Chapter Four
In which Ava's glow-up for club night is completely wasted.
Ava…
I haven't heard back from Cynthia about my application.
“How long has it been?” Priya asks.
“Twenty-three days.”
“Plan on more like twenty-three weeks,” she says wisely.
“You know that anything good moves at a glacial pace here in New York. We waited almost nine months before the co-op board approved our purchase. I could have birthed a baby in less time.” She’s happily peeling off her scrubs and taking her long, dark hair out of its severe bun.
“I know,” I whine, shutting my locker door. “I shouldn’t be letting myself get my hopes up. But I’m feeling homicidal after coming home to two of Carla’s friends doing it in my bed yesterday. My bed!” I smack my chest dramatically.
“I’d burn those sheets.” She eyes my dress. “Where are you off to with this epic glow-up?”
“Please,” I move over to the mirror, putting on some lipstick. “My glow-up is that I washed my hair and it’s not in a ponytail.”
“Still, you look really pretty,” she says approvingly.
“Thanks. Doris in Cardiology is having a little get together for her birthday. It’s fancy, a private room at a club called Heaven and Hell, have you heard of it?”
“Very bougie,” she says, “I hope it’s an open bar. You are wearing the hell out of that dress; it really brings out the blue in your eyes. And look! You have breasts! There’s cleavage!”
“Stop it!” I awkwardly cross my arms over said breasts. “The girls haven’t been making an appearance because my main item of clothing is scrubs.”
“Go drink too much and make out with someone hot and dangerous,” she says, sending me a wink as I leave the locker room.
***
Priya is right. Heaven and Hell is bougie.
Fortunately, I don't have to stand in line because there's a private room booked for the party, so I get to feel a bit like a VIP as they escort me back.
The main dance floor is flashy and shiny, filled with chrome and lights and expensively dressed bodies, dancing, and drinking.
But the back hallway is thickly carpeted, with dark gray walls and a more rarified atmosphere.
I don't know what they do to soundproof these rooms, but only the faint thud of the bass comes through from the main dance floor.
The hostess opens the door and smiles at me, intoning, “Enjoy your night!" before closing it behind her.
It's not a party.
There's no balloons, no cake. No slightly inebriated party-goers.
There's only fucking Kevin, leaning against a table with a glass of scotch in his hand.
That son of a bitch.
“Okay, goodbye," I say, turning to the door.
“Wait! Wait, hang on," he says, hastily putting his shoulder against the door. He's too close now, and blocking the door is creepy and aggressive, not like his usual slimy rich boy antics. “This is the only way I could get you to talk to me.” His eyes are wide and attempting to radiate sincerity.
“I don't want to talk to you," I say calmly. "It seems like that message should have gotten across to you by now. Get the fuck out of my way."
"You owe me a minute, just hear me out!" he blusters. “That day on the ICU floor, I don't know what you thought you saw but-"
"Are you serious right now?” I put my hands on my hips, better there than punching him right in his stupid face.
“How many times have we had this conversation?
You're still trying to tell me I didn't catch that nurse giving you a blow job in the supply room?
I can't decide if you think I'm a fucking idiot or you're one. "
"You don't understand," he says earnestly. “I was afraid. I was confused and saw the end of my single days coming, and-"
"I don't give a shit,” I say, cleanly, precisely. “It does not matter to me. You no longer matter to me. I want you to go away and find some other women to harass. So, get your shoulder off the door and let me out of here.”
His energy changes again, his face red and lips firmed into a thin line as he leaves closer, trying to intimidate me. He stinks of Hugo Boss cologne and entitlement.
“There's no reason to be such a smug bitch,” he rasps.
"Always thinking that you're above everybody else. The perfect Ava, never making a mistake. Well, the rest of us are human!” He pokes his finger aggressively at his chest, and I hope it hurts.
“And as a fellow human being, you should understand that people make mistakes. Errors in judgement. I deserve understanding.”
"There's a lot of things that you deserve,” I say. “Just step away from the door.”
Something’s sizzling at the base of my spine, anxiety, worming through my nervous system, making me wonder if this man could overcome his practiced, rich boy manners and do something like punch me.
I really should've taken more than two self-defense classes with Priya.
“Step away from the door,” I repeat, attempting to sound calm and soothing. “We're just gonna pretend this never happened and go on about our day. Okay?” Also, I'm going to murder Doris from Cardiology for setting me up like this. Why would she do this to me?
For a minute, I don't think he's going to move. His hand comes up, pressing against the door and his other one clenches into a fist.
“You do not want to do this,” I say, that frisson of unease has turned into a full-blown series of fireworks sparking through my system, adrenaline speeding into my bloodstream so fast that I feel dizzy.
This room is too hot. My feet hurt in these high heels.
The lights should be lower, not so glaring, and-
Fucking. Focus.
Then he laughs, an ugly, coarse laugh that I've never heard from him before but hell, tonight is a night for surprises, now isn't it? “Fine,” he hisses. “You're wasting my time. You deserve everything you’re going to get."
“Well, if that includes you getting the hell away from the door, I'll be happy to accept it.” I square my shoulders, trying to look firm and authoritative. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of this room and make my legs stop shaking.
He makes me wait another minute, smug and pleased that his oh, so superior power and strength will keep me from leaving without his say-so. Finally, he drops his hand from the door, turning back towards the table and picking up his drink.
“Get the fuck out, then.”
Walking out, I quietly close the door behind me, my hand shaking. I didn't realize his ego was so vast and his entitlement so never-ending that he really thought this creepy little stunt would work.
Part of me would really like to stay at Heaven and Hell, take my mind off Kevin and that private room by enjoying the dance floor and maybe one of those tasty looking drinks that I saw a waitress carrying across the room.
But that's only 25% of me. The other 75% wants to scuttle home and pull on my favorite pair of sweats and pretend tonight never happened.
"Are you okay?”
I let out a little yelp, pressing my hand to my chest. “Excuse me?” I look up and see a giant of a man, wearing an expensive suit and looking concerned. His green eyes seem sincere, which is nice.
“I'm one of the owners here,” he hastens to explain. “I just want to make sure that you're all right. You look a little shook up."
"I am," I manage. "Fine, I mean. Thank you. A downer of a night, but certainly not the club's fault.”
“Okay…” he says, still eyeing me keenly. “Have a good night. I can have the doorman call an Uber for you?"
“That would be nice, thank you.” I just want to leave. I don’t want to be here when that son of a bitch comes out of his special private room.
Back home and in my softest sweats, I allow myself one glass of wine. Alcohol and my ADHD meds don’t like each other, but I think I earned it tonight.
I have forty-three tabs open on my computer and I vary between cute cat clips, an instructional video about a new approach to suturing open wounds, and like the last twenty-six days, refreshing my email constantly to see if Cynthia has sent anything.
I don’t let myself think about Kevin and his mean, slitted-eye glare.
Just as I’m finishing the last sip of wine, my email notification cheerfully ‘dings!’ and I scramble to open it.
Dear Ava,
How are you? Managing this new expansion is a nightmare, but I’m happy to tell you that your application for the low-income section was approved.
I’m not supposed to do this, but we have a moving company that we offer as a free service for our higher-end sales, but I’m willing to bet you don’t have a lot to move. They can pencil you in as early as next Wednesday. Why don’t we meet then and I’ll walk you through the apartment?
Again, congratulations on your acceptance and welcome to McManus Heights!
Warmly, Cynthia Watkins
Quickly typing back a response, I let out a girlish squee that makes me cringe, but I’m too happy to care.
Maybe Lady Luck and I are back on speaking terms.