Chapter 1
NOEL
The first day of summer chokes the city in its unrelenting and moist grip, and it’s made more unbearable by the fact that my new apartment in Jamaica Plain does not have air conditioning. Which should be fucking illegal, by the way, when humanity is on the brink of imminent heat death.
Fortunately the landlord has agreed to install a window unit for me in some indeterminate and murky timeframe, so I have that to look forward to, assuming it ever manifests.
In the meantime, I’m reduced to lying on my bed while blasting my face with one of those little handheld fans, because the one affixed to my ceiling isn’t doing all that much.
My friend Jamil is wilting on the floor of my room, alternating between crying and sweating because he’s just been dumped by his long-term boyfriend, Brady.
Although I’m not convinced being dumped by someone whose biggest flex is being named after an old dude who played for the Patriots is worth crying over, I’m making all the right sympathetic noises.
Or I think I am anyway. Not sure if anything I’m saying is having any sort of effect one way or the other.
“Your life’s not over,” I’m saying. “You could go out and find a new guy tonight, if you wanted.”
“But I don’t want a new guy,” he blubbers. “I want him.”
This is a relatable sentiment. I too have a single-track mind when it comes to who I want.
In this case, it is my ex-boyfriend Luca.
We broke up because it turned out he’d gotten his soon-to-be-ex-wife pregnant weeks before I ever met him, and I was the disposable factor in that equation.
So here I am, just as loveless, alone, and overheated as poor Jamil.
Not that I think about him that much anymore.
Luca, I mean. For instance, this is the first time I’ve thought about him today.
I used to think about him constantly and hurt myself with those thoughts to the point where it was intentional.
Then I went back to therapy and got on mood stabilizers and antidepressants that annihilated my sex drive, and now I’m in a strange sort of limbo where sometimes I’m okay and sometimes I’m not, but never too far in either direction.
Which is an improvement, I think. The anger and sadness are still there, but muted. Bearable.
I don’t voice any of this, of course. Nothing about weighing my suffering against Jamil’s.
I am not that terrible of a friend, and I have put both him and Danika through enough hell this year.
I sit up and brush back my sweaty hair from my sticky face.
The fan has not done much. “What if we go out?” I suggest. “You know the best way to get over someone…”
“I couldn’t. I can’t even imagine doing something like that right now, dude. I’ve never been less in the mood.”
“You don’t have to do anything. But you can clean yourself up and we can go dance and get drunk and collect compliments from people we wouldn’t fuck on a bad day.” I lean over the edge of the bed and peer at him. “Come on. Do you really want to sit there marinating in your own fluids all night?”
He holds out a hand. “Give that here,” he instructs, and I hand him the fan. He holds it over his face and closes his eyes. “And no. I don’t. Fuck, it’s so hot.”
“We could go to Anathema,” I point out. “Pretty sure it’s air-conditioned.”
“Isn’t that the weird fetish club?”
“It’s just a theme. Like, nothing happens there.
” At least, nothing happened the one time I went, besides some people sucking each other off in the bathroom, but that doesn’t count because that happens at normal clubs, too.
I once went to an actual sex club, but that’s a fucking disaster that doesn’t merit remembering.
My friends don’t know about that anyway.
“It’s just, you know, people scantily clad in leather and shit. You don’t even have to dress up.”
“I don’t feel like dancing,” he bemoans.
“Then sit at the bar and drink.”
“I’m poor. I’m not like you.” He snivels. “I can’t afford to get drunk.”
Thanks to student loans, I am not exactly rolling in dough either. But I have both a big-boy job and a lucrative side gig that bring in enough money to keep me afloat. Compared to my friends, who are still in the college trenches, I am well off indeed.
Impulsively I get up and grab his arms, tugging him to his feet. “We can pregame first,” I say. “And if you say no, I’ll just go by myself. I’m not sitting in this furnace for the rest of the night.”
And so he blearily helps himself to the dusty bottle of Smirnoff I have lying around while I get ready, washing my face and smearing on eyeliner and putting on some clubbing clothes that’ll get me noticed.
It’s going to be the first time I’ve gone out since Luca decided to shred my heart—because really, I empathize with Jamil on this point.
The last thing I wanted to do was go out and talk to anyone, when my wounds were fresh and bloody.
