SADIE
You promised Abigail.
I repeat this to myself like I might be able to magically channel my best friend’s spirit if only I say it enough times.
At the very least, it’s what’s keeping me from chickening out as I zip up my miniskirt.
It might well be the shortest skirt I’ve worn since I was two years old, and I have to practice walking around in the bathroom and stretching my arms as if I’m actually two again, checking the extent to which I can move without flashing anybody.
My immediate findings: not very much at all.
But if I’m really going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
Or do it the way Abigail envisioned when she assembled the look on our last shopping trip.
So the skirt stays, just like the black lace top I’m wearing, the leather boots fitted snugly around my knees, and the gel eyeliner I’ve managed to draw around my eyes after three attempts.
“Sorry, I’m almost done,” I call out to Julius, who’s been waiting patiently in the living room since we finished dinner an hour ago. I swallow, my hand on the doorknob, somehow more nervous than I was before my two-hundred-meter dash at the Track and Field Carnival, or even the end-of-year exams.
I force my thoughts back to Abigail’s pep talk, the encouraging look she gave me, as if I were so much cooler and prettier than I felt.
Come on, darling. At least give it a try—if you don’t end up enjoying it, you can always change your mind.
But it’s the experience. It’s, like, a rite of passage.
You’ll be in a country on the other side of the planet with your super hot boyfriend as a legal adult for the first time in your life.
Aren’t you even remotely curious what it’s like?
I’ve literally never thought about it before, I told her.
Well, start thinking about it. She flipped her platinum hair over her shoulder and winked at me. And don’t worry about preparing—I’ve got you covered.
“There’s no rush,” Julius says, his voice sounding much closer than I expected.
Close enough for him to be right outside the door.
“The bar stays open until … To be honest, I don’t know how long bars usually stay open, but considering the nature of their business, I’d say we have more than a few hours. Just tell me when to get the Uber.”
“You can call the Uber now.” I take a deep breath.
Brace myself. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
No, stupid question, learned long ago it doesn’t help.
My brain doesn’t understand that it’s meant to be comforting, just treats it as a prompt to invent as many worst-case scenarios as possible—which right now involve Julius laughing at my outfit so hard I die from humiliation.
“On it,” Julius replies, oblivious to the horror movie playing at double speed inside my head.
“You really don’t have to get the Lux every time, by the way,” I say. “The regular one is fine. You have to remember that my primary mode of transportation is the public bus, Julius; anything else is already an upgrade.”
“That might be true, but you’re traveling with me now,” he says. “I’ve already—”
I open the door, and he breaks off mid-sentence. He isn’t laughing. Nothing close to it. He’s staring at me with such intense, unabashed want—like he can’t even hide it, like it’s already taking all his self-control just to keep standing there, hands at his sides.
“You … like the outfit?” I ask, a little unsure what to do with myself.
He walks over slowly, backing me up against the doorframe. “You want to know if I like it?” he murmurs, his lips tickling the shell of my ear. “I thought you were more perceptive than that, Sadie.”
I’m so overwhelmed with sensation that I forget to filter my next words. “I … wasn’t sure if you’d find me pretty enough—”
Another step, until his body is almost pressed to mine. Hardly necessary, not when I’m frozen to the spot already, his pitch-black eyes pinning me into place. “Are you still unsure?”
Warmth spreads through me, rising up to my skin. “I—I guess not—”
“Hm?” He bows his head, and I try not to gasp when his mouth skims my shoulder, over the delicate strap of my top. “What was that?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, his voice low and replete with approval, and the warmth inside my chest sharpens to heat—
We both startle when his phone chimes with a notification.
“Is that the Uber?” I ask.
He blinks, distracted, looking as disoriented as I feel. “What?”
“The Uber,” I repeat. “Is it downstairs?”
“Right,” he says, throwing a dirty look at his phone, like it should know better than to interrupt. “Yes.”
Of course Julius went ahead and requested the Uber Lux.
Even though it’s only a fifteen-minute trip, the driver offers us everything from mineral water to strawberry Mentos and chewing gum, and asks if we have a specific temperature requirement for the air-conditioning.
When we arrive, he hurries outside to open the door for us, wishes us a lovely evening, tells us earnestly that we’re a wonderful couple.
“We should really tip him,” I tell Julius as the car pulls away from the curb.
“Don’t worry, I have,” Julius replies.
The Marina is already packed with people.
Tipsy college students and bleary-eyed finance men and gorgeous girls in leather jackets wander around the winding streets, fairy lights twinkling from the chic restaurants and boutiques.
There’s so much to take in that I have to pause for a moment.
Crowds everywhere, a blend of music, the night air warm, someone doubled over on the sidewalk from laughter or wine or both, their friend trying to help them.
