1
Jules thought she’d know, down to the millisecond, the moment her life would go up in flames. But when the time came, she
had no clue. On a whim she decided to throw a party. The day had been spent prepping for it. She scrubbed her bathroom clean
and filled the claw-foot tub with ice. She dusted, vacuumed, tidied up her kitchen, set up a bar, and dumped plastic containers
of food into vintage serving bowls. She texted detailed directions and parking instructions to a dozen or so guests. After
a shower she slipped on a backless dress, then thought better of it and fell back on a trusty black mini. Finally, when all
there was left to do was wait, she scooped her vintage lighter off a trinket tray, lit a rose-scented candle, and watched
the flame dance.
The apartment did not yet feel like home. Her furniture looked out of place and her bookshelf, yet to be assembled, was stashed
in a closet crammed with boxes of books. She hoped the familiar scent of the candle would warm up the space. Inviting her
friends over for a housewarming party was another step toward that goal. Since losing her mother ten years ago, Jules had
felt rootless. Buying a home was meant to fix that. Her Realtor had taken her to see the railroad-style apartment in Greenpoint
on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon. She’d gasped when he guided her in. Compared to her studio apartment, the one-bedroom was
palatial. South-facing windows poured light onto the oak floors and made the vacant space sparkle. By noon the next day she’d
put in an offer.
The buzzer.
Soon her living room was full of people. Missing was her closest friend and fellow author, Vicky Paraíso, who was sure to
arrive fashionably late. It was January, two days into the New Year. The hot food went largely untouched. All anyone wanted
was a stiff drink and a warm spot to gather and escape the cold.
The last guest to arrive was slated to be the last to go. His name was Bobby, a musician who fell into the “friend of a friend”
category. He planted a kiss on her cheek, grabbed the lighter off the trinket tray and climbed through the kitchen window
to the fire escape, as graceful as a cat. She joined him a little later with a small bowl of mixed nuts. The Manhattan skyline
twinkled in the distance.
“You didn’t say it was a housewarming,” he said. “I would’ve bought a gift.”
“Like what?” Jules asked.
He shrugged. “A bottle of something or other.”
“I’ve got plenty of those.”
In her line of work, Jules learned to read faces. She could see straight into the beating hearts of total strangers and discern
a person’s true intentions from a flicker of a lash or a squint of an eye. Bobby’s shifty gaze told her everything she needed
to know about him. He was good for a weekend. He’d ghost her next week. Good thing she only needed one night.
“Nice place,” he said. “How did you find it?”
He meant how could she afford it—a one bedroom in a co-op building with an elevator and a virtual doorman, whatever that was,
costing just south of one million dollars. She’d worked through college, wrote two bestselling books, ghostwritten a couple
others, taught at the local university for years to save up a downpayment until (bam!) she sold the film rights to her fantasy
series to a prestige cable network.
“Luck.”
He laughed. “If I kiss you, will some of that luck rub off on me?”
Direct and to the point. “Give it a try.”
He leaned in and brushed his lips to hers. Jules made up her mind right then. The holiday, the housewarming, the heatwave . . .
she had a grim need to keep the party going.
Grim was how Jules felt most of the time. It didn’t help that she’d hardly slept the night before. She’d dreamed of her mother
warning of some imminent danger. Jules was three, reaching to touch the bright circle of a hot stovetop. She was five, racing
across the street to catch a ball. In a blink, she was ten and taking a pair of sharp scissors to her favorite jeans. At fifteen,
she was falling in love with a “troubled” kid. Be careful, baby girl! However, her mother was long dead, and Jules was under no obligation to heed her warning. Her therapist had said as much.
These recurring dreams were nothing more than the echo of heartache. The sooner she came to terms with that, the better. In
the morning, Jules rolled out of bed and, instead of locking herself away with her laptop, she decided to let the world in
and throw a party.
“Stay,” she told Bobby at the end of the night.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. However, Jules could tell he was disappointed that she’d beaten him to the punch. She’d taken away
his bragging rights. He couldn’t boast about winning her over.
Bobby waited while she saw her guests to the door and thanked them for the gifts. Vicky left her with a wink. Jules ushered
her out the door with a promise to text her a rating of Bobby’s performance. She later found him in the kitchen, cigarette
in hand, blowing a line of smoke out the window. She switched off the overhead light, stepped out of her heels and peeled
off her dress.
“Ready?” she asked.
Great scenes of seduction with food and candles and toys and feathers belonged in books. Bobby would be gone in an hour, and she would climb alone into bed with the last of the wine and the TV remote. In the morning, she’d send a performance evaluation to her best friend per custom.
Bobby grinned at her lustfully. She returned the favor. Let the fun and games begin.
They tumbled onto the couch and had very standard, very uninspired sex. He might not describe it like that, but Jules would.
She’d expected more from a musician. That was her problem, really: expecting more. He was doing what he could. She was the
problem. She’d avoided men all last year, hoping for some clarity that never came. All those months of imposed celibacy only
for it to end like this? Either way, she’d chosen this adventure and would see it to the end.
With some focus, determination, and good old-fashioned hard work, Jules climaxed. Panting, pumping, Bobby asked for one more
minute and then another, swearing up and down that he was almost there. She wanted to reassure him, tell him to take all the
time he needed. After all, she was nothing if not a gracious host, but her throat was dry and tight. Her eyes watered. Smoke
curled into her nostrils. When she finally understood the imminent danger, panic took hold and paralyzed her lungs.
Her life had gone up in flames and while it happened, she’d been too busy coaxing an orgasm from an idiot.
Her mother had tried to warn her.