Chapter 9

9

The Batmobile is a two-seater, so I end up sitting on Naomi’s lap. She giggles at Ilie as I reach back, searching in vain for a seat belt.

“Don’t worry. I am safe driver,” Ilie says in his thick accent. He’s speeding, sliding all over the snow-slick road. “Very safe.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” I say. This car probably cost more than my house, but does it have airbags?

“Sloane, yes? It is very nice to meet you. I tell Naomi, I am very glad she is calling. My name is Ilie,” he says. He lets go of the wheel to shake my hand. I give it a quick squeeze, but instead of taking the wheel again, he gets out a pack of cigarettes, puts one between his lips, and lights it.

“I don’t usually smoke in car, but,” he says, shrugging as he finally takes the wheel again, “it is special occasion, yes?”

“It’s Sloane’s birthday,” Naomi says.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Happy, happy birthday,” Ilie says. “You must make wish. It will come true.”

I can’t get over this guy. He’s so good-looking and so ridiculous. He wears tight satin pants and a sheer black button-up that’s not sufficiently buttoned. The top buttons have been given the night off. Silver necklaces disappear into a forest of dark chest hair. He’s like a caricature, only he’s too hot to be a caricature. Like if a young Colin Farrell were to play Rasputin in a sexy, not-at-all historically accurate biopic.

“Don’t worry. It is not far,” he says, zooming past Main Street. “Tonight you will meet all of my best friends. We like to meet new people. Interesting people. Like you.”

He winks at us, then takes a sudden, hard right, barely missing a tree. Then he slams on the brakes as a gate opens to a private drive.

I don’t even flinch. I’ve temporarily transcended fear. It could be in a cool, enlightened, “Whatever will be, will be” way. But more likely I’m experiencing existential despondence.

Ilie rolls through the open gate, and I watch in the side-view mirror as it slowly shuts behind us.

And just like that, my fear is back, waving red flags in both hands.

“Why are you closing the gate?” I ask. “I thought this was a party.”

“Everyone is here,” he says, unfazed. “We close gate so no uninvited guests. Very exclusive.”

“Right,” I say. Naomi pinches my side. I reach down and pinch her back. She yips.

“See? I tell you it is not far. This house I get not so long ago. This region they say has good wine. Lots of tourists. Good investment. Good place. Very beautiful. Quiet. But I think too quiet. I need some fun, you know? Some excitement.”

“And that’s where we come in?” Naomi says.

“Yes, yes. You are right,” Ilie says, once again slamming on the brakes. I almost go flying through the windshield. “Ready? You tell me what you think of the house. My house.”

Ilie comes around and opens the passenger-side door for us. I tumble out onto the driveway, which is slippery with snow. It’s accumulating fast, and I realize we might not be able to make it back to the cottage tonight—a realization that I might have had sooner if my life weren’t coming apart like wet paper.

It’s difficult to see the house through the snow and wind, the wintry hemorrhage. It’s an extensive ranch. Maybe midcentury? It sits atop a slight hill, surrounded by trees.

Ilie wedges himself between me and Naomi, offering us each an arm.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Naomi says, bowing her head to him as she threads her arm through his.

I’m too nervous to touch him. One, because I don’t trust him. And two, because he’s so attractive it makes me uncomfortable, makes me want to turn and run away as fast as I can. Makes me want to evaporate.

He slides his hand up my arm, brings his face to my face. “You are shy, love? I promise, this night you will remember forever.”

His eyes are wide and hazel, his lips pink, his teeth brilliantly white but chipped. His breath is sour.

“Sloane?” Naomi says. I feel her looking at me. Turns out, you never get too old for peer pressure.

I give a resigned sigh and take Ilie’s arm. He leads us up a pathway to the front door. It opens before we get there.

“Look at these stunning creatures!” says a tall, bone-thin woman with the most glorious golden blond curls. “Welcome. Come in. Please.”

We step over the threshold into a dimly lit hall. There are candles everywhere . Flickering flames cast shadows that crawl up the walls, which are covered with artwork—extravagantly framed oil paintings of flowers and landscapes and seascapes and castles. The colors shimmer in the candlelight as if the paint were still wet.

