Chapter 23 Lily
LILY
OUR SHIFT FROM SAFETY, LIGHTNESS, toward darkness was so quick, so subtle.
The man who approached us looked like he might have been a high school football coach.
It took a good deal of maneuvering for him to sit on the barstool and shift so his stomach wasn’t pressing up against the bar.
But the redness in his face implied anger coiled in him, waiting to strike.
Underneath his smile, he was the kind of man who smashed bottles at bars.
“What do you want, Long Island iced teas? Ladies seem to love those Long Island iced teas.”
“You must buy a lot of girls drinks, huh?” Clara said. “And here I thought we were special.”
“Well, then I’ll buy you two, darling.” He was already licking his lips. “If it’ll make you feel special. If it’ll make you feel good.”
“I’m sure that will make me feel good,” she said, laying her hand on his wrist. I felt a little jilted that she had seemed to care about my story and now her attention had been so easily redirected to someone else.
The man murmured something near her ear, and she giggled in a way I hadn’t heard before, giddy and girlish.
I didn’t think I could stand it, watching her hand fall again and again on this man’s arm.
His hand creeping from her knee up her thigh.
I reached for my bag, waited for the bartender to turn around so I could close out my tab.
The man raised his eyes from Clara’s mouth to look at me. “Hey, missy, you look a little lonely over there. I have a friend who I’m sure will want to keep you company.”
“I’m about to go,” I said.
“Oh, Lily, don’t,” Clara said. She inched closer to me, put her hand on mine. “Just for a little while?”
“Another round on me, until he gets here,” the man said.
I didn’t want to leave her with this guy.
He was probably no worse than anyone else she’d met up with, but I still felt responsible.
Like I could steer the situation, control it.
Maybe eventually talk her into just going home.
I would have to take a cab home anyway, and it could drop her off on my way back.
My mood was turning sour; tomorrow would already be marred by a hangover.
I was stuck, regret on either side: past and future.
The only thing to do was wade through the oblivious, gin-soaked now.
I stirred my drink and thought of Clara’s prophecy again: If I were really going to fall before I would rise, it might be better to get the fall over with.
Better to face it, collide into it head-on.
Some other humiliation, some other way the world was going to use me.
I already had a sense that these men would make us into something smaller, less human.
They would want to make us into a story for when they retreated back to their lives—these two young sluts we met down in AC, throwing back Long Island iced teas like you wouldn’t believe—the way Matthew had made me his story.
If I had learned anything it was that if you were someone’s story, they owned a part of you, took a piece of you away.
“Fine,” I said. “What the hell.”
“Yay!” Clara leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, close to the corner of my lips, lingering a second longer than she needed to. Her eyelashes brushed my cheek.
“Well, now, ain’t nothing better than two sexy women showing each other a little affection. Or a lot of affection, if you know what I mean.”
“We certainly do.” Clara gave me a theatrical wink.
“Well, I like the sound of that. Girls who know how to have a little fun.”
“You have no idea how much fun,” she said. I tried to ignore how sad it made me to hear her like this. She was so good at being what he wanted, at hiding herself behind clichés. And he was so easily pleased, so willing to believe that this was all she was.
My jaw clenched tighter. Was it this easy?
Did people really talk like this? In middle school, one of my friends and I would watch porn on Starz after her parents went to bed.
We were curious about sex, how it worked, how two seemingly sane, rational people ended up clawing at one another like animals, moaning and grunting.
We were interested in the act, sure, but we also wanted to know about what led to it: Were there code words?
Did the innuendo just pile up until you knew when to touch each other?
Clara and this man reminded me of the scripts of those movies.
The woman approaching the auto mechanic in his shop, letting him know she wanted him to do more than service her car.
A raised eyebrow, a turned foot, a bitten lip, and in minutes they were all over one another, the woman’s body smeared with black grease.
“Here’s my friend Rob now. Wait till he gets a look at you two; he’ll wish he cashed in his chips half an hour ago.”
