Chapter 1
Light
Why did I do this?
The last time I went to a club was ten years ago.
The first and last time. It wasn’t my scene then.
And unlike some things you grow to love as you get older, like money spent on an ever-growing collection of smutty books instead of the pursuit of a ruthlessly banging hangover in the morning, this would not grow on me. No matter the frequency.
“What do you want!” The barman looks at me expectantly, his raised voice barely heard over the volume of the music.
He isn’t smiling, but I don’t blame him.
This bar is busy, and it is humid. He swipes at a bead of sweat following a path from his hairline down his brow, clinging to his eyebrow for dear salty life.
“Um, just a coke, please!” When he places the large plastic cup on the counter, I wonder how many sweat droplets make up the millage.
Instead of asking him, I push over a note and drop the change he brings me into the tip jar on the counter.
It is nearly empty, making me wonder what came first: the poor service or the empty tip jar .
The last time I drank out of a plastic cup was at a kid's party.
Geezus. Club Nero’s, more like Club Zero’s.
Absolutely nothing about this place was appealing, which made me think perhaps my distaste of clubs was not all-inclusive but purely steeped in how dirty and dingy this one in particular was.
I nearly lost a shoe earlier; the floor was so sticky.
Compared to the other clubs I googled before I came, this one was like getting a cracker with cheese when you asked for a burger.
There was one called Sin , which didn’t have any pictures, oddly, but boasted of being the most sought-after club to get into in the area closest to where I live.
When I suggested to Gloria that we go and see if we can get in there instead, she wouldn’t budge.
Looking around, I don’t really know why.
Perhaps because the entrance fee for this dive was nominal and the booze was cheap. Not just in price.
“Loosen up and have a proper drink!” Gloria’s words cause the Ken Barbie doll, who latched onto her as soon as we arrived, to briefly grace me with a glance, all the while continuing to grind against Gloria's thigh in tune with the music.
Nothing about what he was doing was sexy.
He looked like an octopus climbing a pole.
I smile and shake my head, telling her I’m okay for now, which earns me yet another eye roll—the fifth one.
Number one was attained just minutes after Gloria picked me up, the cleavage-covered dress I was wearing the cause. Apparently, my lack of pushing my ‘puppies’ up into an unbearably uncomfortable position while displaying them to the world was enough to earn me my first eye roll of the evening.
My comment about the convertible top of her car being down in the middle of winter earned me my second. The cold nipping at my face, causing my eyes to tear up, was secondary to the aesthetics of arriving at a shitty club with the top down and music blaring .
Said music earned me my third eye roll. My dislike for the heavy metal band playing instantly branded me as ‘old.’
The fourth was when I commented on how unsafe the area looked when we pulled into the dimly lit, beer bottle-littered parking lot. However, in hindsight, Gloria might want to retract that one. Even she warned me to keep my wallet close.
Gloria was my only friend, and I used that term loosely. She was such a bitch that I think no one wanted to be in her company for longer than necessary. Leaving me her only option.
After losing James, my lover and best friend, my social circle dwindled to the blonde across from me.
James and I had mutual friends, but suddenly, they didn’t want to be around me anymore.
My sadness overwhelmed them, leading them to distance themselves.
Now, two years later, that distance feels irreversibly permanent.
So, I was stuck with Gloria. It was definitely not a blood bond. It was more of a spit-on-the-hand hanging-by-a-thread kind of friendship. I suppose beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Refusing to join her tonight was also not an option. I promised Jen, my psychiatrist, and my brother Liam that I would accept the next social invitation I received. It was a pity it was this one.
I could have lied, but I don’t do that well either. It’s a sickness, I’m sure. Every time I lie, my face turns red. Like a cherry tomato on steroids.
Talking about steroids.
Oh, god, no. My heart rate increases as a tall, brown-haired guy who looks like he is on said drug makes eye contact with me. He gives me a mega-watt smile, the awkward one I return, making my inside voice cringe.
