I try to remember the last time I really let loose. Definitely not on any of my thirty-minute dates. Probably last New Year’s Eve in Miami with Mateo, except even then I was worried about having to get up early the next day for work. Ugh, Mateo. Why couldn’t that have beenit? Or why couldn’t Alexander have been? Why am I just as far from finding my person at thirty-one as I was at twenty-one?
Trying to shake it off, I dance and lip-synch. It reminds me of being back at my very first frat party, but with better alcohol and a far more sophisticated backdrop than a U of M frat basement where my feet physically stuck to the Keystone Lite–coated floor.
Jumping down from my plush-bench stage, I hurry to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, which I’ve only just now realized is about to burst.
The women’s loo is sensory overload—all pinks and pastels with ribbons of lace wrapping here and there and everywhere just because they can. The marble toilets feel almost too beautiful to urinate in (not that it stops me), and the ceiling is entirely covered in fresh pink roses. I want to touch the velvety petals to confirm they’re real, but I can’t reach.
As I wash my hands under the golden swan faucets, I notice a tube of red lipstick abandoned on the counter. It’s a bright, blazing red—too daring for me, but I want to try it on. No one else is around to claim it, so I take the red wand out of its tube and smack my lips with its fiery stain, liking how it plumps them up in look and feel.
Looking into the bathroom’s gilded mirror, I see someone different staring back at me. An alien goddess who lives for the moment and stars in intergalactic films. Someone who just wantsto have a good time and look divine as she waltzes from world to world.
Feeling very light in my body, as if I might escape it altogether, I rejoin the others. The juniors are bolting off, one to go to a flat mate’s birthday, and the other to put himself to bed after too many shots.
Harold’s sidekicks have dissolved away too, perhaps roaming the room for romantic targets. “Your spirits are much improved this week, Kitten,” Harold says, handing me another Craig David. “Good shagging, I hope?”
I nearly spit the tequila out of my mouth but swallow it in one gulp instead, chasing quickly with pineapple juice. “No comment,” I say coyly, feeling newly bold under the coating of the red lipstick, like I can explore my fictional character a bit further.
“Well, you could bag any guy in this place,” Harold goes on, “so let’s hope you’re putting that to good use, hey?” He casually rests his hand on my knee, over my black tights, and keeps it there, as if it’s perfectly appropriate.
My first instinct is to yank my leg free of his grip, but I don’t. Maybe because I don’t want to upset him or maybe because there’s a small, shameful part of me that doesn’t mind the sensation of his hand resting on my leg. It doesn’t make me shudder or cringe like I expect it to.
I’m so deprived of physical contact these days. The only touch I get is the accidental kind—people shoving me out of the way on the tube or accidentally brushing my shoulder at Waitrose as we contend for last cheese twist in the bakery.
He starts tracing casual circles on my kneecap, as if he’s testing out whether I’m going to stop him or not. I don’t.
I tell myself to knock it off, that Harold is vile and despicable and everything that’s wrong with the world. But it’s harder to recall all that right now, with all the shapes spinning and somersaulting as the last shot starts to kick in.
And it’s not that big of a deal. It’s only my knee.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Except it isn’t only my knee.
Harold starts to fiddle his way up my thigh, then back down to the knee, then up again a little higher, like he’s testing to see how far he can go. His touch doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel bad either. It’s neutral, with the sense that it could get better if I let it.
I’m not Kat anymore. I’m the extraterrestrial being who’s tired of being the good girl. Tired of following the rules and doing it the right way. The right way has led me right into a dead end.
Know your strengths.Oliver’s voice reverberate in my thoughts, and it makes me wonder if letting Harold carry on might be the thing that helps me make partner. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t scrounge up any repentance either.
Harold’s hand is at my groin now, fingers tap dancing over my tights, poking lightly at the fabric. I should swat him away, stand up and walk away, but there’s a certain curiosity to see what comes next, almost like I’m watching myself star in a movie where mycharacter knows how to play the game. She struts confidently across the screen, glad to be single because she’s not betraying anyone. Except maybe herself, but that’s not so bad.
The room is turning on its head, and I like it better upside down. Right and wrong seem like very subjective, very snobbish things that we’d all be better off without.
Harold’s face is closer to mine. “Shame you have these on, luv,” he murmurs, plucking at my tights. “How about a quick change in the loo?”
I find myself thinking about it. Contemplating what would happen if I went into the bathroom and returned without tights. If I let Harold’s hands go where they wanted.
His fingers are tapping against my tights again. There’s a pulse of heat between my legs, and beneath the numbness of my outer shield, my lonely body wants him to keep going.
My phone buzzes from the table. Instinctively, I reach for it and check the text that’s lighting up the screen. It’s Rory.
Hi Kat! Hope your week has been brill (my new favorite word). Still on for 11 a.m. at Gail’s tomorrow?
The text’s grounding effect is immediate.
I picture Rory—not as Alexander but actually as Rory. His wholesome smile. His candid honeycomb eyes and twangy Michigan accent. The shock on his face if he saw—if my family saw—where I was right now. What I was doing and what I was letting someone do to me.
And just like that, Annabel’s spell is broken. The heavenly mirage is exposed as a devil’s den. My body burns, but not in the hot, hormone-charged way. It burns cold with regret and repulsion. Stomach clenching, I feel like I’m about to be sick.
