The man blinks, startled by the ferocity emanating from this tiny, furious woman. His friends start to scurry, the pack mentality faltering under a direct challenge. Marcus is there in an instant, his hand on Cori’s arm.
“Cor, it’s cool. Let it go.”
“It’snotcool!” Her glare could strip paint. The men mutter and melt back into the crowd, their bravado deflated. Cori watches them go, her chest heaving. The anger dissipates, leaving behind a protective hurt. “Assholes,” she spits, then turns toward the bar. “It’s fucking 1994, not 1950. I’m getting a shot. I’ll be back.”
As she stalks off, Marcus turns to me. The easy smile is back, but it’s tighter at the corners. “Welcome to the wider world, Annie. Sometimes it’s less welcoming than our little living room.”
“Does that…happen often?”
“Often enough.” He shrugs, a gesture meant to dismiss what can’t be dismissed. “You learn to pick your battles. Cori hasn’t mastered that yet.” He says it with profound fondness. Then he nods past my shoulder, his expression shifting to something lighter, teasing. “Speaking of attention…you’ve got an admirer. Two, actually.”
I follow his subtle glance. Leaning against the wall by the restroom hall is a guy with messy brown hair and a worn-in flannel shirt. He’s watching me, but when our eyes meet, he looks down at his boots, a faint blush visible even in the gloom. It’s shy, almost sweet.
Marcus’s chin points in the other direction. Near the bar, a different archetype: older, maybe late twenties, in a scuffed leather jacket. His gaze is not shy at all. It’s a slow appraisal, a visual possession that travels from my face down the length of my body and back up. Heat floods my cheeks, a confusing mix of violation and a strange, unfamiliar power.
“Why are they looking at me like that?” The question comes out more plaintive than I intend.
Marcus stares at me, then lets out a genuine laugh of disbelief. “Are you for real? Annie. Look at you!”
I glance down at myself—the simple black dress, the boots, the skin slick with sweat, the hair escaping Cori’s carefully placed butterfly clips. I see dishevelment. I see a girl playing dress-up.
“You’re hot, babe,” Marcus says, his voice dropping into a register of absolute sincerity. He nods toward Leather Jacket, “own it.”
“I’m hot?”
“Wait, are you being serious or are you fucking with me right now?”
“I don’t know, Marcus! I’ve never—people don’t usually—”
“Annie.” He looks at me like I’m insane. “You’re gorgeous. Youhaveto know that.”
“I really don’t.”
“Well, now you do. Welcome to having a body in public. Men are going to stare. It’s annoying but also occasionally useful.”
I’m flattered, I think. But also confused because I’ve never thought of myself as hot. In my old life, my appearance was a curated asset, a part of the uniform. It was praised as “lovely” or “appropriate.” It was never mine to keep. It was a tool for blending in, for meeting a standard.Hotis a verdict on my own desirability, separate from my name or my family. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.
Cori returns, slamming four shot glasses of amber liquid on the table. “Tequila. For courage. Or forgetfulness. Whichever you need.”
I pick up a glass, the salt already crusted on its rim. The guy in the flannel shirt is still stealing glances. The one in the leather jacket smirks, lifting his beer in a toast directly at me.
Time begins to lose its shape after a while, dissolving into the thrum of bass and the percussive shuffle of feet on sticky linoleum. It’s been an hour, maybe two. We’ve cycled through phases—frenetic dancing, breathless retreats to the booth for water that tastes like wet metal, Cori’s disappearances into the alley for a cigarette, her return smelling of night air and rebellion. But the dance floor, that pulsing epicenter, always pulls us back.
My body is a map of new sensations. Sweat pools in the hollow of my lower back, trickles between my breasts, gathers in the surprising dampness behind my knees. The careful architecture of my appearance has collapsed. Cori’s butterfly clips are casualties of the crowd, lost to the dark, beer-slicked floor. My hair hangs in damp, separated strands, plastered to my neck and temples. My mascara, I’m certain, has migrated into the faint lines under my eyes, giving me a raccoonish, undone look I’ve never allowed myself to have out in public.
And Leather Jacket is now behind me.
His name is a syllable lost to the music—Dan? Tom?—irrelevant. What matters is the heat of him, a solid wall against my back. His hands are large, possessive on my hips, his fingers splayed just above the rise of my pelvis. We are moving in a slow, syncopated grind, my body leaning into the hard, unmistakable press of him against the small of my back. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his lips and teeth working a path along my sweaty skin that sends jolts of pure electricity straight to my core. His breath is hot, smelling of beer and spearmint gum.
This isn’t dancing as socialization. This is a physical conversation, stripped of language. The music—some grinding, guitar-heavy band I don’t know—isn’t a soundtrack; it’s a circulatory system, its beat the thudding of a collective heart. It’s primitive, unpolished, and phenomenally alive. For thefirst time, my body is not an ornament to be viewed, but an instrument of feeling.
Then, my friends materialize through the smoky haze like a tribunal. Marcus’s eyes find mine, his gaze flicking from the man’s hands on me to my flushed face. His expression is a complex cocktail of brotherly concern and wry amusement.
“We got rooftop access,” Cori announces, shouting directly into my ear. Her pupils are dark pools swimming in jade irises. “Brett’s friend has a friend with some weed. We’re going up. You in?”
The offer hangs in the air, a gateway to another layer of the night. I’ve been high exactly once, a disorienting experiment in college that left me paranoid about the sentience of houseplants. The idea now, layered atop this vodka haze, feels like tempting a different kind of fate. My practical self, the ghost of Annemarie, whispers about hangovers and job applications and responsible behavior.
And then the man—is it Rob?—sucks gently on the tendon behind my ear, and all coherent thought short-circuits.
