“We’ve been seeing each other for three months, sleeping together a few times a week. That’s not casual. That’s a relationship.”
A cruel laugh erupted from within her. “That’s the last thing I want.”
She saw the hurt in his warm brown eyes, but his voice was cold and hard. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Perfect.”
As she watched him walk away, her anger dissipated. Her rejection had wounded him; she could see it in his slumped posture, in his ambling gait. A twinge of guilt tickled her belly. Miguel was a decent guy, undeserving of her ire. She had enjoyed her time with him. Maybe they could have had something, if she’d wanted a relationship. But she didn’t. Not after things with Cole had turned so sick and creepy. And she was not going to be pressured into a romance just because the guy was nice.
She entered her darkened apartment, tiptoeing to her room. The environment was still tense after her roommates had freaked out over Nat’s late-night pasta party, had accused her of promiscuity before a naked Miguel had strolled into the kitchen like exhibit A. Nat had kept a low profile since then, avoiding the apartment as much as possible. When she was home, she fastidiously cleaned up her messes, had lightning-fast showers, and ensured no overnight guests. Her roomies may have disliked her, may have looked down their noses at her, but that was not just cause for eviction. As long as Nat kept her head down, they were stuck with her.
The door to her bedroom was shut tight (hiding the chaos from obsessive Mara’s judgment). She opened it and slipped inside, picking her way through the mess of clothes, canvases, books, and coffee cups, to the bedside lamp. Flicking it on, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the light. Her bed was unmade, the fitted sheet having popped off one corner, revealing the bare mattress (there was something so crack den about a bare mattress). Amid the tangle of sheets was a cereal bowl, an empty can of Coke, a scattering of pastel crayons. Her private space was an unequivocal disaster, but it was her private space. Toni and Mara would not dare to enter it, would never know the squalor in which she lived. That’s when she spotted the folded piece of paper propped against her pillow.
No. No way.
Nat had been on her best behavior since the pasta incident. Surely, Mara couldn’t write her up for leaving a few dirty dishes on the counter. Or was this about Miguel’s naked, prebreakfast appearance? Were they really that offended by it? The guy was gorgeous, with his strong, lean body and smooth brown skin. They should be writing her a thank-you note! But, of course, she knew that this was not. With a sense of foreboding, she grabbed the ragged paper torn from a spiral notebook and opened it. She read the handwritten missive.
Natalie,
Your share of the electric bill is late. AGAIN. You still owe Toni money for the last two bills, and I covered the internet bill for you last month, too. We are both sick and tired of supporting you. Please pay the money you owe us IMMEDIATELY.
And consider this strike two.
Mara and Toni
Fuck.
5
* * *
The Test
Students trickled out of the classroom, chatting animatedly about the preceding midterm. The hum was generally positive. The exam had been easier than anticipated; multiple choice, with no trick questions. Even the negative comments were lighthearted.
“I totally blanked!” It was Nat’s pal Keltie, her face full of metal rings and studs. “I was like, who is Descartes again?”
Ivan, who bore a striking resemblance to a young George Michael, quipped, “I think I mixed up Martin Luther with Martin Luther King.”
Their complaints were expressed with a disingenuous giggle. But Nat stayed mute. She shuffled out behind them, a heavy black lump in the pit of her stomach.
She had studied hard: twice with Ava (once at the penthouse, once in the library); had pulled out her textbook whenever she found a seat on the subway; had reviewed her notes as she hid from her roommates in her mess of a bedroom. But her brain had been short-circuited by the written second warning, by the money she owed for the electric bill, by the rent that was due in a couple of weeks. She couldn’t retain information about the fucking Reformation when the specter of homelessness loomed before her.
Ava was waiting for her outside the classroom. “How did it go?” Her cheerful expression relayed her confidence in her performance.
“I failed it,” muttered Nat.
“No way. You knew everything at our last study session.”
