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If I wasn’t so broke, I’d find somewhere else to live, but my room at Annalisa’s apartment is a steal. She often says things that make me feel uncomfortable, but this is the first time she’s embarrassed me in public.
That’s how things escalated with my ex. I made excuses for his behavior and brushed off the warning signs until it was too late. I can’t repeat this mistake. If I don’t fix this situation right now, she’ll only get worse.
Avoiding the coat check girl’s eyes, I accept the ticket, stuff it into my pocket, and shoot Annalisa a glare. “Did you have to announce it to the entire club?”
She loops her arm through mine and laughs. “What? It’s a compliment. While the rest of us are splurging on designer threads, you’re saving cash by thrifting.”
Her friends burst into peals of giggles, and I cringe at what’s beginning to look like the New Alderney version of Mean Girls. I’m not usually such a pushover, but I’m still reeling from a slew of misfortunes that make the Lafayette art scam look like a minor inconvenience.
We enter the club’s main room just as the music changes to the hot girl summer song that’s going viral on social media. Annalisa’s friends burst into high-pitched squeals and rush to the dance floor, but I grab my roommate by the arm and hold her in place.
She flashes me a grin. “What?”
“I’m not one to fuck with. Do you understand?”
Her smile falters. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t make a mockery of me by announcing things that are none of your business.”
She widens her eyes in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Stop being so sensitive. Nobody cares about your oversized paintings or your second-hand clothes. You don’t always have to be the center of attention.”
My lips thin. If I hadn’t recently escaped a violent, gaslighting narcissist, I would back down and apologize, but I’m tired of taking shit. Shit from her, shit from conniving gallery owners, and shit from ex-boyfriends who don’t understand the meaning of the word no.
I tighten my fingers around her wrist. “If you can’t give me basic respect, you and I are going to have a serious problem.”
Annalisa rolls her eyes and snorts. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just dance.”
She jerks her arm out of my grip and hurries toward her friends, who are already beckoning her over to the dance floor. I follow after her, my jaw tightening. All these little setbacks are a steady drip of acid on the already tight band holding together my self-control. One of these days, someone’s going to say the wrong thing, and I’ll unleash hell.
By the time I reach Annalisa, her friend, Christina, is handing out bottles of wine coolers.
“Ember!” Annalisa spreads her arms wide and pulls me into a hug as though I didn’t just call her out for her disrespect. “Let’s dance.”
Christina shoves a wine cooler into my hand, and I take a long pull off the bottle, letting the cool, sweet liquid wash away my irritation. The music pounds through my veins and I let my body relax.
By the time I’m halfway through the bottle, I’m moving to the beat, deciding to shelve the bullshit, enjoy the free drinks, and work out how to fix my life in the morning.
The girls fall into a dance routine of well-practiced repeated steps and turns that look choreographed. I watch them for a few moments before joining in, and Annalisa slips her fingers into mine.
“I’m so glad you came out with us tonight,” she says with a boozy grin. “You don’t know how much I love being friends with an up-and-coming artist.”
“Right.” I pull my hand away and force a smile.
Guilt twangs at my heartstrings, and I swallow another gulp of my wine cooler. Did I overreact about her comment about my dress? Maybe I allowed my encounter with Lafayette to cloud my judgment.
Sometimes it feels like there’s a guillotine at my neck. Other times, I picture myself at the center of a conspiracy, but it’s mostly my imagination. My peculiar upbringing doesn’t help. I grew up without a father to balance Mom’s extreme persecution complex, and it’s fucked with my sanity.
I can’t get consumed by paranoia. I can’t let myself become like Mom.
“Hey.” Annalisa elbows me in the ribs.
My gaze snaps to hers, only to find her looking at a spot on the other side of the club. “What?”
“That’s the guy who just got released from prison.”
“Where?”
I follow her gaze through the dance floor and past a cordoned-off area where there’s a bar and well-dressed people sitting on leather seats. Three dark-haired men stand together, their gazes focused in our direction.
