my arm. “When we start, try to get close to the stage.” She gestures to a raised stage currently filled with people drinking and dancing. “That’s the best view.” She hands Steph her drink. “Keep this.”
“Thank you so much,” Steph simpers. I roll my eyes, and she catches me.
Luna gives a little wave and threads off through the crowd.
“What?” Steph asks.
“There’s something particularly gross about watching you flirt,” I mutter. I regret it as soon as I say it, but our dynamic feels oddly permissive right now, even if it’s unprecedented. We always squabbled as roommates—whose turn it was to take the trash out or pay for takeout—and while we don’t have those little domestic disputes anymore, if there’s anyone I’ll pick at, it’s Steph. Usually, that’s okay. But tonight, things are shifting.
Steph’s face hardens. “That’s mean.”
The Bucket List Page 24