The two men could have been brothers: Rob was a little taller than the first man, but with the same large stomach taut against his T-shirt. He wore a black visor and his frequent player’s card was attached to his belt with a neon lanyard. He nodded at us, not asking our names.
He surveyed the empty glasses and water-ringed napkins spread in front of us.
“Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do.
” I wondered if we weren’t worth a handshake, if he only wanted to touch us the way men felt permitted to touch girls in bars: at the smalls of their backs when pushing through a crowd, a squeeze on the arm for emphasis.
“Why don’t you sit on the other side of Lily? She’s bored by herself,” Clara said. I kicked the leg of her stool.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I wasn’t so sure he was right about catching up. Up close he smelled like rum.
“What’s a girl like you drinking? Let me guess, vodka soda?
That’s what women drink to keep their weight down and still have a good time.
My guess from the looks of you is that you like to do both.
” He ordered one for me, and a mai tai for himself.
I was already too far gone: The lights of the slot machines beyond the bar started to blur.
I thought about standing up, walking away, jostling him with my shoulder as I did so he would go toppling to the floor.
Making my way out the front door, hailing a cab.
Going home, where my mother would be asleep in front of the TV.
But then I thought, in my drunken, imprecise way, about Matthew.
Telling that story to Clara had dredged up the old desire to impress him, the man to whom stories were the highest form of currency—mostly because he already had everything else.
What would it feel like to lean into this moment?
To let these men use us. To see what Clara was talking about.
Maybe there was only one way to really know.
“Thanks for this,” I said when the fresh drinks came. This time, I angled my chest toward him, like Clara did, and let my fingers brush the top of his arm. Why not? I thought. Maybe recklessness wasn’t reserved only for men.
“Aren’t you friendly,” he said, looking at my lips, then at my chest. I was still fighting the urge to wriggle away. His shirt needed washing and I could smell acrid smoke, the tang of body odor. I could also feel Clara’s eyes on me, even as she giggled. I wanted her to watch.
“So where are you from?” I asked. It was a misstep, I realized as soon as I said it. These men came here to feel big: They didn’t want to think about whatever was waiting for them back home. The sagging gutters, the faded paint, the bills, the soul-deadening jobs.
“Avondale, Pennsylvania.”
“I hope you’re having a fun trip.” I tried to make my voice breathy. “Did you do well at the tables? What’s your favorite game to play?”
“I like poker mostly. Blackjack here and there.”
“I’m no good at any of those. Maybe you could teach me a thing or two.”
“Probably could. It’s harder than it looks.”
I touched his leg. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes, indeed.” He swallowed, looked at me as though trying to measure something.
“Hey, so uh, we’ve got a room upstairs.” Rob leaned over me to Clara.
“Isn’t that right, Luke?” I stared down at Luke’s forearm, braced on the bar for balance.
Even his arm was flushed. “Plenty more to drink. Not quite so crowded. Keep the good times going.” His pores were giant and there was sweat gathering at his temples, glistening under the bristle of his hair.
“You like coke?” Rob whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear.
“We’ve got enough to share.” I nodded, even though it was a lie.
I had never liked it very much, the way it made my heart buzz, the too-sweet drip of it down my throat.
“I’m assuming you’ll also share some of your winnings, Mr. Big Shot.
” I could do it: be this stupid, this bold.
That’s what they wanted, all of them. Matthew ranting on about how stories matter more than money, more than success.
Ramona nodding in agreement, that you become the story you tell.
“I see.” He didn’t sound surprised. I suppose I had wanted him to.
“What are you waiting for?” Clara was watching me again.
I wanted her to feel the force of what she had provoked.
I was young. I had a body that was firm and soft in the right proportions.
I had good skin and long hair. Why couldn’t I use these fleeting gifts to a particular end?
Besides, Matthew had and without my permission.
Now, at least, I was the one making the choice, offering myself up.
I would get all of the benefits of whatever exchange we worked out.