3. Isabel

3

ISABEL

T he stale stench of beer and humiliation clung to me like a second skin as I fled from that bar, the neon lights fading behind me. Thank God I didn’t live too far away; the familiar route to my apartment stretched out ahead, lined with the shadows of trees and flickering street lamps. The walk back helped clear my head and dry out my shirt, each step crunching on the gravel underfoot, but it also ignited a simmering anger deep within me.

If Nicholas hadn’t come over to make fun of me, this whole mess probably wouldn’t have spiraled out of control. Eliza and I would have continued our conversation at the bar, lost in laughter and shared stories, and she would have likely left with the bartender when the clock struck closing time, after insisting he drive me home. That would have been that—no awkwardness, no drama. Nobody would have gotten hurt. That jerk, with his smug grin, probably wouldn’t have overheard Nicholas’s stupid jokes about me getting on stage, and he wouldn’t have felt the need to douse me in 95-calorie Michelob Ultra. Even the beer, with its low-calorie label, felt healthier than I did at that moment, a cruel reminder of how far I had fallen.

I let myself into my apartment, the door clicking shut behind me, and immediately peel off the t-shirt I had been wearing along with the skirt, tossing them into the small washer that the complex had crammed into my kitchen as an afterthought. At first, when I moved in, I was thrilled to have a washer at all; it felt like a luxury in my otherwise modest space. But now, I find myself meticulously planning when to do laundry. If I decide to whip up dinner, I can’t run the dryer because it heats up the kitchen to an unbearable level, triggering those annoying heat flashes that leave me feeling more uncomfortable than usual. It’s a whole thing, a delicate balancing act of domesticity.

As I walk around the house in just my bra and underwear, the familiar feeling of self-consciousness evaporates, leaving me with a sense of liberation since no one is around to witness my casual state. I make a beeline for the shower, turning the hot water knob all the way up, determined to wash away the remnants of the night and the embarrassing memory of the entire bar turning to gawk at the fat girl winning the wet t-shirt contest. It’s a thought that sends a shiver down my spine. I really hope Eliza stayed behind to collect our hard-earned winnings. God knows I wasn't going to stick around for that. I need this moment of solitude to cleanse not only my body but my mind as well.

Under the spray of the water, I permit myself to think about how good Nicholas looked tonight. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, and even longer since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him in a fully tailored suit that hugged his broad shoulders and tapered perfectly at his waist. He must have come straight from work, the crispness of his attire a testament to his professionalism. I don't know how he manages the grind of the business world because, honestly, I would be bored out of my mind, but there’s no denying that the wardrobe suits him perfectly, accentuating every strong line of his physique.

Thinking about the way his chest fills out the suit sends a thrill through me, and before I know it, my hands begin to adventure down my body. They roam over my skin, rubbing my chest roughly, lingering there for just a moment longer as I gather my thoughts of him. I squeeze at the thickness of my thighs, imagining it's him doing it, his touch igniting a fire within me. Nicholas has this aura about him that suggests he’d be rough in bed, and in the fleeting moments that I toy with myself, pretending that it’s him, I grab and squeeze and play with myself the way that I think he would—each caress a tantalizing blend of desire and fantasy, making the mundane reality of the shower fade away.

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as my fingers explore the slick, sudsy contours of my folds, and I can almost picture Nicholas undoing his jacket button by button, revealing the hard planes of his chest beneath. The tantalizing image is shattered, however, by the distant sound of knocking on the front door. My heart leaps into my throat, yanking me abruptly back to reality. Fear floods my veins, momentarily extinguishing the flames of desire that had been building within me.

Did Eliza not go home with the bartender?

A wave of concern washes over me, and I quickly shut off the water to the shower, straining my ears to hear if the mysterious visitor will knock again. For a few seconds, the only sounds are the gentle drip of water cascading off my skin and the hurried rhythm of my own breath, each inhale laced with anxiety. But then it comes again—the pounding knock from before, now more insistent and louder, reverberating through the stillness of the night.

“Hold on!” I yell, urgency propelling me into action. I need to get my ass out of the shower, dry off, and make it to the door before whoever it is decides to leave—or worse, break in. Who’s knocking on my door at midnight anyway? What could they possibly want at this hour? I curse under my breath as I grab my towel, hastily wrapping it around myself while racing through the drying-off process. Water droplets cling stubbornly to my skin, no doubt escaping my hurried attempts and splattering onto the floor, creating a small puddle that will soon saturate both my bathroom and living room. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me as I sprint toward the front door, my heart pounding louder than the knock.

A third knock resonates through the air just as I’m a mere heartbeat away from my destination, and I swear under my breath again. If it’s Eliza and she’s forgotten her key once more, I swear I’m going to kick her ass all the way to next week. I press my eye against the peephole and catch a glimpse of a suited chest that stirs my imagination, but something about that face doesn’t sit right with me. It’s enough to make me take a step back, my instincts kicking in, and instead of telling him to screw off, I find myself unlocking the front door, curiosity overtaking my better judgment.

“Nicholas,” I gasp when I finally pull the door open wide, my heart racing as I take in his appearance, “what happened to you?”

He stands there, a stark contrast to the well-dressed man I’m used to seeing, sporting a black eye that’s only going to blossom into a more vivid bruise as time goes on, and a swollen lip that looks painfully fat. The bag of ice he must have received from the bar has melted into a puddle of water, dripping uselessly from his hand. As Nicholas flexes his punching hand, I notice the state of his knuckles—brutally swollen and smeared with fresh blood. “I told you you’d win the wet t-shirt contest. Good job, by the way,” he manages to joke, though the forced levity barely conceals the wince that flashes across his face, a testament to whatever ordeal he’s just endured.

