1. Valeria
VALERIA
One month later
He is not going to speak for a long time.
“Are you having fun?” Lacey stumbles toward me and bounces against the counter I’m perched on. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have to remind her where her new bruise came from.
I fold over my knees, cupping my hand to my ear to hear her over the booming electro music pressing against us on all sides.
Lacey scowls at me with the ferocity of an angry toddler, wispy hairs plastered to her forehead and a happy flush to her cheeks.
“I said, are you having fun?” she says with exaggerated mouth movements.
I raise the jello cup I’ve been clutching for the past half hour and make a show of swallowing the slime inside. The anxious, skittering thoughts settle into a dull thrum at the back of my mind. “I’m getting there.”
She jabs my belly with a sharp acrylic nail, painted in broken black hearts and filed down to the skin on her thumb and first two fingers. “Stop being morose. What happened to dragging the first available guy to the guest room and not leaving for the rest of the night?”
“He wouldn’t stop talking.”
Zeke from Minnesota was tall and handsome in a punk skater kind of way, but he had chatted my ear off about antique car restoration for an entire hour until I finally broke, asked him if he wanted to fuck, and then sent him on his way at his request to get to know each other a little better first.
It was a pretty sentiment, but I’m not in that sort of mood tonight.
Lacey stabs her pinky nail into my belly again.
I swat her hand away. “You know that’s where all my organs are.”
“They’re gonna be strung from the ceiling fan if you don’t go dance or go talk to someone. I didn’t come to my ex’s party just to see you nurse jello shots in the kitchen all night.”
“I thought you came to your ex’s party because you were still desperately in love with her.”
Lacey looks around to see if anyone heard me.
Shiny black balloons and bloodred heart garlands drip from the ceiling while clusters of people flow around the kitchen island like schools of fish, but no one’s listening to us as they take drinks or snacks back to the dance floor in Mei’s living room.
The theme—Mei loves a good theme—is supposed to be Anti-Valentine’s Day, which everyone is blatantly ignoring in favor of immediate and intense pairings, and it’s ruining my plans for a quick lay.
Lacey knocks my knees together. It never stops being impressive how much rage she can pack into her tiny body. “Don’t say that. I’m not in love with her.”
“Did you get rid of her old T-shirt then?”
“She might want it back!”
Mei refuses to tell her parents the truth—that Lacey and she are strippers.
And my beautiful friend, who crawled out from under her dad’s thumb and swore to live her truth, promptly broke up with Mei and has been mooning after her ever since.
Lacey refuses to even look at another man or woman, waiting for a change that will never happen.
“Anyway, I came over to harass you, not the other way around.” She throws her fists on her hips. “Are you coming to dance? You’re bumming everyone out.”
“That’s just because I have resting bitch face.”
“Don’t say that!” Lacey pinches my cheek before I slap her arm away. “You have resting beautiful face, and they’re all just intimidated. That’s why you need to come dance and grace us mere mortals with your presence.”
“One more jello shot, a quick lap to see if anyone tall, dark, and mysterious has arrived, and then I’ll come dance, promise.”
“In the meantime, short, pale, and annoying will be waiting for you.” Lacey blows me a kiss, swipes a beer, and heads back to the dance floor.
The second Mei enters her vision, she’ll forget about me for another hour, but annoyingly, she’s right. I can’t just sit here all night and ruminate on my personal horrors—well, I can, but that’s not why I’m here tonight.
I down another jello shot, shiver at the sensation, and hop off the kitchen counter.
Mei has made use of every square inch of her ninth floor, open-concept apartment.
Coolers overflowing with beers are stuffed in every corner and full-spectrum speakers gush out the dance music from her live DJ.
On top of her salary as a dancer, her parents give her a living allowance—part of why I know she won’t change for Lacey.
A professional party girl like Mei isn’t giving up her silver spoon lifestyle anytime soon.
I nod politely at some of the other dancers I recognize from the few times I’ve stripped with Mei and Lacey, usually at the end of my school semesters when I’ve been really strapped for cash.
The one bright patch of this entire year so far is that I’ve graduated.
No more studying, no more school, and no more saving every penny that comes my way.
I don’t stop to make conversation with anyone. None of the men here interest me, and I have Lacey if I want to chat. The possibility of enduring another hour-long monologue about rust removal makes me want to bang my head against the wall.
