Chapter 2 Mona
I knew I shouldn't have come out tonight.
Everything reeks of beer and cigarettes, and the disco lights Amy installed for the party are giving me a headache.
I was mostly done with the night before it even began.
But Amy asked me to come, and I feel like such a bad friend, always saying no when she invites me places.
"So anyway, I was telling him, if you don't get a vasectomy, I'm not sleeping with you.
I am done with birth control, and I hate condoms. And do you know what he said?
" Amy turns to look at me, incredulous. Her eyes get really big and she smiles wide, with all her teeth, then leans closer—she's already really close—and I can feel the heat of her breath and spit land on my cheek as she shouts, "He said yes!
Can you believe that? Halle-fucking-lujah! "
Amy squeals and claps right in my ear, and I wince against the sharp sound. I've always hated parties. The music is too loud. But the shouting makes it worse. She's standing right next to me but yelling like we're sitting across from each other in a crowded subway.
It's not that I don't like to socialize.
I do. I just really don't like loud noises and bright lights.
It's a physical thing, like a jarring ping inside my brain that zaps with every high note.
But with every invitation I turn down, fewer come, and I'm sick of watching my social life circle the drain.
So here I am, at one of the loudest parties of the year, pretending this is exactly where I want to be.
"That's actually pretty amazing," I tell her in a quieter voice, though she leans closer and shoves her ear in front of my mouth, and yells back, "What's that, hun?"
"A man doing the bare minimum. It's amazing, is all."
Amy cackles and playfully slaps my shoulder, which actually kind of hurts. I rub it while she continues telling me about her relationship with Eric, the tall, lanky dude who just left to get more ice. He does seem like a good guy. Vasectomies and ice. What more could a girl ask for?
That's not jealousy pinching my heart. Nope. Not even close.
And when she tells me about breakfast in bed on her birthday, I offer my congratulations on finding a unicorn, and she laughs like I'm joking.
My life is good. I'm alive. I've got a lot to be thankful for, and it's okay I haven't found love, or even like. I've got friends. I've got a job and a roof over my head. That's a lot. That's more than a lot of people have. I should be grateful.
I am grateful. But maybe a tiny bit jealous, too.
I'm feeling better than usual today, but I've never felt well enough to have marathon sex like Amy does, let alone maintain a boyfriend for longer than a month without him losing interest. Definitely not well enough to inspire said hot boyfriend to get a vasectomy so I don't have to take birth control, so I can't really blame myself for being a little jealous.
It's hard when you're exhausted every single day, no matter how much sleep you get or how many doctors you see.
I've been tested for everything under the sun, and no one knows what's wrong with me.
I'm sensitive in a lot of ways—sound, for one thing, is too sharp, especially in crowds like this.
I have this ridiculous need to be cuddled in blankets.
I love soft, small spaces, so I hate leaving the comfort of my apartment.
I'm constantly tired, my limbs feel like heavy rocks.
And I like sex, but the energy it takes to please a partner, embarrassingly, is not something I'm great at, so I live vicariously through people like Amy, who don't know the meaning of TMI.
She starts talking to someone on the other side of her as we lean against the kitchen counter.
The tiny apartment is packed, but she lucked out living here.
The building is full of mostly twenty-somethings, so every apartment has its door open and it's one big rager.
Amy, all her friends, her neighbors, their friends, along with random people who pass the crowd spilling onto the streets and sneak in for free booze, have taken over the place. It's fun.
I'm standing here, smiling awkwardly, pretending this is my idea of a good time. Totally fun.
If I could turn the music down and replace all the alcohol with something less pungent, maybe ask everyone to shower off their body spray and dim the lights, all my senses could relax and then I'd really have a good time.
I snort to myself, then look around. I can do this. I want to be here.
I'm so tired of being alone.
Not just alone, but lonely.
Fortunately, I don't know a lot of these people, which means they don't know me.
They don't know that while I might be out partying tonight—drinking soda and snacking on bonbons—I could be in bed for days to make up for it.
That I skip bars, dinners and shows so I can lay on my couch and watch TV because I can barely move.