I try not to look so wide-eyed, so embarrassingly new to all this: breaking rules, going out to bars, having fun, wearing clothes that are designed to show rather than cover skin.
But I must fail at it, because Julius takes my hand, squeezing it like he’s offering reassurance, and it does make me feel safer. Protected.
“Ready to go in?” he says, and when I nod, he leads me toward the line forming outside the bar.
“I can’t believe this is the first thing on your itinerary,” he remarks.
“I can’t believe it either,” I say. “It was mostly Abigail’s idea. And I wanted to get it out of the way.”
But as we move closer and closer to the entrance, I start having seventh thoughts. Everyone here looks so much older. “Did you bring the fake IDs?” I ask Julius.
He pats his pocket. “Got everything here.”
“What if they find out the IDs are fake?” I worry. “Will we get in trouble? What if I get kicked out of Berkeley?”
“I doubt they’ll be able to tell,” Julius says, the corner of his mouth curving. “Unless, of course, you continue to talk out loud about how fake they are.”
“Right.” I flush. Drop my voice into a whisper. “Sorry. But, like, what if they ask questions? Or what if the accent makes them suspicious? Should I … Should we come up with a backstory? Like, I don’t know, should we have jobs?”
“As a society? That’s always been a topic for contention.”
I elbow him. “You know what I mean.”
“Sadie, you’ll be fine,” he says, amused. He brushes a strand of hair out of my face, where it’s stuck to my lip gloss, and tucks it behind my ear. “Everything will be fine.”
He’s right. The bouncer barely glances at our fake IDs before waving us forward through the doors, and then we’re in.
I realize at once that it hadn’t been crowded outside at all.
Not compared to here; the bodies are so tightly packed that if it weren’t for Julius, I probably wouldn’t be able to take more than two steps in before being squeezed back out.
There’s some kind of aquatic theme going on here, waves painted over the walls, heavy ropes suspended from the ceiling like anchors, the bartenders dressed as sailors, which seems to be really working on a few girls.
Even the cocktails are a vivid ocean blue.
The music thuds so loud that I can feel it thrumming through my bones, reverberating in my eardrums. Everyone here’s in love or heartbroken, drunk and attractive, dancing and bumping into one another and trying to find their friends.
The opposite of what I trained myself to be most of my life: uninhibited, unrestrained, unapologetic.
“Do you want a drink?” Julius asks me.
“Um, okay. Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t let go of my hand the entire way to the bar counter, where he orders a whiskey for himself, a cocktail for me. He laughs when I accept my drink with both hands, ice clinking against the glass, and take a tentative sip. It tastes like soda, with only the faintest sour edge.
“This actually isn’t bad,” I say in surprise.
“Don’t act like you haven’t had alcohol before,” he says with a knowing look, and the memory stretches between us like an elastic band.
The party at my house, playing truth or dare, rambling on and on to him after everyone had left, saying too much, touching his hair, just wanting to touch him and hoping he would let me and hating myself for wanting it so badly.
But I can touch him now, I think with a stupid little thrill, and I do, and he does let me.
I move my fingers over his neck and down his chest and he suddenly pulls me in like he’s about to kiss me, his forehead almost bumping against mine, his lashes long and shadowed in the low bar light. I can sense his smile more than see it.
“Have I mentioned that you’re beautiful tonight?” he asks.
I hear my own heart, bursting. “Not directly, no.”
“Sometimes I worry I’d bore you if I told you every single time I found you beautiful,” he says. “But you are. Just so you know.”
“You’re also—” I pause, desperately wanting to return the compliment but unable to find the right word.
Beautiful would sound like I’m parroting him, even though it’s true.
He’s so beautiful it’s painful. Outrageous, really.
Cute is too casual, overlaps too much with baby animals and stuffed toys.
Handsome has a formal, archaic ring to it, like something our Airbnb host might say while patting his cheek and offering more cookies.
Hot seems tactless, makes it sound like I’m just eager to make out with him, which I kind of am, but still. “You’re incredible,” I say in the end.
“I’m … incredible?” he repeats, brows rising.
“No, like—” I bite my lip, frustrated with myself for not being able to express it properly.
“Like, really, really incredible. You’re incredible to me.
To be around. As a person. You make me so happy I sometimes wonder how this could even be real life.
” I take another sip of my drink to shut myself up. Maybe I should’ve just gone with hot.
But then he holds me, his chin resting on my head, so I can feel it when he draws in a tight breath. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says quietly.
“That can’t be true.”
“It is. For as long as I can remember. And you know how excellent my memory is.”
“I do,” I admit, and he just continues holding me without talking, without needing to, because somehow I can sense everything he’s feeling, and I feel it too.