“A lot has happened since then.” To her chagrin, Nat’s voice shook and her chin crinkled. Damn it. She couldn’t fall apart over a stupid exam. It would be weak, pathetic, melodramatic. But it wasn’t just the exam. The life she had worked so hard to build was crumbling before her very eyes. (This was obviously the wrong internal monologue to have when trying not to cry.)
Ava reached out and squeezed Nat’s upper arm. “It’s okay. It’s just one midterm.”
The touch and sympathy undid her. Tears filled Nat’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “It’s not just the exam. It—it’s everything.”
Ava knew enough not to embrace her forlorn friend and risk a complete collapse. Her eyes darted around at their carefree peers. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “We can get a drink somewhere.”
“It’s barely noon,” Nat sniveled.
“It’s five in Iceland.”
Nat chuckled despite her angst. She followed Ava out of the building.
* * *
They found a hole-in-the-wall bar—long, narrow, dim, as if to deny the fact that it was daylight outside. Physically, it was not unlike the bar where Nat worked, but Nat’s place of employment was fun, vibrant, catering largely to college students and Williamsburg hipsters. This establishment appeared to cater to gloomy, hard-core day-drinkers. As Ava ordered them two pints of beer at the bar, Nat briefly pondered the backstory of the other patrons. Divorce? Unemployment? But her mind quickly returned to her own problems. She was twenty-one years old and embroiled in a financial, academic, and residential crisis. Her self-absorption was only natural.
When Ava returned to their sticky table, Nat dunked her lips into her beer. It was bitter, hoppy, cheap. Ava watched her for a moment, her own beverage ignored.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Nat forced down two more sips of liquid courage before telling her classmate—now her friend, her confidante—everything.
“Shit,” Ava murmured. “Can your parents help you out?”
“My mom and stepdad have two little kids and not a lot of money,” Nat said, fiddling with a paper coaster. “My dad could be a millionaire, for all I know. But I wouldn’t take a dime from him.”
“You could take a semester off and work,” Ava suggested.
“I’d lose my partial scholarship. And even working full-time I wouldn’t make enough to save up tuition and cover my living expenses.”
“What about a student loan?”
The concept of incurring a debt that would take years to pay off on an illustrator’s salary made Nat’s chest tighten. She tried to take a deep breath, but the pressure wouldn’t allow it. She was suffocating. She was coming undone. Tears slipped from her eyes, streaking her cheeks. A guttural sob escaped from her throat.
Ava’s hand landed lightly on Nat’s. “We’ll figure something out. There’s always a way.”
Nat turned her hand over, gripped her friend’s fingers. “How do you do it?”
Ava gently extricated her hand and took a drink of beer. Her expression was unreadable as she set the heavy glass down on the damp coaster.
“I have friends who support me.”
It was rude, invasive, too personal, but the question flew from Nat’s lips. “Are you an escort?”
“No,” Ava snapped, two spots of color appearing on her fair cheeks. “I’m a sugar baby. It’s different.”
“Different how?”
Ava leaned in. “Escorts get paid to have sex. I get paid for my time
.”
“Tell me more.”
“I go on dates with rich, successful men,” Ava said, her voice low. “I look pretty. I flirt, listen to them talk about their work, their kids, their marathon training, whatever. . . . At the end of the night, they give me three, four, five hundred bucks.”
“Just for dinner?”
“Just for a drink. Just for a coffee. It’s called a pay-per-meet.”
Nat’s eyebrows lifted—at the sum, and at the brazenness of the transaction. Even without sex, it sounded tawdry, exploitive, uncomfortably close to prostitution.
Ava read the judgment on Nat’s face. “As women, we’re expected to give men our attention and our support . . . even our bodies for free. Getting paid for it is empowering.”
Nat forced a slight smile, while her mind grappled with the concept.
“If there’s chemistry with a daddy, we might set up an arrangement,” Ava continued. “We discuss everything up front. How often we’ll see each other, what we’ll do together, how much money he’ll give me each month . . .”
It may have been crude to ask, but Nat had to. “How much?”
