1 #3
I touch up a couple spots, grin like an idiot, and think maybe the door swings open and the blonde walks in: fanfare, applause, she asks for an autograph because she swears she saw me on Money Heist , and I toss off an Almodóvar-worthy line while the score swells in the background.
But, hey, before any drama, first things first: basic needs.
Life doesn’t stop. So I duck into a stall, pull down my panties and, while I pee, I reflect on my bad decisions—a personal tradition that never fails me in public bathrooms: why can’t I be a normal person, like the people who come to these events and don’t have to fake their name or their family connection?
Then again, normal is for the boring. And for people who don’t have a twin who gets you into trouble.
As I’m finishing, I hear the door open. Dun-dun-dunn. Someone else wants in on my existential monologue. So, with the elegance of someone yanking her panties up in a hurry and nearly snagging a leg, I walk out pretending I am the very definition of calm.
And look who’s here—of course—the blonde. She watches me in the mirror. And me, a certified idiot but with perfect eyesight, swallow the jolt as I admit it: the girl is a knockout.
I swear, for half a second I picture pinning her against the sink—epic level—and kissing her with tongue.
But no. Reality is way sadder and answers to the name Alaska—in full coward mode: all I do is clutch my bag and sweat.
I’m not that brave. Especially with Ray waiting outside.
Last thing I need is him barging in and catching us mid–soap opera episode.
The woman spears me with her stare. And me, who’s got years of mileage on the hardass act—no diploma, though I’d award it to myself—hold her gaze.
"You look a lot like someone I know," the woman murmurs, a movie whisper. I mean, one of my ovaries just about hits the floor from the jolt that zaps through me.
I step to the sink, wet my hands, and dry them slowly, wrapping them in that paper towel that feels like sandpaper.
"Oh, really? Then I’m sorry for her."
She stays tranquil, glued to the marble, posing like a hunting lioness in a nature doc. I pretend it’s funny, but I can feel the dress damp down my back.
"You look way too much like her."
She’s persistent, though classy about it. I smile and cock my head.
"What a tired-ass pickup strategy, lady. Got another one, or should I send you a PDF of options? Go on, say you’re having déjà vu—finish the bit."
"I don’t usually hit on people I’m not interested in," she says, like I’m a supermarket sale item she’s not buying.
I make a face that says, Sure, fine, I don’t give a damn.
And even so, a curiosity I’m scared to admit crawls up my spine.
I’m itching all over, literally. I want to flick her forehead so she’ll stop looking at me like that, but my brain knots up at how gorgeous she is and my mean streak comes out.
I don’t know whether to run or ask her if we should adopt a cat together.
"Well, good thing, queen. I was about to drop to one knee on this floor and propose with a ring from a Cracker Jack box."
She scans me up and down, not even trying to be subtle.
"Relax. Wedding later. First things first: your name. Or maybe you’re one of those girls who make up aliases at parties," she says, fishing for a reaction.
I laugh, but inside my self-esteem is sizzling on the grill.
"And what if I am? Maybe I like being a question mark—what’s it to you? If you’ve already decided I’m suspicious, then case closed, sweetheart."
She steps closer; she smells like stupid-expensive perfume and trouble with a rap sheet.
"I don’t care. It’s just you really remind me of a friend," she tosses out.
I fold my arms and lift my chin. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, it might as well be with a touch of strip-mall glamour.
"Lucky you. Today’s a special. Clones in bulk. Maybe your friend and I share a zodiac sign and a five-minute voice memo addiction."
She pulls a hinge-smile, one of those that leaves you wondering: is she about to lick my face or hand me her therapist’s number? My alarm system says “careful,” and my lizard brain says “say yes to everything.”
"Or maybe it’s something else," she drops, like a soap-opera teaser. Wow, this woman runs on intensity.
I do not have the battery for this. So I grab the lipstick and go over my mouth a fourth time. I’m going to wear it down to a nub and I don’t care.
"Hey, if you’re bored, take your CSI somewhere else. I came here to pee, not audition for Interpol."
She shrugs, pretending she couldn’t care less. Her eyes say otherwise.
"Relax, Miss Mystery. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again," she says, like a prophecy.
"Hope not," I tease with my best “you’re not my favorite, but I’d still fuck you if you’d let me” face.
I turn to leave, but the little devil in me wants a party, so I gift myself thirty extra seconds.
She clicks her tongue, looks at my mouth, and kills my vibe in one go.