Maybe Lacey’s right, and I should just lose myself on the dance floor.
I float into the living room, drawn like a curious bug by the harsh red lights and throbbing music. Heat rolls off the mass of bodies grinding and writhing on the dance floor in sweltering waves. I skirt the edges, peering over everyone’s head for a small, blonde one.
She’s in the very center, her forehead pressed against Mei’s as they dance together.
I frown. Mei better not break my friend’s heart again. Lacey’s been through enough.
I’m tempted to intervene, but a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and I shuffle through the crowd instead, heading for the back door that leads to the balcony.
Lacey is a grown woman. If she wants to get her heart broken, that’s what ice cream and horror movies with your best friend are for.
Some guy is outside already, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the railing, but he seems innocent enough as I snag one of Mei’s winter coats off a rack and step into the cold.
A rush of icy air wraps around me like a plunge into a lake on a hot, summer day, and once the balcony door shuts out most of the music, I can almost hear my own thoughts again.
The man outside with me doesn’t turn. His only movement is to bring the cigarette to his mouth and exhale a great, white plume of smoke.
Everyone’s got their own problems, I guess.
I drop onto the edge of a metal chair and huddle into Mei’s coat.
When I have my own place, I want a balcony just like this—with a nice view and brightly colored Christmas lights hanging from the roof. I’ll put potted plants with fat green leaves around the border and drink my coffee in silence while the sun rises and a shaggy dog rests at my feet.
The singular fantasy that’s protected me through all of my frustrations and struggles over the years, of my own place, fades as I finger the slip of paper in my dress pocket.
Watch yourself.
Four days ago, I found the tiny paper scrap, placed on top of my art supplies and nightmarishly collaged together with magazine letters to tell me a single message—watch yourself.
Mom is the only person who might’ve left me a message like that, but usually when she gets in a fight with Dad and goes on one of her trips, she’ll send me a long, drawn-out text message about what a piece of shit Dad is, nothing like the ominous two-word warning in my pocket.
I’d just call her up and ask her, but she hasn’t been answering my calls. Not so strange, except for the other circumstances surrounding her departure.
Dad’s yacht party.
His punishment.
After what happened, he is not going to speak for a long time.
I blow out a stream of cloudy air.
The man turns and rests his elbows on the balcony railing. Despite the string lights over our heads, it’s dark this high up. The city glows against the man’s back, casting shadows across his features.
I make out high cheekbones and a sharp jaw as he squints at me past his cigarette’s burning spark. His hair is shaved down to the skull.
I’ve never understood what people meant when they say to wear your clothes and not let the clothes wear you, but I think I get it now.
He looks like he’s stepped off the pages of a GQ magazine. The oversized black jacket and dark jeans would swallow another man, but on him, they accent his athletic figure as he leans back with a cool, feline grace.
He hasn’t spoken yet. He just watches me, like I’m watching him.
The silence tips me into a decision.
I pull Mei’s coat around me a little tighter, extending my long legs and crossing them delicately at the ankles. I’ve been told they’re one of my best features.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“Waiting for you.”
It should be cheesy—it is—but he says it with such sincerity in his low, raspy voice that it sparks a sudden warmth in my belly.
My boots point to the second door on the balcony. The one that leads to the guest bedroom.
“Well.” I lean back in the rickety patio chair, enjoying the weight of his dark gaze. I fight the urge to chatter my teeth in the cold, barely managing with the help of the jello shots and the heat slowly building inside me. “I’m here.”
The cigarette cherry burns bright red for a breath. His eyes glow orange. “You cold?”
I shrug. “A little.”
The man draws a black scarf out from under his jacket like a magician. As he stretches it long and wraps it around his wrist, he exposes an inky shadow along his neck.
Is he a tattoo artist? He has the quiet composure of someone who could sit for hours and focus on a single task.
It makes sense, even as the thought stubbornly resists fitting into the puzzle I’m building of him.
He’s probably a tattoo artist, I tell myself, even as my amygdala sits up and taps out a warning signal. He’s just a fuckboy on the prowl.
Two steps, and his black boots kiss the tips of mine. His are battered, with the patina of real leather. Mine are cheap Doc Martens knockoffs.