But it’s been three whole months now, and I guess it’s time, really.
And I’m telling myself that I’m kind of over it, anyway, and it’ll be good for me.
Maybe I’m even a little excited by the prospect of getting some attention.
No way I’m gonna bring anyone home tonight, but putting myself out there is a good step.
And I’ve been working my ass off, and I need a break.
I need some attention from people who might want to dick me down even if I have no interest in reciprocating.
Fear isn’t the mind killer; lack of validation is.
And I’ve gotten fuck all of that lately.
So I join Jamil in downing a shot or two—I’m not supposed to really drink on the meds, but I’m okay if I pace myself—and we stagger our way to the T and make our way downtown.
There’s a long-ass line into the club, because it’s a Friday night, but luckily it moves fast and we’re in before we know it.
It’s about the same as I remember, the spooky cathedral theme with the red lights and glowing crosses everywhere, a smoke machine making everything hazy and EDM pulsing through the crush of bodies. This spot has gotten so popular.
“Hey, this is neat,” Jamil says. “Is that guy wearing a jockstrap?”
He sure is, and so are a lot of people; it’s too hot to wear much more than that, and Anathema encourages the fetwear.
I’ve got on a pair of tiny shorts and a crop top and fishnets, which might be comparatively overdressed, but Jamil looks even more out of place in the t-shirt and basketball shorts.
“Let’s get a drink,” I say. “On me, of course.”
He smiles, cheered by the vodka and the prospect of paying nothing more than the twenty dollars it cost to get in here tonight. “Hell yeah.”
It really is a strange fucking thing to be back at Anathema. Half of a whole year since I have. This is where I met Luca back in January.
I expect to feel some kind of way about that.
And I do, somewhere in my core; it’s a dull ache, almost comforting in its familiarity.
Like snapping a rubber band against your wrist until it’s nothing more than soothing background noise.
There’s a numb sort of solace that can be derived from suffering, when you’ve been in it so long it becomes companionable.
But there’s no way I’ll see Luca here, tonight or ever.
That’s not why I’ve been avoiding this place.
He’s a family man now or whatever; he’s got a kid and a wife, so he won’t be skulking around gay bars.
He’s probably gone and rededicated himself to the whole nuclear family bullshit that was smothering him to death in the first place.
Whatever. I don’t care. Anymore.
We find a spot at the crowded bar and buy a couple of drinks.
It’s loud and hot in here, too many bodies, but it’s still better than being at home.
Jamil’s still positively agog at the things people are wearing and the way they’re behaving—which is raunchier than Boston’s average gay bar, in fairness, and Jamil doesn’t really get out a lot; clubbing isn’t really his scene.
Compared to the things I saw in Providence, it’s not all that titillating to me, but it sure is to him, all the bare skin and raw sexuality.
“Well, well, well,” an unfortunately familiar voice says into my left ear. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I try to hold out hope that it’s not Jordan in the seconds it takes me to turn toward him to confirm it, but I am confronted with the unwanted truth.
It is him: my other ex-boyfriend. I haven’t seen him face-to-face in months.
He’s not dressed to theme either, and he looks like a complete douche with his stupid bouffant and raggedy, low-cut tank top.
He’s got some scratcher-looking tattoos on his ribs that are a new addition—to me, anyway.
I bet his parents almost disowned him for those.
He gives me a smile that tries and fails not to be condescending, and he’s also grown a patchy chinstrap. Why? “You look good,” he tells me.
I want to tell him I can’t say the same for him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Isn’t this place super popular now?” His gaze flicks past my shoulder. “Uh, also, Jamil posted about it on Instagram like thirty minutes ago, so I decided to come check it out.”
I shoot Jamil a withering look, but he’s too busy being chatted up by a couple seated next to him to notice or care. I decide to let him have the moment. “So not a surprise,” I say, downing the rest of my cosmo. “Okay. Have fun.”
“Really? That’s all I get?” Jordan helps himself to the stool beside me. “You’re not still mad about everything, are you? It’s all ancient history.”
“I’m not mad. I don’t even care.” It’s more or less true. I don’t love or hate Jordan—I nothing him. “But it doesn’t mean I want you in and around my person.”
“Come on,” he wheedles, indicating my empty glass. “Let me buy you a drink, at least. Make up for how things went last time we spoke.”