I look around discreetly, making sure it is actually me he is smiling at. I'm sure I look like a Chucky doll, but he is undeterred. He walks over, his eyes traveling my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. He even licks his lips and winks at me. Kill me now.
“Hey, babydoll, can I buy you a drink?” He leans in, his arm grazing my back so that he can shout in my ear, the smell of cigarettes and beer assaulting my senses. It's not pleasant. Holding back a gag, I raise my drink and shake my head, forcing a smile on my face.
Looking over at Gloria for assistance is futile. She raises her brows, her eyes darting to the guy standing over me, before smiling at me encouragingly.
I feel like I’m back in third grade, with the overly enthusiastic head teacher patting my back and shooting me a smile, as if that would make stepping onto the stage any easier. As if one less tree in the background will make a difference.
The smell of cigarettes and beer invades my space, making me pull back slightly.
I flash him an inelegant smile to smooth over the awkwardness as I make an excuse to head to the ladies’ room.
Knowing how dirty the floors are, pure desperation to get out of the smelly clutches of Mr. Bad Nicknames drives this decision.
“No problem, babydoll, though I can’t guarantee I will still be here. Hot property moves fast.” He winks and smiles at me, his words so off-putting I barely stifle the sardonic pull of my lips.
As I look around, a spot towards the back catches my attention. My mind conjures up a man standing in the darkness, staring at me. But the more I look, the more I think it is just a shadow—a figment.
My eyes continue their perusal as I edge forward into the jungle, which is the dance floor. Sponge bobs dripping and loosening the grit on the floor.
This wasn’t me. A club full of people. Sweaty bodies mashed up against my anxious one.
I only agreed when Jen told me I was closing myself off from everyone. That I was closing myself off from the world. After losing James, I know I shut down.
He was the love of my life. When the tumor took him, it shattered me.
I went into a deep depression. The lowest point was when my brother found me six pills in on the brink of ending it all.
He pulled me back from the precipice. And now here I was.
Existing. Living a life I didn’t know how to navigate. A life without James.
I wasn’t twenty anymore. I was thirty-four —a widow.
In the minority, it felt like. Alone in this experience, though, I knew this wasn’t the case.
But most lovers leave when they fall out of love.
They didn’t vanish forever in the depths of a life that was beginning.
We barely had time. But what we did have was paradise.
How would I find that same thing in a club with people looking for something artificial?
I finally spot the bathroom across the dim room of bodies.
Bodies that swayed and laughed. Bodies that gravitated toward each other.
Mine sought to escape. I continue pushing through the dance floor, some woman looking at me menacingly as I brush against a chest I didn’t know was forbidden territory.
I smile apologetically, continuing my trudge forward until I break through to the corridor.
I expect a line but am met with an empty, filthy, germ paradise instead. Picking the one toilet of the three that might give me the least severe infection, I close the stall door behind me. Hovering is the name of the game, especially with a toilet seat missing.
Once done, I peer at my reflection in the cracked mirror, my mascara streaked from the heat of the room—my inclination to do nothing about it overriding my desire to look good. I blink and then smile. It looks unnatural, the smile falling from my face as I shake my head, sighing.
As I step out of the bathroom, I collide with something solid—a man. My hands land on his chest, firm and unyielding, confirming its rock-hard strength. Heat rushes through me as I quickly step back, lowering my hands as if burned.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, looking up into the shadow of a face, the view obscured by a hoodie. He is tall and lean but muscular. And just over half a foot above my 5’7”.
He steps back, his head dipping low as he grunts in response.
The distance between us is short-lived when a drunk man comes stumbling up beside us.
“Hey, I know you—” His words are cut off as he stumbles forward, mistaking me for a wall as he reaches out to steady himself.
Before his paw can touch me, a large tattooed hand shoots out, the hooded figure grasping the man's wrist as I shrink back from the almost contact.
He pushes him away from us while simultaneously stepping towards me, shielding me from the stranger, who must have mistaken me for someone else, and the rest of the room as both his hands meet the wall behind me.