Page 7 of So Thirsty

Shivering, I turn around, slip one of the key cards out of the velvet envelope, and tap it on the scanner. There’s a faint click, and I twist the knob, open the door. I’m greeted by an aggressive woody scent and a soft wave of light. I grab my suitcase and step inside, letting the door shut itself behind me with a heavy thunk.

It’s tricky to figure out how I feel about the space because I’m too busy anticipating what Naomi will think of it. What she’ll make fun of or comment on.

It’s small but open. To the right there’s a floating staircase that leads up to a loft. To the left is the fireplace, rustic white stone. There’s a leather couch in front of it, covered partially by a chunky knit throw blanket. There’s a modern kitchenette in the corner, a basket of apples on the counter. A café table and chairs. Under the staircase are two doors. One to a surprisingly spacious bathroom, all white marble and glass, with a double vanity, a waterfall shower, and a freestanding tub. It smells of fresh linen. There are fuzzy towels, and two luxe robes that I know Naomi and I will end up in.

The other door leads to a bedroom. There’s a four-poster bed and a midcentury dresser, some funky wallpaper to make it a little less West Elm. The lone window is covered with heavy curtains. I pull them back to check out the view. The lake is there, obscured only partially by the trees. This will be Naomi’s room.

I lug my suitcase up the stairs to the loft. There’s a daybed; a nightstand with a twin-bell alarm clock; one of those flat TVs that can look like pieces of art, only it’s on a stand, not mounted, so the jig is up. The ceiling is vaulted, which helps it not to feel too top bunk, too cramped. Especially with the windows. At the back and the front, just walls of glass. Through them the trees, the lake. It’s a stunning view. But I don’t get any curtains, so I guess I’ll be up with the sun.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. I take a breath, shimmy it free from my jeans. A message from Naomi. Be there soon!!! Don’t have any fun without me. Seriously. Not even a little.

Wouldn’t dream of it, I reply.

“Soon” is a vague term in Naomi-speak. Could mean ten minutes, could mean an hour.

I hate not knowing how much time I have to kill.

I use the bathroom, wash my hands, sample the complimentary lotion. It smells too strong, too floral. I attempt to wash it off, rigorously soaping my hands, running the water hot, despite knowing I’m stripping my skin of its natural oils, which I’ve read in numerous articles is very bad and will age me faster. Women’s hands are the tell. There are no fillers, no lifts for withered, veiny witch hands. At least not that I know of. Not yet.

I take a quick glance in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes that I need an ice cube and concealer to correct. I take my hair down and put it back up, smoothing some flyaways that pop right back out. It’s exhausting to care this much.

I slog back upstairs to my suitcase, get out my cosmetics bag, which is the size and weight of a concrete block. I take it into the bathroom and get to work. I put on a podcast about Chernobyl while I primp, because there’s nothing like hearing the grisly details of acute radiation syndrome while staring at your own face to really put things in perspective.

I know Naomi doesn’t care what I look like, that she’ll just be happy to see me. She’s also high on something half the time, so everything and everyone is beautiful to her. But still, it feels necessary that I do this, that I attempt to put myself together. Otherwise I’ll be too preoccupied for any chance of a good time.

It’s moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, highlighter, mascara. Lipstick.

But lipstick is never just lipstick. It’s a sort of soul-preserving lie, like putting on armor before battle. You can die wearing armor, but you’ll feel better about your chances. Confident on the front lines before the arrows fly.

I go for my most expensive tube, a splurge purchase from a designer more famous for couture than for makeup. I read online that it’s the best there is, that it has a cult following, which made me sad but also made me buy it. It is pretty. A satin-finish crimson red. The shade is Killer.

“Sure,” I say to myself, and blot with a tissue. “Sure.”

Then I rewind the podcast thirty seconds in case I missed something crucial about the rupture of the reactor core.

I wonder if anyone living near the plant had any inkling of doubt. If, as they passed under the shadows of the smokestacks, they’d ever considered the worst-case scenario. I think I would have, but who knows?

Besides, anticipating the worst-case scenario doesn’t prepare you for the worst-case scenario. Just gives you the opportunity to be smug in the face of disaster.

4

S he doesn’t need to knock. I can sense her. I can smell her, somehow. Her signature smoky vanilla perfume. She says it makes her feel like a sexy campfire.

I’m at the door as the shuttle pulls up. I open the door and there she is.

She wears a faux-fur bucket hat, a 1970s denim halter jumpsuit with wide bell-bottoms, cowboy boots, and her Penny Lane jacket—orange suedette with fuzzy pink trim. Her long black hair is in a thick braid that falls down to her ass. The only makeup she has on is some metallic green eyeliner, artfully smudged. No lipstick. No mascara. No foundation—she doesn’t need it.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then she tackles me to the floor in an aggressive hug.

“I’m going to fucking eat you!” she yells into my hair as her arms wrap around my neck.

“I’m dying,” I say. “Help! Help!”

“Sorry. Do I smell like I’ve been traveling for twenty hours?” she asks, letting me go.

“You smell like you.”

She gasps. “Do I always smell like I’ve been traveling for twenty hours?”