"One last thing. Your name," she presses. "I don’t bite. Today."
"Alaska."
"Knew you weren’t going to say María," she says, half laughing.
"My grandma would applaud your intuition. And you? What’s your name?"
"Depends who’s asking."
"All right, smartass. Spill or I’ll guess in three. First bet: Carla. Second: Vera. Third: no idea."
She smiles and doesn’t confirm.
I hate that. And it turns me on. Chemistry is disgusting.
"We’re in a hurry, Alaska," she says, mimicking my tone. "They’re waiting for you."
"Instagram or nothing," my mouth runs off again. "Your handle. I’ll stalk you and then, if anything, you can report me."
"I’d rather see you in person. We’ll meet again, Alaska."
I walk out with my heart redlining. I don’t know if I hate her or want to make her my profile pic. Or both. She’s gorgeous. She’s nuts. And here I am, wasting time, while Ray is probably already imagining I escaped out the window.
The party is slowly deflating. People are folding their jackets and hunting down cabs with the kind of urgency you’d think they were handing out gold at the taxi stand.
I’m still in spotlight mode, feeling like there’s a floodlight aimed straight at my forehead.
I play it cool with Ray, who’s telling me some drama about his ex or his dog or his ex-dog, I have no clue, because I’m just nodding and making agreeable little noises while I inhale the last canapés in sight.
I swear one of them was so tiny I had to look twice to make sure it wasn’t a crumb.
Still, they keep my mouth busy so I don’t say something stupid.
I don’t look at her. Not a chance. Because every time I try not to think about Platinum Barbie’s death ray, boom, there she is again.
I can feel myself flushing. And it’s not like I don’t stare down pop quizzes, the neighbor who patrols the hallway, or treacherous rain when I take out the trash.
But the blonde has a clinical eye that reads my entire search history. Guaranteed.
I’m itching to ask her if she’s stuck on my face or practicing for an intense-stare contest. But with my luck, she’ll take it as lesbian love at first sight and run for the hills…
Or worse: she’ll stay and end up confessing her crush or asking my opinion on her new serum routine.
So I stick to the bit, wondering if I’ve got paté roaming my chin or if I’m just so shiny the girl can’t stop staring.
Ray is still chivalrous to a fault. Someone toasts to something, the table empties, and once everyone is blowing air-kisses, he politely offers me his arm.
We take the hotel stairs and—ta-da—a sleek black car with a driver.
As in, not a cabbie multitasking on his phone, not an Uber dude driving like a maniac.
Next to this, my humble-girl reflex freezes up, but I put on a face like rides like this have been standard issue for me since birth.
The ride is a fantasy. Pure cinema, but the slow-burn kind where people fall madly in love and barely have sex because nothing ever happens.
Ray sits beside me, clearly marking the border.
Not an inch over; his hands minding their manners, the small talk polished: the cold, the stale hors d’oeuvres, all that…
The whole way. This man’s decency level is so high I want to ask if he’s real or if someone coded him in Silicon Valley.
On top of that, he’s actually nice—he talks, he cares, he laughs at the dumb crap I say and pretends not to notice I’m saying it so I don’t pass out in the seat.
No wonder Vega hangs on to him. With guys like this, our job is almost fun.
When we get to my building, Ray gets out before I do, opens my door—chivalry at urban-legend level—offers me his arm—must think my life depends on his biceps—and gives me two quick kisses on the cheeks.
Period. No drool, no sneaky tongue, no weird sigh.
And he goes, "Take care, Vega. See you soon.
" Inside, I applaud. Outside, a little I-do-this-all-the-time smile.
Because if everyone were like Ray, this world would be a utopia for twins with identity crises and a savage appetite for life.
I shut the car door and, go figure, I do a paranoid sweep: a quick look left, a quick look right. And boom, jackpot: there it is, tucked across the street, a car with tinted windows. And in the driver’s seat—drumroll—the crazy lady from the bathroom. I lose it.
What the hell? Did she follow me home?
I freeze for a few seconds, torn between waving, flipping her off, or hiding under a dumpster.
But I go with my usual move: plaster on the nothing-to-see-here face and head into my building.
I mean, am I supposed to file a report, Google "how to tell if you’ve got a stalker before you end up dismembered," or what?
The worst part is, as I kick off my heels and race upstairs, the only thing I’m thinking is, "Fuck, that suit looked so good on her."