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His thick hair—THE HAIR—is mussed up now.
“You shouldn’t run your hands through your hair so much. You messed it all up.”
He steps toward my chest of drawers and starts pulling them open.
“Where do you keep your pajamas?”
I laugh and clap my hands over my mouth when he opens my top drawer. “Not there!”
That’s where I keep the fancy underwear—a.k.a. the stuff that never gets worn. There are lacy underthings and delicate brassieres, most of which I purchased in France during a short and spicy affair with a young French guy. He ended up being more interested in my friend, but I guess it wasn’t a total waste because now James is likely imagining me in those instead of the 5 for $25 panties from Target I actually wear.
I expect him to be flustered. Guys my age would be, but James pushes the drawer closed as disaffectedly as he opened it and opens the one beneath it. I’m too lost in a fit of laughter to care when he tosses a t-shirt and sleeping shorts at me.
“I think you can manage from here. I’ll see you.”
What?
He’s leaving already?
I reach for his hand and am relieved when he doesn’t immediately yank it away.
“I never got to thank you for my dress.”
He stays stock-still, staring down at me.
“And tonight…”
I think his face softens just a bit, but it’s hard to tell.
Fortunately, his words are clear enough on their own. “I’m going.”
“Fine.” I drop his hand. “But the next time you want me to be your date or your little secret weapon, don’t bother. Michael’s secret weapon was stronger. Tonight was awful.”
He pauses for a moment with his hand on the door and I’m hopeful that my words finally penetrated his perfect facade, but then he yanks it open and walks out. I decide if I never saw him again, it’d be too soon.CHAPTER NINEFROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected], since I have no way of contacting your boss, could you please forward this email to him for me?Thanks,
BrookePS the heels were killer.————Dear James,I’ve thought a lot about what happened last week. Although I don’t think I owe you any kind of explanation, I would like to set the record straight.
You brought me to that party.
You introduced me to your friends and one of your friends slipped something into my drink while I was in the bathroom.
I still have no clue what she gave me. I was pretty out of it the next day. My sister almost took me to the hospital.Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Thank you for ensuring that I wasn’t having an adverse reaction.
Thank you for staying with me and making sure I made it through the night.Oh wait, you didn’t.Fuck off,
Brooke
…
It’s been a week since the party and two days since I sent James that carefully crafted email. While I would love a response or—CALL ME CRAZY—maybe even an apology, I’m not holding my breath. The entire night was a disaster. I remember bits and pieces of it and I cringe thinking back on some of my behavior, but then I quash that line of thinking. I didn’t willingly take those drugs. Celeste dosed my drink while we were in the bathroom. Jesus Christ, who does that? I still can’t believe it actually happened. I should contact the authorities. I could draw so much unwanted attention to that little “hidden gem” of theirs. I’ve wavered back and forth about it a few times. While I don’t think Celeste should go around drugging people without their consent, I don’t really know how I would go about seeking retribution. I don’t know Michael or Celeste—I’m not even sure those are their real names. The only person I could really pin the incident on is James and I might hate him at the moment, but I don’t necessarily want to drag him into a police report and potential investigation.
Out of curiosity, I hunt down the club a few days later. The black brick building is easy enough to find downtown, but there’s a new, massive banner hanging across the side of it, proudly announcing the block as a future site for Austin’s newest and most luxurious condominiums. The front door swings open and construction workers march in and out, carrying tools and supplies with them. I think back on all the decadence from that night—the chandeliers, the furniture, the pristine marble floors—and wonder where it’s all gone.
I can’t find anything about the club online; putting in search terms like “secret Austin club” and “downtown speakeasy” only brings up weird Craigslist sex ads. After perusing a few (okay, like 20), I decide none of them have anything to do with the party and I’d be wise to avoid the bushes at Pease Park at night.
I’d rather just forget about the entire ordeal.
I’m hanging out with Ellie in her room at our dad’s house. We’re both off from work, and while our morning was spent productively (SoulCycle, brunch, laundry), our afternoon has been anything but (Real Housewives, homemade face masks, enough Instagram scrolling to make my thumb cramp. Hello millennial arthritis).
