January 30
Desperation already does funnythings to a single, ovulating thirty-year-old woman. Add in the calendar reminding me Valentine’s Day is only two weeks away, and desperation isn’t a strong enough word. There is a prominent, rational part of my brainthat knows February fourteenth is simply just another date; a date with no real meaning in what it’s like to feel desired. But for the next two weeks, all things love and doily will blanket my town, and the irrational part of my brain will light up like a fluorescent vacancy sign, making the loneliness feel inescapable.
Cupid clearly has a vendetta against me. Instead of hitting me with his arrows, he flies over town only to flip me off while calling me a virgin loser. And while I’m nottechnicallya virgin, the day is still hard. Although what else can you expect when you live in a town named after the tiny baby angel. Cupid, California—a remote Northern California town, light-years away from real society. Where people look at you like you're on death's doorstep if you're a woman who's not married with two kids by twenty-five. To them I’m basically a walking corpse.
This year though, everything is changing because I’m finally going to feel what it’s like to be desired. And it was all by accident.
It was the one good thing that came out of another failed first date. I went from being stood up by a wisp of an apparition in the shape of a man to falling into an internet deep dive to see if sex clubs were real. How I got from one point to the other is a bit blurry though. All I know is I waschampagne drunk on my couch when I stumbled upon Midnights; Silicon Valley’s exclusive sex club.
Where your darkest desires meet the light.
Or at least that’s what their website said.
All I want is to know what it feels like to be wanted, even if it’s only for one night, even if it’s only for my body. Someone who trips over themselves at the very thought of me. Someone who won’t see my lack of experience as a way to mold me into what they want, but to help me figure out what I like. And I think Midnights can give me that.
Maybe it was too much to ask for from a sex club, but I’d rather grasp at the possibility than linger in dating app purgatory forever.
My only issue is that Midnights cost money. A lot of money, like hand over your entire paycheck, and maybe a week’s admission is covered, type of money. Too much money if you really ask me and so far out of any budget I can justify with my small government employee salary, that’s for sure.
Except every year Midnights hosts an open house, where potential members can come and see the club…as long as they accept your application. Even their open houses are exclusive, which, after reading through every scrap of information I found on Midnights, it’s understandable. In a drunk induced haze, I filmed a quick introduction video, answered a few required questions and submitted my application.
There was a good chance they would take one look at my video submission and delete it without a second thought. Which is why I never breathed a word of this to anyone. A terrible breach of girl code 101, but if I have to listen to another one of my married friends placate me with an ‘it’ll happen, when it happens’ speech, I’ll die.
Actually die.
Weeks passed after that night and for a while I thought maybe I made it up. Perhaps I consumed way more champagne than I thought and it was all a dream. I told myself it was fine, that I didn’t need Midnights. That my life may be mundane but it was mine.
Except two nights ago, what I thought was just a dream turned out to be very real when a pristine white box showed up in my mailbox. Inside was a oxblood colored envelope with an invitation that readAnonymity in the Presence of Pleasurealong with today’s date, an address, password, and a mask even my own parents wouldn’t recognize me in.
My life is far from perfect, but at least I will have this one night. One night where I can forget about my family who’d rather me fade into oblivion and my crippling dreadof how I think I might end up alone. One night where everything I’ve been craving will finally be within reach.
Living in Cupid means everyone knows everyone, and when your father is the mayor, it means they also know everything about my family. At least they think they do. Our entire family was perched on a pedestal because my father is in a position of power, but all the distance created is smoke and mirrors. No one sees how terrible they truly are. And there’s no point in trying to get the town to notice, because that would ruin the illusion. The perfect family running the perfect town.
It’s been this way my entire life; nothing ever changes and I don’t think it ever will. My saving grace comes in the form of being the middle child and I’m often overlooked. No one asks about me, no one cares that I moved away for college or why I moved back to Cupid after so many years away, which is fine by me. I’ll leave the spotlight for my siblings; they always look better in it, anyway.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s exhausting for them. Living in our parents’ shadows and under the scrutinizing eye of our town. Moving away was the best thing I ever did, and my parents were all too thrilled to send me off to Los Angeles for college instead of staying in town and settling down. I moved away thinking they were all in my rearview mirror, only coming home for the holidays andeven that was only for the first couple of years. By the time I graduated and landed my first job as an art curator, I was down to only calling home for Christmas or birthdays, and I fucking loved it. The freedom was intoxicating.
Moving back to Cupid was the last thing I ever wanted, but there wasn’t much to do when budget cuts took my position, and not only from my museum but from everywhere in my field. I spent months looking for a new job, delaying the inevitable until moving back was the only option. My parents were…less than pleased.
Still, my father couldn’t let anyone know his daughter was a failure, so I came home with my tail between my legs, bags in tow and a job at City Hall in the recreation department waiting for me. It’s dull and not at all what I thought I’d be doing with my degree in art history. Most of my time is spent designing the activities magazine for the town every quarter, and revamping social media posts that no one ever interacts with.
Everything in Cupid is slow; the lives, the traffic, the baristas at the coffee shop. I feel like I'm moving at warp speed around a town that lives in slow motion. My creativity may be slowly withering away, but at least the months leading up to the Cupid’s Ball gives me a creativeoutlet.
With two weeks until Valentine’s Day, and a million tasks for the Ball piling on my already skyscraper tall plate, all I can think about is if my dress for tonight is too ridiculous and if it goes with the mask I received. All while trying to convince myself not to chicken out.
I stop scrolling through the department store website and toss my phone onto my desk. It’s too late to change my outfit, but with any luck, I won’t be wearing it for long anyway. My office door opens right as I give my mouse a little wiggle and I’m greeted with the pair of eyes that have a permanent time slot in my fantasies.
Glacier irises sweep across my office until they land on me, pinning me to my chair and making it hard to breathe. “Harper, do you have the briefings for your father’s five o’clock?” His velvet voice demands as he stalks closer to me.
You can list every panty-dropping quality a man can possess, and Nolan Archer surpasses each one without even trying. Impossibly tall, so even on the days I wear my highest heels, my face is still only level with his chest. Full, wavy chocolate brown hair with streaks of silver through the sides, and a smile that melts me into submission whenever there’s a hint of it on his plush lips.
He is perfect in almost every single way.
“Harper,” he snaps. “Your father’s waiting.”
In every way except that he’s my boss who’s also kind of a dick.
“Yes, Sir,” I feign with a mock two finger salute and a heavy eye roll.