“You may take off your shoes, your coats. Make yourselves comfortable. Our home is your home,” the blonde says.

Naomi takes her shoes off but leaves her coat on. She won’t be parted from it.

I slip off my boots and hand the blond woman my coat. I have no such attachment to mine.

“Thank you,” I say to the woman. She’s dressed in a velvety purple gown. She looks like a high-fashion model. She’s all angles. Her features are intense, her skin like glass. She wears no makeup, at least as far as I can tell.

“Of course,” she says. She speaks with an accent similar to Ilie’s. Maybe it’s not Russian. I don’t know. I’m not well traveled.

She hangs my coat on a freestanding rack that I’d mistaken for an abstract sculpture. It looks like a giant, mangled paper clip. Mine is the only coat it carries on its silvery arms.

“This is Elisabeta. Our Elisa,” Ilie says. “She has mean face, but she is very sweet. Come. I introduce you to everyone.”

Elisa drinks in Naomi. She approaches her, slips two fingers under her chin, and then kisses her right on the mouth.

My jaw drops. I swear it hits the floor.

The kiss lasts for a solid minute.

Eventually, Elisa pulls away. She strokes Naomi’s face with the back of her hand, then says, “Yes, let’s go to everyone.”

I lag behind, let Ilie and Elisa walk ahead. I grab Naomi by the sleeve of her jacket.

“Um, what was that?” I whisper.

“A friendly greeting?” she says, laughing a little. “Don’t overthink it, okay? It’s cultural.”

“Oh? What culture, exactly?”

“Hey. Just be present. Open-minded. Have you considered the possibility that this could be the best night of your life?”

“No,” I say.

She blows a raspberry.

“Most I can hope for is that it’s not the worst. Or the last,” I say. Bringing my voice down to a whisper of a whisper, I add, “He closed the gate.”

“Overthinking,” she says. She takes my hand and spins me around. “Come on. Would it kill you to loosen up?”

“It might.”

She gives me this look that makes me want to swallow my tongue. She’s serious. She’s rarely serious. “You want to pretend you’re some dull suburban normie. We both know that’s not who you really are. Be honest with yourself for a second. Don’t you want to let your hair down?”

“Not here. Not now. This whole thing is weird. These people, this place. Let’s call a car while we still can. The snow—”

She lets go of my hand. “You assume the worst, and it’s this self-fulfilling prophecy. You think you’re in control, that you’re playing it safe by never taking any chances or leaving your comfort zone, but—”

“That’s not fair. Don’t bully me for using common sense.”

“Someday you’re gonna look back on your life and there’ll be nothing but regret.”

She starts after Ilie and Elisa.

After my wrist surgery I randomly started reading up on the Hindenburg . One rainy Thursday afternoon during summer break, Naomi drove me out to the memorial in Lakehurst and we walked around the field where the zeppelin went down in flames.

That was when I told her I’d decided to drop out of NYU and move back to Jersey.

“Without the scholarship, I’ll never be able to get out from under the debt. Even with the scholarship it was a lot,” I’d said, trying to get at an itch inside my cast. “It just isn’t worth it. Risk a lifetime of debt for what? A degree is a degree.”

“I probably shouldn’t smoke a cigarette here, right?” she asked, not acknowledging anything I’d said.

“Probably not.” I waited for her to call me out, bring up the Smith ordeal and my subsequent spiral, which resulted in my GPA’s nosedive, costing me my scholarship, and culminating in my drunkenly falling off a curb and breaking my wrist in front of a Saturday-night crowd on St. Marks Place, almost getting run over by a cab, the front tire missing my skull by an inch. The other, less practical, more shameful factors in my decision to drop out.

Instead, she said, “Not to be insensitive, but I feel like it’s pretty obviously a shit idea to ride in a giant gas-filled sky balloon.”

“Yeah,” I’d said.

“Worth it for the view, though. Don’t you think? Worth the risk?”

“View is fine from here.”

I knew the point she was trying to make, but it was the wrong place to make it. I knew the charred spirits roaming the field with us would be on my side, would agree with me. If they had it all to do over again, they would have stayed safely on the ground. Never taken the risk.

