I did my part tonight. I came. I saw. I bid on a spa treatment with mud and seaweed wraps.
My social battery is travel-sized at best, which meant two laps around the cozy hangout to snatch more catfish from the buffet before I parked myself in the nearest corner.
Me being here in a knee-length black dress I keep in the back of my closet is a miracle. So are the heels strapped to my feet, which I haven’t tripped in yet. Marcela, by all accounts, is a local celebrity. With that comes an interest in me by association.
The hugs.
The handshakes.
The business cards.
Why must people insist on invading your personal space to tell you about themselves? Most are people my age who are more focused on candid selfies and feigning importance. No meaningful conversation whatsoever—not that I need it. I’m good with being ignored, but that wasn’t an option tonight.
Does it look like I care how quickly you became a project manager in two years? Or that you were photographed with the mayor last week?
The third person who introduced himself with his LinkedIn profile got the hint and left me alone with my catfish. I’m one “Can you introduce me?” away from sneaking out the back. Marcela already caught me and redirected my butt in wobbly heels right back to the bar, where I’ve been munching on the best golden-crusted marine life in the city.
For all of the interviews and line dancing she’s done, my sister’s hair—a sharp bob I didn’t snatch off—remains in place.So does her glossy smile that matches the amethyst jumpsuit sparkling against her skin. Her makeup is flawless, and her breasts are sitting high and pretty, tempting men, women, and a few acne-faced teens. She contained her cleavage, but there’s a lot of circumference peeking out of the top. It’s hard not to notice.
Poor Trevor was sweating like the Jordan Peele meme. He managed to keep his tongue in his mouth but hit his breaking point watching Marcela electric slide. There was a shot, a swipe right on an app, and he was off for the rest of the night.
“Not bidding?” I freeze at the familiar voice.
My brows knit as I slowly turn to face the last person I expected to be here.
“Kieran. Hi.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
“It’s my third plate,” I admit with zero shame.
His chuckle rattles his Adam’s apple. “You’re really fucking up that catfish.”
“Slipped a twenty to one of the grandmas in the back for a couple of to-go plates. I’m not cooking this weekend, and Ms. Ethel promised me extra cornbread.”
My finger breaches my lips to savor the final notes of the love letter to the Jefferson District the cooks wrote with seasoned batter and oil. Kieran’s eyes lock on the movement. His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens.
“Are you okay? There’s still plenty in the back. I swear I didn’t eat it all.”
His laughter is faint. He runs a thumb across his lower lip. “My appetite isn’t for fish. Did you bid on anyone? Me, maybe?”
“Oh God, no,” I snort. “I mean—that’s not what I meant.”
Do you see how awful talking is? One minute, I’m eating in peace. The next, I’m disrespecting a man who was almost my boss.
With a flushed face and regret that I didn’t stay in the house, I try again. “What I meant to say is, I’m not bidding on anyone. I’ve never been on a date, and I don’t want my first to be one I paid for.”
Unless Kierra dragged me somewhere, I kept to myself. Dating required time I refused to spend and an interest in young adults who were still very much big kids with facial hair.
The two times I had sex never included a happy meal, much less food outside of what I had in my dorm room. I was horny. Josh Alby’s penis was available. We consented. He finished in under three minutes each time. The end.
Nothing memorable. Not like—
Access denied.
What happened in Vegas will stay in Vegas.
Kieran’s gaze roves over my nearly makeup-free face, down the silhouette of my scoop neck dress that screams moreWho died?and lessSlide me your digits. His eyes stall at the outline of my breasts and dip to my thighs stretching polyester above my knees.