They see a twenty-five-year-old in her prime, who's friends with someone like Amy, the life of the party, and that I must be the same.
They don't know that in the last couple of years, my exhaustion has only gotten worse.
They see a waifish woman with vibrant red hair, freckles, high cheekbones and a pretty face, and assume I'm the one everyone wants to hang out with.
They'd be wrong.
I'd trade a pretty face for feeling good any fucking day of the week.
I flirted with a guy when I first got here.
Jason. He's cute, and we bonded over medical procedural dramas on TV, which felt like a win, like maybe I could find a guy who's interested in hanging out doing a whole lot of nothing and only occasionally having sex because my body couldn't handle more than that, but Amy shoved him away so we could chat about her long-time boyfriend.
But Jason's still eyeing me from across the room, and I think, maybe this night won't be such a bust.
I can tell he's trying to wrap up his conversation so he can come back, so I mentally prepare myself, giving him what I hope is a flirtatious wave.
He laughs, and I resist the urge to slap my forehead.
But he's still watching me, so I haven't scared him off yet.
I can totally do this. I'll have a date by the end of the night.
And if it lasts longer than one night, well, hopefully he's just as lazy and sleepy as I am.
We'll get along great. We'll order takeout and he'll get a vasectomy, and go to the store and buy me ice when we have a party in our shared apartment.
Well, we probably won't have a party. But he'd definitely buy me ice if I asked.
Our future unfolds while I daydream. He can't take his eyes off me, and it's intoxicating.
A blush blooms on my cheeks, and it's already hot in here, so I reach up and pull my hair off my neck, when something catches my eye and I turn.
Jason's eyes follow mine. A surge of adrenaline makes my heart race, and something tugs in my gut.
A dark figure inches through the crowd, a head above the rest. Even with the loud music, things seem to dim around him.
This party is full of distractions. Almost everyone aside from me is drunk, or on their way to be.
There's a disco ball, colored lights, hip hop with bass so loud it shakes the walls, beautiful people with happy smiling faces, celebrating the new year, a fresh start.
There's lots of skin on display, short skirts and cleavage, and guys with party hats, and everyone's acting wild and silly, but even with all the distractions, they all stop and take a moment to stare.
He doesn't belong here.
I don't know why that's my first thought, but it's true. Wearing a leather jacket and black utility pants, with a scowl on his face, the man looks like he's on his way to fight in an underground ring, not party like the rest of us. He doesn't blend in at all.
I don't think he's even trying to.
He ignores everyone, his gaze fixed ahead as he weaves through the dense crowd, drawing curious stares. Conversations carry on, but every eye in the room follows him.
But he's looking at me.
He takes up space. He's tall, over six feet.
And broad. His head is shaved, which only highlights the harsh structure of his face.
Sharp lines, diamond-shaped, cutting jaw.
A scar runs through his left brow, cutting into his cheek.
It fits him, which is a ridiculous thing to think about someone you don't know.
Tattoos crawl up from beneath his collar, painting his neck.
He's just so… manly. Masculine incarnate, the kind of guy others might look at and question their own virility.
He's the sexiest man I've ever seen in real life. And he stalks toward me. My body heats, heart galloping in my chest. He moves slowly through the crowd that parts for him without having to ask. I try to take a step away, but my back hits the counter.
"Who the fuck is that? Mona, do you know him?"
I shake my head without looking at Amy. I'm afraid to take my eyes off him. That if I look away, he'll disappear. Or worse, that he'll still be there. Stalking toward me.
He keeps walking. Closer and closer, and even at a foot away he doesn't stop.
I have to lean back, and then he's there, invading my personal space.
He traps me against the counter, hands pressing on either side of me, his huge form overshadowing my much smaller one.
Heat radiates off him, his massive, firm chest a brick wall.
Electricity shoots like fireworks across my sensitive skin at his invasion, firing everywhere his body touches mine. Then he leans down and smells me. I can feel his breath on my neck. It tickles, goosebumps rising along my bare skin, and I'm frozen.
Why the fuck is he smelling me?
Why am I smelling him back?