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I study the photo for a moment without a word. I need to memorize every detail of this fuck’s face because if I see him in the streets, he’s mine. No question.
After I’ve seen enough, I slide the phone back over to him. “You need to have a little more faith in me.”
“You know I really, really wish I could,” he replies with resignation.
I pause to listen to the noise around me - the cacophony of music, fights, and girls shouting drink orders at the bartenders on the first floor. It’s like watching a nature documentary the way that these people behave around those they’re attracted to.
Then I remember the bottle girl, and I realize I’m no better than they are.
ChapterNine
JUNE
My first day in the office here went surprisingly well. I didn’t feel awkward around anybody who approached me, and I was able to explain my product designs to a room full of board members without stammering. I was up all night worrying about how the day would go, and I’m impressed with myself for keeping it together in such an unfamiliar place.
Back in my hotel room, I find myself scrolling through a list of tourist attractions in the area where I’m staying in. My boredom and cabin fever begins to take over pretty quickly, and I know that I need to get out of the hotel if I want to avoid drinking by myself like a sad, lonely burnout. Most of it is stuff I did the last time I was here, like wine tasting and a tour of a cathedral.
I realize that I want to do something a little less academic, something mindless and hedonistic rather than educational. As much as I love to learn about the history of the country I’m in, the stresses of traveling and working internationally are going to build up fast if I don’t give myself a chance to have some fun.
Unfortunately for me, there aren’t that many walkable nightclubs in the area, but there is at least one. It’s a few blocks away, which doesn’t sound that far until I account for how drunk I’m likely to get while I’m there. I don’t know how to call an Uber here, so I’ll be left completely to my own devices as a drunk woman staggering aimlessly through downtown. That sounds like a recipe for disaster.
I put the idea out of my mind, but the longer I lie in my bed, scrolling through my phone, the more restless I become.
After having the twins, I missed out on all kinds of wild shit that I was supposed to do in my early twenties. I never got to have many all-night parties, never really got to go out to bars and get flirted with. I always saw photos of my friends out together without me, which is an unfortunate side effect of being the only mom in the group. Even now, I’m flipping through photos they took at a new wine bar in my old neighborhood, each of them smiling too hard for the camera as the wine begins to hit them.
I want to be responsible. At least, I want towant tobe responsible. But the thought of missing an opportunity to make a new memory due to fear embarrasses me. What am I so afraid of?
Rolling out of bed still in my work clothes, I hop to my feet and head over to the closet on the other side of the room. I know I packed a few of my sexier dresses, and I’m not even sure what I was thinking when I decided to do so. I hadn’t really planned on going out much in the first place, but perhaps something deep in me knew that I needed the chance to feel beautiful at least once.
I choose a red dress with spaghetti straps and a slit in the left thigh. It only covers down to my mid-thigh, so the slit makes me feel much more self-conscious than I imagined it would.
When I look at myself in the mirror, however, I feel a rush of excitement so foreign to me that it almost feels sinful. I haven’t seen myself like this inyears.I forgot I could be so beautiful.
Suddenly, I’m compelled to redo my makeup entirely, blending out my faded pencil liner into a smokey veil around my eyes. I reach for a berry-tinted lip balm, adding just enough color to accentuate my lips without taking over my entire face.
When I see myself with my complete look, I realize that I’d be perfectly fine just staying in my hotel room and looking at myself. I can’t remember the last time I felt this incredible, and I want to savor it as much as I can.
I realize that staying in would completely defeat the purpose of getting dressed up in the first place, so I look up the address of the club and head out.
When I’m close enough to the club to see the sign on the front, I’m hesitant to go inside. The photos online were clearly edited to make the building seem more welcoming than it is. When I was looking at the website, it appeared to be a cool, sort of secret club where therealpeople hung out. Now that I’m here, I’m under the impression that real people must be drug addicts and people who go their court dates hungover.
Whatever, I’m already here, so I might as well make the best of it. They serve alcohol, and it doesn’t look like the kind of place that would upcharge for the atmosphere or craft cocktails. I’ll be drinking rail tequila all night, and I’m going to make damn sure it’s worth it.
The ambiance of the club is what I would expect from the exterior. The lighting is almost all blue and red, which casts a soft, eerie glow over the dance floor and main bar area. I’ve heard that some clubs use blue lights to keep people from finding their veins to shoot up heroin, so I’m already anticipating an overdose in the bathroom before I leave for the night.
At the main bar, a woman in her mid-thirties covered in tattoos and piercings approaches me with a wary, annoyed expression. She asks me something in Italian, and I freeze. I knew this was going to be an issue, and I’m kicking myself for not studying my Italian vocabulary a bit better.
“You want me to get you started on a Cosmopolitan?” she asks in English, scanning me from my hair to my shoes.
She’s clearly already having a bad night, and I can see why. The dance floor is flooded with men and women in their early twenties, all of them way past their limits hurdling towards the worst comedown of their entire lives. Some of them are slumped against the wall, fighting the urge to fall over lest they get kicked out and banned forever.
“Uhh, just a shot of tequila, please,” I say, trying to project my voice without shouting. I’d hate for this woman to think I’m trying to be demanding when she’s clearly drowning on her own.
She rolls her eyes and turns around, reaching for a brand of liquor that I’ve never seen in the United States. Leaning down, she grabs a shot glass, messily pours me a shot, and hands it over.
“Five euros,” she demands.
I fumble through my wallet and hand her the note, panicking when I realize that I have no idea if I’m supposed to tip bartenders in Italy. This night is starting to feel like a mistake. Should I just cut my losses and go back to my hotel?
