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Ana laughed with a nod and pointed to a rack where I could hang my coat. Eric’s was already there, along with his shoes, pointed neatly out from the door.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, wrapping his arms around Ana’s impossibly tiny waist and nuzzling her neck. “David and Phoebe around?”
“No, David is on vacation this weekend. Went to Miami, lucky duck. Phoebe is off too,” she said as she leaned into his embrace. Their familiarity made my chest squeeze a little with envy. Some people seemed to find that kind of rapport so easy. I never had.
“What about the Lord?” Eric was asking. “Think he’d care if I stuck around tonight?”
“Well, he’s not home right now. Why do you want to know, you naughty boy?”
I took a seat on one of the couches and thumbed fixedly at my phone while Eric and Ana said their very intimate hellos. Then she turned to me.
“Skylar, have you ever had acaipirinha?”
I shook my head. “Can’t say that I have. What is it?”
“It’s a Brazilian drink made withcachaça, which is kind of like a rum.”
“Oh, I’ve already had a few tonight. And it’s getting kind of late.” It was almost eleven thirty.
“Come on, Crosby, have a few with us,” Eric wheedled from behind Ana. “It’s a Friday night, right? You gotta have some fun some time, and there’s nobody here who’s going to try to feel you up. Only Ana has to deal with that.” He pinched Ana’s butt, causing her to shriek and scamper away.
“It’ll be the perfect thing to warm you up before you go out into the cold again,” she added, heading into the kitchenette. “I’ll make you one. You hate it, no problem. You like it, maybe you have another, eh?”
“Okay, okay,” I relented with a grin. She was so sweet and friendly; it was hard to say no. I could see why Eric wanted to come over.
Unsurprisingly, the drink was delicious, a blend of lime and sweet without the cloying taste of rum. I had already knocked back two and was dancing the samba with Ana in my stockinged feet before I thought to check the time again.
“Oh, shit!” I yelped. “It’s past midnight! I really have to call a car if I’m going to catch the T home.”
“You do that,” said Eric, who had taken my place with Ana in a much more intimate way of dancing. I sank into the couch while he maneuvered her toward the hallway on the other side of the apartment.
“Eric!” She batted him helplessly on the shoulder but allowed herself to be steered away. “Skylar, make yourself at home,” she called in between bouts of giggles. “I just, ah, have to show Eric something in my room.”
With that lame excuse, they were gone, leaving me trying to find cell phone service. I stood up and paced around the room, but there was no signal.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself as a throaty laugh floated down the hall. I made a face. I wasn’t overly eager to listen to Eric having his way with Ana, no matter how charming she was. Aside from the fact that it skeeved me out to hear my pseudo-brother getting it on with his lay of the week, I also didn’t care for the reminder of just how easy it was for some women to enjoy themselves that way.
Maybe I wouldn’t have been so frustrated if the lackluster reaction I’d had to Trevor were the exception, not the norm. But it always seemed to come back to that, whether it was during the first, crucial kiss, or later on when I was supposed to be screaming with ecstasy.
It wasn’t that I was into the wrong gender either. No, I was definitely interested in men, but they just couldn’t seem to keep me focused long enough to enjoy myself. I’d become distracted by the lighting, the uncomfortable chafing between bodies, or the weird shape of my partner’s nose. It didn’t help that most guys couldn’t seem to distinguish my clit from my elbow, or if they could, didn’t have a damn clue what to do with it. Maybe some girls (like Ana) could get off from pure friction, but I sure as hell wasn’t one of them.
Another, much louder giggle escaped from the hallway, followed by an ominous thump. I scowled and headed toward the stairs. Ana had said that the owner wasn’t home. As another yelp erupted from the hall, I decided to take my chances with trespassing to escape what was starting to sound like an amateur porn flick.
* * *
I openedthe door at the top of the stairs into one of the largest and most beautiful kitchens I had ever seen. The entire thing was easily as big as my apartment, with dark-wood cabinetry and white marble countertops around the periphery. Two huge farmhouse sinks faced each other on each side of the room, bookending a double oven and a six-burner Viking stove. In the middle of the kitchen was a large, marble-topped island, surrounded by several stools and topped by a hanging rack of gleaming copper pots and pans.
An airy, adjacent room containing a tufted, cream chaise lounge and a farmhouse table sat directly off the kitchen, creating space and luxury that still managed to be comfortable. Large picture windows revealed a small courtyard garden planted over the servants’ quarters. I wasn’t much of a cook, but if I were, this would undoubtedly be my dream kitchen.
I checked my phone. Still a dead zone. I pushed through the kitchen door into a hallway that passed a bathroom and led into another massive, open room. A huge, white stone fireplace lorded over one wall, and gaping bay windows looked out over the snowy Common. Dark-wood floors continued from the kitchen and were covered with several plush sheepskin rugs, the kind that begged a person to fall asleep on them in front of a crackling fire. The walls appeared to have the original dark-wood wainscoting, above which they were painted a warm cream color and bore a number of gorgeous modern art pieces.
Whoever had decorated the place knew their business, or paid someone who did. The aesthetic was warm yet posh, traditional yet modern, inviting yet imperious. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that every furnishing in the room was likely worth more than everything I owned put together, but I felt oddly comfortable, wishing for nothing more than to sink into one of the overstuffed sofas for a long nap.
I walked over to one of the bay windows and looked out at the park, which was nearly deserted. Beacon Street was also quiet as the occasional car made its way very, very slowly down the road, careful on the not-yet salted concrete. The snow was quickly morphing into a blizzard; flakes were coming down in sideways droves. The T-stop was only just across the park, but it might as well have been across the entire city.
I sat down on the wide sill, which was trimmed with a few pillows for such moments. Nights like these made me yearn for the comforts of my family’s cozy old house in Brooklyn, with its big front porch and my room carved into the attic. There I would snuggle in the armchair next to the window and watch the snow gather on the oak tree outside while my father and grandmother chattered downstairs about the news and neighborhood politics.
Bubbe and my grandfather had owned the house for almost thirty-five years before he had passed away when I was a baby. Since I had left for law school, it was just her and my father in the drafty old place. But despite the fact that they were sitting on a million-dollar piece of property, they refused to sell it and kept my bedroom open for me whenever I was able to come home.
