Chapter 10

10

We squeeze into a small, dated powder room. Dirty mirror, peeling wallpaper, disintegrating tile, clumps of dust gathered in the corners. The toilet and sink are a sickly green. The bronze fixtures long ago lost their sheen.

Naomi pulls down her stockings and sits on the toilet. “I’m sorry about what I said before. I just think—”

“Um, I can’t believe I have to ask this question, but is this an orgy?”

“God no.” I experience a brief, sweet relief. Then she says, “Well, I mean, it might be.”

“What do you mean, might ? I don’t think there’s any middle ground when it comes to orgies. It either is or it isn’t.”

“I’m not sure,” she says. “There was an implication tonight would be wild, but Ilie never said anything explicit.”

“Yeah, we need to go.”

She grabs some toilet paper, wipes, flushes, pulls up her stockings, and pulls down the skirt of her dress. She crosses to the sink and washes her hands.

“Nay—we didn’t sign up for this.”

“We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do.”

I slap my hands to my forehead in disbelief. “You mean I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do, because you’re clearly into it!”

“So, what if I am? Lee and I went to a party like this in Amsterdam and it was honestly the hottest, most insane experience of my life.”

“But Levi isn’t here, is he?”

“Neither is Joel.”

I’m surprised she’d go there. Now I’m fuming.

“Just because he cheats doesn’t mean I—” I can’t stand to hear myself say it out loud, say that I wouldn’t cheat. Because maybe it’s the truth and maybe it isn’t, but neither makes me feel good. “What about you? Lee would be okay with this?”

She takes my lipstick out of her bag. Reapplies Killer. “We have an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement? Why have you never—” I stop myself because I realize I already know the answer to this question. Naomi’s never told me that she and Levi have an open relationship because of the infidelity in mine, which is so insulting and embarrassing I wish I could crawl into a deep, dark hole and never come out. Turn into Gollum, only a more depressing version, with nothing to love.

“It just never came up,” she says. A lie to spare my feelings that has the exact opposite effect.

“All right,” I say. I take a turn on the toilet as Naomi fixes her lipstick in the mirror, dragging her pinkie nail along the edges of her lips, her finger coming away red.

“The idea of a party like this is a lot, I know, but in practice, if you just go with it, it’s so freeing. So fun . Remember fun, Sloane?”

“Were we not having fun?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says.

“Sure,” I mutter. I’m distracted by a clanking noise, followed by a low, distant groan. It doesn’t sound like a pleasurable groan. It sounds pained. “Do you hear that?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Nay?”

“You know what?” she says, whipping around as I make myself decent and elbow her out of the way to wash my hands. “No. I’m not going to let you do this. Make me feel bad for embracing the night. For taking you here. For getting you out of your fucking house with your snooze-fest husband who can’t keep his dick in his pants, who doesn’t make you happy, who you won’t leave because you got your heart broken once in college and have been fucked up about men and sex and yourself ever since.”

“Let up, Nay. I’m here at your orgy. You go do whatever you want. I’m not stopping you.”

“No, we’re talking about this.”

“Is there no hand towel?”

She shakes her head, looks up at the ceiling. “You’re not ever going to confront it, are you? You’re just going to bury it.”

“I bury everything,” I say, giving up and wiping my hands on my T-shirt.

“You deserve more than—”

“It’s not about deserving, Naomi. That’s what you don’t understand. Life isn’t some, like—I don’t know—fairy tale. Not everyone gets to frolic around the world, partying with bands and movie stars and heiresses and counts. Not everyone gets what they want.”

“That’s bullshit! You’re trying to make this about me and whatever you think my life is like. But this has nothing to do with me. This is about you giving up.” In her voice there’s a quaver that destroys me.

“It’s too late,” I say. “I made my choices.”

“It’s not too late! It’s not.”

She takes my left hand and slides off my engagement and wedding rings, the two simple white gold bands I asked for because I felt weird about Joel spending thousands on flashy jewelry when that money could be put toward a house, or my debt.

I let Naomi do it. I let her slip the rings into her jacket pocket.

“You should fuck someone tonight,” she says. “Maybe you’ll come so hard you’ll remember who you really are. Happy birthday.”

She pushes past me and opens the door. She pauses to make sure I’m following.

“You could have been a great poet,” I say.

“Maybe in my next life.”

I go with her, back to the party. Not because I want to. Because I can’t hide in the bathroom all night. It has a weird smell.

—

“Elisa is worried,” Ilie says, stabbing at the fire with a long cast-iron poker. “She thinks she makes bad drinks.”

“Gin and tonic,” Elisa says, looking genuinely distressed as she holds up two giant cobalt wineglasses. “I can try again if it is too strong.”

Naomi accepts the drinks for us, then passes one of the glasses to me.

