12
CATERINA
Cayce:No panties tomorrow. I’ll check.
The first wrongdecision of the night is the glitter shot.
Pru orders it because the menu says “unicorn tears,” which is a crime—unicorns should never, ever cry—and because the server promises it tastes like birthday cake.
It does.
It also tastes like a future headache and things I’ll have to apologize for tomorrow. I take it anyway, because tonight is about not being the timid version of me that says no to things and then lies awake wishing she’d said yes.
The club used to be a warehouse. They kept the bones—exposed beams, scuffed concrete, metal railings—then painted everything black and hung lights that pulse with the bass. The stage is a long runway with a catwalk that juts into the crowd. A red velvet rope pretends to keep women in their seats. It fails every song when the men come strutting out.
“Welcome to sin with a cover charge,” Pru yells over the music, waving a handful of dollar bills. She’s already high on other people’s fun. “We’re getting the bride on stage.”
“I’m not a bride yet,” I say.
“A technicality,” she says, waving that away. She hands me a sparkling tiara that says BRIDE in rhinestones. “Wear this or I will superglue it to your forehead.”
I put it on crooked and decide it’s better that way. If you’re going to be ridiculous, commit.
The opening act is three men in suits who pretend they hate each other and then somehow resolve their issues through choreography. The crowd screams. A pair of women in sashes shove each other and then make up over a dancer’s abs. The server keeps materializing with drinks Pru did not order and insists are “on the house” for the bride. I push two back, then give in to a third because it comes topped with cotton candy and how do you say no to spun sugar in a glass you can keep.
“Pace yourself,” Pru says, which would be helpful if she weren’t the one upping my pace by repeatedly handing me drinks.
“I’m pacing,” I lie. My head is light. My hands are warm. For the first time in days, the knot under my sternum has loosened enough that I feel almost carefree.
The emcee spots the tiara. Of course he does. He claps to the beat and points at me; the spotlight swings. The crowd turns in waves and sees me seeing them.
“Bride!” he says into a mic, voice like a radio host who knows how to make rules sound like a game. “Come say hello!”
“No,” I say to Pru. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” Pru says, already halfway out of her chair and hauling me with her by the wrist. “Up you go, Saint Kitty Cat. I promised the women of Boston you would bless them with your presence.”
“This is the opposite of a blessing,” I tell her, but my feet are moving. The bouncer at the rail lifts the rope for us like we belong to his favorite team. Someone shoves a dollar bill into myhand. Another person presses a fake badge on my lapel that says JUDGE, which feels accurate tonight.
The stage is sticky with beer and glitter. The lights are hot. The dancer in front of me takes my hand and spins me like I’m in the world’s loudest square dance. I laugh in spite of myself. He grins like he won a bet and executes a backflip that makes the front row lose their minds.
“Okay,” the emcee says to me, cupping his mic. “Rules are simple. You can stand here and look pretty, or you can sit in this chair and we will change your life.”
“I already had my life changed,” I tell him, because I’m drunk enough to talk to strangers like they’re therapists. “It’s complicated.”
“Chair it is,” he decides, and the audience roars.
He sets me in a metal chair center stage. Two dancers flank me, both shirtless, both oiled within an inch of their contracts. They do not touch me without asking. It’s choreography and a consent demonstration. They’re good at their jobs. I try very hard not to think about a man with a Jacob’s ladder and a voice that can make my knees unlock. I fail.
Pru is at the edge of the stage screaming laughter and threats. She holds her phone up and pretends to record. I pantomime throwing my shoe at her. She blows me a kiss and points at her mouth like a gremlin.
“Bride,” the MC says, tapping his earpiece. “Name?”
“Caterina,” I say, because lying is more work than honesty right now.
“Caterina. Good. On three, I want you to rate our friends here like you’re judging Olympic floor routines. One, two?—”
His mic squeals. The sound shoots down my spine and makes my brain suggest a quieter room.