I usher him inside, closing the door firmly behind him with a sense of urgency. “What happened after I left? Let me get you an ice pack,” I say, trying to mask my concern with practicality. Nicholas has always been a hothead, prone to fiery outbursts, but it genuinely surprises me that he resorted to punching somebody. He’s not the fighting type; he’s the ‘ruin your company’ type, always armed with sharp words rather than fists. But I suppose he didn’t know much about the guy who threw the beer on me, so I guess he did what he could with what little he understood of the situation.

“Cozy little place you have here, Isabel,” he calls out from the living room, which is just around a wall from the kitchen, his voice attempting to sound lighthearted despite the pain etched on his face.

The entirety of mine and Eliza’s apartment is a tight-knit five-room space, all crammed into a mere 650 square feet. The only thing that separates the rooms is a series of thin walls, each one echoing with the sounds of our lives. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two small bedrooms—each corner tells its own story of late-night laughter and whispered secrets. “Thanks,” I reply, tucking my towel into itself with a practiced motion before I head to the freezer. I grab the ice pack, its chilly surface a welcome contrast to the warmth radiating from my hands, and return to the living room. “Now tell me what happened after I left.”

Nicholas is slumped on the couch, his feet casually propped up on the coffee table, and he looks even worse for the wear than he did just a minute ago. “Well, it’s really not much of a story,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, his voice laced with a hint of frustration. “I turned around, and you were gone. Which makes sense, you were covered in beer, after all. So then I turned back around and threw a punch at the idiot who started the whole mess, which, I guess, kicked off a fight. He threw a punch back, then I did, and so on, yadda yadda yadda. And here I am, a little worse for wear but still standing.”

I narrow my eyes at his retelling of the events, sensing there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. “I feel like some parts are missing,” I say, my voice edged with suspicion.

“I was thinking the same thing about your clothes when I showed up,” Nicholas replies, a wide grin stretching across his face, even as he presses the ice pack to his swollen black eye, flinching in pain. The contrast between his playful demeanor and the bruising on his face is almost comical, but I can’t afford to find it amusing right now.

“Shut up,” I snap at him, my irritation bubbling to the surface. “Where’s Eliza?” The question hangs in the air, heavy with concern, as I scan the chaotic scene around us, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar figure amidst the remnants of the fight.

Nicholas frowns, his brow furrowing as he gives it some thought. “I’m pretty sure that after the bartender she was flirting with stepped in between the guy and me, she was busy nursing him back to health. He caught an elbow to the cheek, and that was puffing up something fierce. So, I’m going to guess that she went home with him or is planning to go home with him or something along those lines. I really don’t know for sure.”

I can’t help but feel a knot of anxiety in my stomach at the thought. Well, I hope so, because if she brings him back here, that’s going to make things seriously awkward for me, wandering around in nothing but a towel. “Do I need to take you to the emergency room or something?” I ask, gesturing toward his knuckles, which are scraped and bruised. “We should definitely get that cleaned up before it gets worse.”

With a casual shrug, he stands up, wincing slightly as he does so. “I think it’s just broken skin, no broken bones. That fucker had it coming though,” Nicholas growls, his voice low and filled with anger. “He didn’t have any right to do that to you, not ever.” The intensity in his eyes makes it clear just how much he means it, and I can’t help but appreciate his loyalty, even amidst the chaos surrounding us.

His protective spirit wraps around me like a comforting blanket, igniting a warmth deep within. I stand beside him, feeling a surge of gratitude, and guide him down the short hallway to the bathroom, which still holds onto the lingering warmth from my shower, creating a cozy atmosphere that contrasts with the tension outside.

“Sorry for interrupting your night,” Nicholas says, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his voice as he lifts himself onto the counter, settling down with a slight wince. “I just knew that you lived close by, and I wanted to make sure that you were alright. I didn’t mean for you to have to, like, take care of me or anything.” His words tumble out, a mixture of concern and embarrassment, revealing the depths of his character beneath the bravado.

I busy myself with reaching under the sink, carefully rummaging through the cluttered space to gather hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and a bandage. “It’s okay,” I shrug, trying to convey a sense of reassurance, “it’s not your fault. Jerks like that guy are always looking for someone to pick on. It’s easy to pick on the fat girl; they think it makes them feel stronger or something.” I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness as I speak.

Nicholas frowns, a genuine concern etched across his features. “I don’t know why you always call yourself the fat girl,” he says, his voice steady yet tinged with disbelief, as if he’s challenging the very notion I’ve accepted about myself.

With a derisive snort, I seize his hand and bring it over the sink, the cool porcelain contrasting sharply with the heat of the moment. “Probably because I’m fat, Nicholas. I didn’t win the wet t-shirt contest just because I was the skinniest girl there flaunting the biggest fake tits,” I say, the words tumbling out with a mix of sarcasm and self-deprecation.

“The best chest? Absolutely. Best breasts in the contest, hands down,” he counters, a teasing glint in his eyes that somehow softens the sting of my own harsh words.

I feel my cheeks heat up, an uncomfortable flush creeping across my face. Caught off guard and unsure of how to respond, I focus on pouring the hydrogen peroxide over his battered knuckles, the liquid hissing as it meets the blood. His roar of pain fills the air, a raw sound that pulls me back into the moment, reminding me of the reality we’re both facing.