“Cheers,” she says, and takes a fearless sip. “It’s perfect.”

I bring my glass to my lips, slowly tilt it back. Pure gin. Normally it’d be too much for me, but under these circumstances…

“Yeah, agreed. Perfect,” I say.

Elisa claps. “Wonderful!”

She embraces Naomi, kissing her on the cheek. I take another gulp of gin.

I hear that distant clanking sound again, just for a moment. It’s there and it’s happening and then it’s gone. Then it’s quiet, save for the pop and hiss of flames, and the soft slurping of Costel and Miri making out.

Ilie leans the poker beside the fireplace and turns his attention to a record player set on a retro stand. “We need music, yes?”

He slides an album out from a stack on the floor, a seemingly random selection. It’s Who’s Next by the Who. I don’t know if “Baba O’Riley” is the right song to set the mood for group sex, but I’m not going to offer up my opinion on the matter, since I won’t be partaking.

Ilie looks at the album in his left hand, then down at the record player, then back at the album. With his right hand, he fiddles with the tonearm. I can tell he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how it works.

“Technics SL-1200. Original model,” I say, stepping in. I slip the record out of the sleeve and put it on the platter. “Pretty nice record player for someone who doesn’t know how to use it.”

He chuckles. “It come with the house.”

“And the extensive collection?” I say, gesturing to the stack on the floor and the albums stuffed into the stand.

“Yes, yes,” he says.

“That’s lucky.” The song starts to play, filling the room with that famous, mesmerizing ostinato.

“Oh, yes!” Ilie says, his eyes igniting with recognition. “I know this one. Good music.”

“How long have you had the house?” I ask him.

He ignores me and starts to dance around the room. He sweeps Naomi away from Elisa, and they spin and laugh and touch each other, and I stand perfectly rigid, right where I am, my hands pulled into fists, gnawing on the inside of my cheek until my mouth fills with blood and I swallow it down, hoping my suspicion goes with it, but it doesn’t. It’s stuck between my teeth like a stubborn piece of meat. Now that it’s here, I can’t get it out. Can’t be rid of it.

The thought. The suspicion.

This isn’t his house.

“?‘Let’s get together before we get much older!’?” Naomi sings, orbiting Ilie as if she is the earth and he is her sun. Elisa stays close, a tenacious moon.

As I watch them it’s like they’re playing a game, only no one’s explained the rules.

I’m not alone in their audience. Costel and Miri have come up for air. Tatiana models her pink manicure as she covers her mouth to hide a sly smile.

Urgent nausea alerts me to the fact that it’s starting, that whatever is going to happen here tonight is about to be happening. I look over my shoulder. There’s the candlelit front hall, and then two other hallways off the living room, but they’re dark and I don’t know where they lead, and I’m afraid to wander around this house that may or may not belong to these people.

I believed that the crazy Batmobile belonged to Ilie; it seemed like the kind of car someone like him would drive. But this house? It doesn’t seem like the kind of house a young überwealthy person would buy. It’s dated, and not in a kitschy, fun way. There are water stains on the ceiling. Or maybe they’re just shadows. Maybe I’m searching for things that aren’t there. Searching for excuses, for justification to keep myself on the sidelines.

Ilie stands behind Naomi; Elisa stands in front. Ilie holds her waist; Elisa holds her face.

I stare down at the floor, at the patchwork of ugly rugs and blankets and pillows.

Someone moans.

Christ. I really don’t want to be here for this.

I beeline to the far corner of the room, beyond the reach of firelight, and settle on the floor. I’m tempted to turn toward the wall, like a kid in time-out. I regret not bringing my phone, regret leaving it to die. But what would I do if I had it? Message back and forth with Joel, playing dumb? Check the doorbell camera again?

Everything Naomi said to me in the bathroom, in the hall, has me in my head, has me questioning. What if I can’t keep doing this? What if I can’t go on as this version of me that continues to let this happen? That accepts less because it’s easier than longing for more.

My eyes flick up. Miri is naked, bent over a couch. She looks at me and smiles, bites her lip, then waves me forward with a single come-hither finger.

What if I want to? What if I’ve buried my desire so deep that I don’t even remember what it looks like? Sounds like. Tastes like. Feels like. What if I want to get fucked by someone just for the sake of getting fucked? What if I let go of my reservations? What if I didn’t anticipate the worst possible outcome? What if I didn’t give a shit if it was Ilie’s house or not? What if I let myself be guided by something other than fear?

What if Naomi is right? What if it’s not too late?

All of a sudden an ember appears, fizzling near my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

There’s someone next to me. A man. He smokes a cigarette.

“You scared me,” I tell him, bringing my hand to my heart, as if that’ll prevent it from beating out of my chest. I take a sip of the gin.

“You’re scared?” he says, passing me his cigarette. “Good. You should be.”