The suits, entertained and alive in the presence of women to perform for, keep the drinks coming. Martinis and palomas and mojitos and prosecco. It’s obscene. I hope they’re paying. Implicit as it is, you never know when an ego might get bruised, or an attack of conscience might appear after a glance at the white line that marks where their ring usually sits. Men can up sticks and leave at any moment if you’re not careful, and neither Ama nor Molly nor I can afford to be stiffed with the bill.
Before long, we’re all a little sloppy—we girls more than the four men, and even then, me far less so than Ama and Molly. In fact, it’s a stretch to call me sloppy at all. I’ve made a point of not letting myself get too loose for several years. There have been too many dark nights followed by fatalities in the mornings. Too many blank spots in my memory clouded over by nice tequila and narcotics. What I can do is keep my faculties about me. I’m terrified of what I’ll do if I don’t.
Suit 1 and Molly are jostling each other with their shoulders. There’s a palpable tension in their locked eyes and loose smiles. I wonder if I should put a stop to this, seeing where this is going. I want to. And notjust because Suit 1 is obnoxious, bigoted, too handsy—but because I know what it will mean for Molly if she takes this too far.
“Molly?” I ask. I try to make the question sound carefree, a cheeky raising of the eyebrows, a laugh. But it’s clear she knows what it means.
“Oh, give over, Nat,” she says, garnishing the comment with an eye roll of her own. I don’t love it.
“What?” Suit 1 asks. He jostles her, bleary eyes scanning between the two of us. He finally settles his gaze on me, laughs, and says, “I think our girl here needs another shot.”
Great. The last thing I need is to stand out as the sober friend. I accept the shot handed to me by Suit 2, laughing along with jokes and mentally planning my route home. The night has been disrobed of its facade of fun and is shrugging on something unseemly in its place.
Before long, Ama announces her intention to head off. It is late, after all. Suit 2 surprises me by saying much the same. Suits 3 and 1 and Molly are keen to head to another bar. I look at the time and my heart sinks.
“Molly, babe, I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”
She scoffs, grabs her bag. I try to tell her not to go and she looks at me like I have three heads. An alarm is whirring in my brain. I stand, physically take her arm in mine, stare her down.
“Molly, go home. Brian will be wondering where you are. Get an Uber, and text me when you get in.”
A pout forms on her lips as a question settles on her brow. The sound of his name has been at least a little sobering. She glances at the suits, perhaps begins to see what I see. She nods, straightens.
“Yeah, I’ll order an Uber now.”
“You sure we can’t convince you to come for another?” Suit 1 asks me.
“I think I’d best head home soon.”
He shrugs. “Your loss.”
The tension leaches out of me and I realize how badly I need to pee. The girls and I hug, promise to meet each other outside. I run to the loo, cool plastic beneath my thighs as I sigh and relieve myself. It’s clear to me that I’ve drunk more than intended, forgoing my usually extensive wipe-down of the seat. My phone pings. A message from Molly.
Uber’s here. Hopping in but so fun catching up, speak more soon x
By the time I reemerge, there’s a girl waiting outside my cubicle door, slightly smudged mascara under wide eyes. It’s clear that she’s desperate. I sidestep out of her way.
“Sorry, it’s all y—” The sight of the empty stall next to mine stops me. All the other stalls are empty, in fact.
“You’re with that guy in the bar, right?” she asks.
I make my way to the sink, soaping my hands. “Which guy?”
She shifts from foot to foot, fingers twisting together. “The guy in the gray suit, brown hair. Looks a bit like James McAvoy. You were with your friends, but they just left, I think.”
Mr. Periphery. “Oh, him. Yeah, we’re not really friends. We just met.”
“Yeah, well— Sorry, I don’t know how to say this…but I’m pretty sure I just saw him put something in your drink.”
I freeze for a moment. “Wait, what?” The tap goes off and I don’t bother with a paper towel, patting my hands on the sides of my jeans. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just, I was watching everyone leave, and it looked like he did a weird thing with a glass after they went. I wasn’t paying proper attention, but I noticed him pushing a glass across the table, and it wasn’t his own drink, and I’m pretty sure he was putting it back where it was, and I’m pretty sure where it was is where you were sitting.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, it’s so fucked-up. But also, maybe it’s nothing. And I didn’t want to report it and be wrong, so I thought I’d just come tell you and you can decide what to do. If you want to come join our table or if you want me to wait with you while you call a taxi, I’ll—”
“Actually, no. It’s okay.”