But now here I am, having spent the last sixteen years with both feet firmly planted, making every decision with careful consideration, leading the most risk-averse life I could conceive of. And it still blew up in my face.

Maybe Naomi’s right. I don’t have any control. I never have.

So I might as well join the party.

—

I follow Naomi down the hall, which opens up to a sunken living room.

There’s a giant stone fireplace with a hearty red fire crackling inside. There’s an elaborate candelabra on the mantel, the candles lit, wax dripping. There are no windows, at least none that are uncovered. The walls are all draped in heavy fabric, and there’s an array of rugs and blankets and fat pillows covering the floor. There are several backless couches with bodies strewn across them. The room smells of smoke and incense and sweat. It looks like an opium den.

Ilie says something in a foreign language, and the bodies begin to twist awake, sit up, become people. I count four. Two men, two women. One of the men is in the corner, cast in shadow. The other, illuminated by firelight, is shirtless, with a lit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. He’s sinewy, covered in tattoos and gnarly scars. Both of his nipples are pierced. His white-blond hair is buzzed. He looks about the same age as Ilie, late twenties or early thirties. He’s got a square jaw and a pronounced brow ridge, though the brows themselves are so faint, they’re practically invisible. His eyes are reptilian green.

I’d put him among the most intimidating creatures on the planet.

Just as I think this, he smiles, gold teeth glinting.

“Hello!” he says, his voice unexpectedly high and pleasant. “I am Costel. Nice to meet you.”

One of the women pops her head over his shoulder. She’s petite with a blunt, dark bob, a heart-shaped face, a pointy chin. She wears a white silk slip dress, the straps loose and sliding down her arms.

“I am Miri,” she says. “Ilie, you were right. They are so pretty! So, so pretty.”

“You doubt me?” Ilie asks, stepping down into the living room and crossing to Miri. He ruffles her hair, then grabs a fistful, a brief flash of violence that turns my blood cold.

Miri gasps, then giggles. They stare at each other for a moment, and I hold my breath until Ilie releases his grip on her hair. He pats it back into place, then kisses her on the forehead.

Anxiety skitters around my ribs. There’s clearly something off here, but Naomi has me doubting my own intuition. Am I hesitant because I’ve spent the last decade and a half living as a dull suburban normie, or because I’m a person with keen judgment and basic survival instincts? I don’t know. I can’t tell.

“Tatiana? What do you think?” Ilie asks, turning to the other couch, where a woman lounges, wearing a long, lace-trimmed sleeping robe. She has cherry red hair styled in perfect Old Hollywood waves. She looks like she’s ready for a boudoir photo shoot.

She gives us a once-over through a cage of false lashes. Then she points lazily in our direction. “Keep an eye on that one. She will steal something.”

I assume she’s talking about Naomi. I’d be offended on her behalf if only it weren’t true.

“And that one has bad posture.”

I know she’s talking about me. Also true, but I’m still offended. I roll my shoulders back.

“To answer your question, Ilie,” Tatiana says, sliding a thick, beautiful thigh out of her robe. I can easily identify her accent as French. “Yes. They are fine for the night. Did you offer our guests something to drink?”

“Ah!” Elisa says, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I forgot. What a terrible, rude, very bad host. Sloane, Naomi, something to drink?”

“Yes, please,” Naomi says. “Whatever you have. We like everything.”

Miri, the small brunette, has now climbed onto the lap of shirtless Costel, and they’re making out. Absolutely going at it.

Ilie stands over them, watching. Grinning.

Tatiana leans back and her robe falls all the way open, revealing a maze of lingerie.

I’m getting the sense that this a very particular kind of party.

“Perhaps some wine?” Elisa asks us.

“Um, actually, do you have anything stronger?” I ask, staring daggers at Naomi. “Gin, whiskey, tequila, vodka, a horse tranquilizer…Sorry—is there a bathroom?”

“Yes. Back through there, first door on your right.”

“Thanks. If you’ll excuse us…”

I catch Naomi by the wrist and pull.