Page 32 of Drown Like Heaven
Another laugh burst through my lips and I rolled over onto my side to look at Mila, grinning against the soft faux-fur pillow.
“Mila,” I started. “There are not going to be men who look like Eric at the bar we’re going to. You need to go to, like, a fucking distillery.”
She moaned, fluttering her eyes dramatically. “He’s so middle aged.Take me to the bowling alley, Eric. Show me off to your other divorced buddies and then fuck me in your zero-traction shoes.”
“I really don’t think he bowls,” I said between giggles.
“Don’t care. It fits in my mind-image of him. My fantasy.”
My phone buzzed in my purse and I fished it out. All the color drained from my face when I saw the contact name.
“Block him, angel,” Mila said quietly, instantly catching on.
I deleted the text without reading it, but I still couldn’t block him for whatever reason. I knew I needed to. He only messaged me a couple times a year at this point, none of it ever what I needed to hear from him. And it would probably help with closing that chapter of my life for good, but…
I powered my phone fully off and stuffed it back in my bag, my palm sliding across the comforter to link my pinkie finger with Mila’s.
“Some day,” I assured her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Mila hopped up and offered her hand out to me, sympathy in her brown irises. “Pregame?”
“Sure.” I nodded as I used her help off the plush bed.
Ivan poured us shots of some Russian vodka and we inspected his handiwork with the pelmeni, Mila being especially critical of his crescent dumplings when she thought they were unevenly filled. I thought they were filled quite nicely, however, and the feeling only intensified when the alcohol hit my bloodstream. Everything felt better with a bit of Russian Standard in my stomach.
Mila’s friends arrived together a few minutes later, all dressed in some variation of the same going-out outfit. Like always, I got quieter once I was around other people, all my attempts at joining the conversation feeling awkward or forced. I wished I’d taken another shot. Nobody reallyseemedto notice, but I felt worlds away from them.
Like there was suddenly a pane of glass separating me from everyone else, and I was looking in through this window that was only visible to me. I messed with the locket around my neck, clicking it open and shut, wishing I was different, wishing I didn’t carry the secrets I did.
Eventually, we all piled in Ivan’s old Chevy Tahoe. He complained about the scent of everyone’s perfume filling up his car and Mila smacked his shoulder. Early 2000s music blasted from his stereo system all the way downtown to the new bar Mila wanted to try.
He pulled to a stop on the curb, throwing his hazards on.
“Spasibo, Vanyaaaa,” Mila said while hopping out of the passenger seat. “You’re the best!”
“Ne za shto. Call me later.”
“How fucking fancy was that plate?” Zoey asked Mila incredulously as she shut the door to Ivan’s car. “I’m very shocked that we get a personal driver both ways.”
“It was a sentimental plate,” she explained, tugging her dress down to cover her ass again while we crossed the sidewalk. “Well,kindasentimental. I may have played it up a bit to get favors. It was from a trip to Russia, so I feel like it’s valid to convey some devastation about it being broken. I just also happen to have seven others of the same plate in a box at my parents’ house. So…”
“So…You’re a manipulative little mastermind,” Zoey surmised.
“Precisely. I’m sick of paying for overpriced car services.”
Still talking and laughing about that plate, we all showed our IDs to the man at the door, then went inside.
Pink and blue lights flickered over my bare skin, deep bass vibrating through the air and anchoring in my bones. The room had a pulse, something faded and low, full of possibility.
This was good for me.
I needed to do normal things.
Not jump into the ocean after a stranger then let him eat me out in the back of his car while suffocating me with his palm.
Excitement tingled through my bloodstream while Mila led me and her med school friends towards the bar, backlit by lime-green lights and stretching half the length of the room, the bartop glossy and shaped like a wave. Bartenders wearing all black shook metal cups and leaned over the bartop, taking shouted orders right in their ears. I watched a girl with a sleek ponytail, a rag tossed over her shoulder, her eye makeup dark. She was shaking her head at some male customer as he gestured with his hands, clearly irritated.Classic male.
We approached the bar, getting a round of whatever was cheapest, downing our cups before ordering more.