“It depends.” Ava’s finger traced a dark, circular watermark on the table. “If I see a man four times a month, I usually get between twenty-five hundred and five grand.”
“Wow.”
“I won’t undersell myself.”
Sell myself. The prefix did not change the meaning. Nat leaned in. “And sex?”
“It’s like any relationship. If I’m into the guy, I’ll sleep with him. If I’m not, I don’t.”
Nat was almost afraid to ask. “How old are these men?”
“It varies”—Ava lifted her beer to her lips—“midthirties to seventies.”
Seventies? Images of saggy butts, shriveled penises, droopy testicles flitted through Nat’s mind. Ava was twenty-two! How could she go there? But these men were rich. They paid for Ava’s beautiful apartment, bought her pricey art for her birthday. Maybe generosity compensated for gray pubic hair? An involuntary shiver of disgust rattled Nat’s shoulders.
Ava clocked it, and her tone became defensive. “Success is an aphrodisiac. I enjoy being with powerful men. They’re more mature and more caring than all the selfish, horny boys I was dating before.”
Nat sipped her beer and thought about her own dating life. Cole had been selfish and horny. Not to mention insecure, cloying, unstable. . . . Miguel was sweeter, kinder, but also needy, clingy . . . and, yes, selfish and horny. And neither of them could take her to a Michelin-starred restaurant, buy her a Birkin bag, or even help pay back her roommates. But still . . . Nat simply could not fathom a romantic relationship with a man old enough to be her father.
“I’ve always liked older men,” Ava continued, a suggestive twinkle in her eye. “There’s a lot to be said for experience.”
Nat suppressed more images of elderly genitals. “Are these guys married?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes they just work a lot. Or travel a lot. Or they’re socially awkward.” Ava toyed with her coaster. “I’m busy, too. I like my space. When I’m with a daddy, we enjoy each other. When we’re apart, we’re completely free.”
She made it sound so mature, so reciprocal, almost liberating. Ava and her suitors were up front with their needs, their wants, their parameters. It sounded positively evolved.
“We’re living in the best city in the world,” Ava said, “but you can’t enjoy it without money. I eat at the best restaurants. I shop at exclusive boutiques. I live in a gorgeous apartment.” She took a sip of beer. “One of my blessers took me to Rome last year. He bought me a Versace dress.”
“Did you . . . sleep with him?”
“I gave him a couple of blow jobs,” she said dismissively. “Well worth it.”
“Right.” But Nat’s voice was thin, revealing her ambivalence.
Ava seemed to intuit her companion’s moral quandary. “I’m not hurting anyone. I get what I want. The daddies get what they want. Even the wives . . . I’m sure half of them know and don’t care.”
They finished their beers, then meandered back to school, both sluggish and bleary from the midday alcohol. As they strolled, Ava continued proselytizing about the sugar lifestyle: the gifts, the meals, the trips . . . the mutual respect, even affection. One of her sponsors had proposed marriage. She had loved him, in a way, but not that kind of way. When they reached the school, they paused before parting.
“Like with any online dating, you have to be careful. There are salty daddies out there. There are creeps and weirdos. But it could be the answer to all your problems.” Ava turned then and moved toward her class. “Think about it,” she called breezily over her shoulder.
Nat headed to the studio, her mind replaying her friend’s confession. Ava had presented a solution to all her problems. But could Nat cross that line? Could she sell herself? The beer buzz was clouding her thoughts, convoluting her views.
Think about it, Ava had said.
Nat was quite sure she would think of nothing else.
6
* * *
The Sugar Bowl
Donnelly’s was a cramped, grimy, run-down bar, perpetually packed with a vibrant, eclectic crowd. Tips could be meager, especially when the students were out in force, but Nat related to her budget-conscious clientele. And though she was usually exhausted after school, she never resented her job. It was a respite from her grubby apartment, her condescending roommates, her art-history homework. Her colleagues were diverse, interesting, generally upbeat. And the sexual chemistry between her and Miguel always made her shifts fly by. But tonight, there would be no fun flirtation with her former lover. Miguel was pissed, his hostility rippling off him like heat.
