Page 89 of Fang Fiction

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Here are some of the things Tess remembered from the night of the party:

Choosing her outfit, her favorite black silk wrap dress trimmed with dark fringe and printed with splashy pink peonies.

Pregaming with Joni, cold red wine in mismatched glasses, singing along to Harry Styles.

The February wind accosting them so relentlessly on the walk to Rick’s place that Tess suggested they turn back, but Joni insisting that Tess was gonna make out with a hot snob come hell or high blizzard, because this was the Valentine’s Day she deserved, goddamn it.

Walking into Rick’s building, a sleek high-rise on Riverside Drive with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson, the George Washington Bridge to the north and New Jersey to the west. Joni saying, “Oh shit, this fucker is rich.”

Nodding along as her classmates debated Joyce and Proust, while thinking inwardly about how much she hated Joyce and Proust. Looking around for Rick, seeing him deep in conversation with a model-thin blonde in a corner across the room. Muttering to Joni that they should leave, Joni responding that she just needed to use the bathroom.

Extracting herself from the Joyce-Proust argument to admire the view; outside, snow had begun to fall against the dark sky. Rick coming up beside her to watch the snow, his arm brushing against hers and resting there, Tess feeling electrified by the contact between them.

“Pretty gross, right?” he deadpanned.

“The view? Oh, terrible. An eyesore. You should see if the building can get you a better one.”

She glanced up and saw that he was gazing at her and grinning. He held two glasses of whiskey on ice; he offered one and she accepted.

“Single malt, from Japan. My dad’s favorite.” A slight apologetic eye roll as he clinked her glass with his.

“Peaty,” Tess remarked, feeling the smoky liquid warm her insides. “Is this your dad’s place?”

“He bought it as an ‘investment’ ”—Rick used finger quotes—“which is the most asshole-ish way possible to say I don’t pay rent. Don’t hate me, okay?”

Tess laughed softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She remembered moving to a couch, comparing notes on Shakespeare and their dissertations and favorite poets as the party thinned out. The kind of conversation Tess always fantasized about having with the man she’d someday fall in love with. Wondering if it was possible that Rick could be that man.

Joni stopping by to say she was leaving, Tess saying she would see her at home. Joni kissing her cheek and whispering, “Have fun, hottie.” A classmate with curly hair giving Tess a dirty look, Tess wondering if it was envy.

Rick refilling her whiskey; once, twice. Not more than twice.

The room tilting. Was she drunk? It had been hours. She shouldn’t be this drunk.

Asking him, “Is Rick short for Richard?”

Him smiling. “Frederick.”

“Like Felix,” she breathed, sinking deeper into the velvet cushions.

Her head going foggy, a dull pain seeping in.

Rick’s voice, muffled. “Are you okay? Tess?”

Nodding, trying to nod. Everything feeling heavy.

“Do you want to lie down?”

A bed. His bed?

The sound of heavy breathing. Then darkness. Then nothing at all.

Gray dawn light through his giant window, the curtains only partly drawn. Splitting pain—her head throbbing. Rick, asleep beside her.

Realizing she was naked.