Thursday was one of their busiest nights. Nat focused on her tables, smiling, chatting, flirting when she thought it would help. Given her current financial straits, every penny counted. At a corner back table, she served a group of middle-aged men, their thinning hair touching their open collars, their leather jackets smelling like money. She clocked their Rolex watches, their Botoxed foreheads, their unseasonal tans from sunny vacations. They would be in the music industry. Or club owners, maybe. These men would have money to tip, if she did her job right. She turned on the charm—smiling, laughing at their jokes—and felt their eyes on her ass as she walked away. Punching in her drink orders, Nat wondered: Is this so different than what Ava does? Aren’t we both monetizing our sexuality?
The service industry could be a hard and ugly place. Women put up with insults, ogles, even harassment because they needed the money. Nat knew what her postfeminist classmates would think of this acceptance, but it was easy to have principles when you didn’t have bills and rent to pay. Some women even had mouths to feed. And Nat’s feminism was less fervent, less defined. Of course, she believed in equal rights for women. She wanted the patriarchy to get fucked as much as the next girl. So how did she feel about Ava letting men use her that way? Or . . . was Ava using them? Would Nat feel empowered taking a rich man’s money in exchange for her time and attention? Or would she feel dirty, sick, ashamed?
It soon became clear that she wouldn’t be getting a good tip no matter how hard she flirted with the men at the back table. Miguel’s anger toward her was manifesting itself behind the bar. He had the power to ignore her drink orders, and he was exercising it. She waited patiently as he mixed a negroni for one of his customers seated at the wood.
“When you’re done there,” she said sweetly, masking her irritation, “I’m still waiting for four pints of IPA and a lager.”
“I’ll get to them when I can,” Miguel said, painstakingly pouring bright red Campari into a shot glass.
She leaned in, her voice low, conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I was too harsh, and I feel badly.”
“Who says I’m hurt?”
“If you’re not, can I please get my drinks? I can’t afford to piss off my tables tonight.”
“I’m busy, Nat,” he s
aid, adding a shot of vermouth slowly, gingerly, as if he were mixing explosives. “Not everything’s about you.”
But this was about her. She’d punched in her drink orders way ahead of Tim, the other server, who had already delivered his beverages to his satisfied customers. Miguel’s patrons seated at the bar all had drinks except for the woman waiting for the world’s slowest negroni. Nat’s table of club owners would be getting antsy, annoyed, her tips diminishing by the second. There was nothing she could do but wait, as Miguel languidly stirred the orangey-red cocktail.
Finally, he slid the drink to his patient customer, leaving him no option but to fill Nat’s orders.
“Keg’s empty.” His smile was mocking as he turned and strolled toward the basement cellar.
Her cheeks burned with anger and frustration. Miguel knew her financial situation, and he was hitting her where it hurt. He was not unlike Cole, after all. Miguel was only sweet and caring when she did exactly what he wanted. When his ego was bruised, he was spiteful and malicious. Well, he didn’t know who he was fucking with.
Donnelly’s had a strict policy banning servers from behind the bar. The bartender was responsible for the till, would dole out change to the waitstaff, who were not allowed in that sacred space. But with Miguel in the basement, Nat would be able to slip through the swinging half door, open the cash register, and take out a hundred bucks. She’d tuck it into her pocket and be back on the other side of the bar before her former lover returned. Miguel’s cash would be out at the end of the night, but he wouldn’t get fired. Not for a one-off. He’d get a warning, probation at the most. And it wouldn’t be stealing, she rationalized. She was simply replacing the tips lost to Miguel’s sabotage.
Adrenaline and anger made her heart race as she moved toward the cash register. With her hand resting on the low gate, she scanned the area for Tim the server, for Wayne the manager, for any suspicious patrons. No one was paying her any attention. She moved forward, casually opened the till, and prepared to liberate the money that was rightfully hers.
The Arrangement Page 3