Kat’s apartment was located in Nolita—North of Little Italy. The neighborhood had once been full of Italian and Chinese immigrants but was now packed with boutique shops, gourmet markets, and pre-war buildings and old warehouses converted into apartments with skyrocketing rents.
St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral sat in the middle of the neighborhood taking up several city blocks, a tall red brick wall surrounding the church and its expansive yard and cemetery. It was the oldest cathedral in the city.
Kat’s apartment was located two blocks from the church on Elizabeth Street. It was a red brick pre-war building; the apartment was on the top floor.
Kat and I entered into a wide galley kitchen, the ceiling low. When I stepped out of the kitchen, the apartment opened up into the rest of the long space. The ceilings in the main room were two stories high, with large arched windows that took up almost all of the far wall. An army-green mid-century modern sofa was on the right wall, and the other wall was comprised of elaborate dark-gray built-ins, stuffed to the brim with colorful books and quirky accent pieces throughout. Above the kitchen was a large loft.
A bamboo ladder led up to the second story. It wasn’t a typical Manhattan sleeping loft, which was usually just big enough to fit a mattress, with no room to stand. This was a full second story with a white upholstered bedframe, king mattress, dresser, and a small writing desk.
The square footage was small, but it looked professionally decorated by an interior designer. It was straight out of an Architectural Digest on how to make your small space high-end.
“Sit,” Kat said, blunt but gentle.
She pulled out two low-ball glasses, poured whiskey in both, and handed one to me.
The liquid went down smooth, sliding into my bloodstream, and I sank back into the plush sofa cushions. The apartment was comfortable, but I was still not completely at ease. I didn’t know Kat, but her presence was disarming. I willed my shoulders and stomach to unknot and relax.
“It’s totally up to you, but it might help to talk about what happened tonight. I won’t judge or try and fix you. But I can guide you if you want.”
I exhaled. “It’s no biggie. Really.”
Kat sat patiently, not saying anything. It was a good tactic. Uneasy with the silence, I spoke.
“My date said some hurtful things. Because…” My cheeks bloomed red. “I’m bad at the sex stuff.”
I swallowed a gulp of liquid courage, and eyed Kat over the rim. “I guess I’m not very experienced.”
“Can you explain exactly what happened?” A shadow crossed over her face. “Do you mind?”
There was a small knock on the front door. We glanced over and Jackson entered, carrying a Duane Reade bag and set it on the counter.
I stiffened. I hadn’t realized he’d be coming over. I thought he’d gone to his apartment for the night after he left us at the subway station.
Katrina shot him daggers for interrupting.
“What?” he asked innocently.
“It’s okay,” I said, not so concerned about who heard anymore. The whole night had become laughable in hindsight—and after the whiskey. “He can hear it. You’ve both gone above and beyond for my stupidity.”
“I hope that self-talk is better in your head, girl,” Kat said, pouring more whiskey and clinking glasses.
“Sooooo.” I drew the word out, the warm cushion of the alcohol settling inside me like a comfy cloud of security. “We went out. It was a good date. I really liked him.”
I tapped my finger on the glass, my long nail clinking the crystal. Then I told them what happened after we got back to the apartment—my inexperience, him pushing my head down, me gagging, and finally leaving. I left out the part where I injured his nether regions.
“He said I was the worst girl he’d ever been with.” My skin flushed from embarrassment.
“He said that?” Kat’s face was incredulous. Jackson’s expression was hard as stone, his eyes dark.
“It’s not something you forget. When I tried to leave, he wouldn’t let me. Instead, he kicked me out of the apartment saying that his sister was planning on doing it soon anyway.” I swallowed the sticky ball of emotion jammed in my throat. “ It was just a bad sexual encounter. Everyone has them.”
I glanced up, expecting Jackson and Kat to laugh it off with me, but their faces were mirror images of repulsion.
“That wasn’t a bad sexual encounter. That was a borderline attack,” Kat said.
My heart contracted behind my ribs. “What? No. It was my inexperience.”
“He grabbed your head and forced himself into your mouth. You gagged!” Kat’s eyes were wide with anger. “These fucking guys. You’d think women calling out these types of men all over social media and holding them accountable would’ve weeded out these fuckers. But no. There are so many still out there.”
Jackson stood quietly near the kitchen, his expression tense.
“Tell her, Jax,” Kat urged.
“If that guy had done that to our daughter, I’d shove my fist through his throat. A man should treat a woman with respect. And never force her to do anything. If I grabbed that glass of whiskey and put it up to your lips and shoved your face in it, would that be okay?”
“No,” I said. “But I didn’t tell him I didn’t want it.”
“A decent man, a respectful man, would never have done what he did,” Kat said. “Don’t make excuses for his behavior. What he did was not okay. And if you’d punched him in the balls, he would’ve deserved it.”
I kinda did. Kat made me feel better about that part at least.
Jackson picked up his phone, agitated. “Where’s Evie?”
“Spending the night at Sasha’s,” Kat said. “Don’t worry. I FaceTimed her before I went to your office. They were watching a movie in Sasha’s bedroom. Look up her location. She’s safe. Sasha’s parents are there.”
Jackson’s shoulders relaxed, confident his daughter was safe.
“It was bad.” I relented. “The guy was awful. But what hurt most were his words. I’ll never be able to go down on a guy again.”
Kat took my hand. “Yes, you will.”
“No!” The word came out with much more fervor than I’d intended. “I’m bad at sex. At all of it. I hated when he went down on me. There’s something wrong with me.”
Kat snatched my hands and waited until I met her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re young. When you meet a real man, one you trust, it will be very different. I promise.”
I smiled wanly, but I wasn’t convinced. I was twenty-four, plenty of time to have built my sexual resume. If I had to guess, Kat and Jackson were in their mid-thirties. She had ten years of experience and confidence on me.
“I see the doubt,” she said. “Look, if you want, I’ll send you some resources. There are great therapists I can recommend.”
She let go of my hands. “And you can practice on some of my bananas.”
I laughed, which was Kat’s intention, I suspected.
“If Jackson had his way he’d destroy every man that violated a woman.” Kat glanced at him with admiration. “It’s one of the reasons he joined Dreamary when Isaac and Derrick started it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Since the company’s platform is all about breaking down toxic masculinity.”
I knew that was part of the company’s motto, of course. It had played a part in my wanting to work there.
Dreamary had begun with Missing Girls. Derrick and Isaac helped find missing women, focusing mainly on women of color. Every episode included a tip on how women could be more empowered and protect themselves. The final message was always to men. How to respect a woman. How to raise good men. That kind of thing.
Derrick, a seasoned New York City detective, and Isaac, a true crime journalist were vulnerable and affectionate with each other on the show and signed off by saying I love you to each other. It was authentic and sweet and a great example of men who are friends and also open and big-hearted, breaking down the stereotypes.
“It’s a great company,” I said and meant it. “And it’s admirable that you backed the company because of their message,” I added to Jackson.
I stretched. It had been a long night, and Kat’s words were penetrating my subconscious, and I felt slightly better.
“He’s also a great teacher. If you know what I mean.” Kat winked at Jackson who looked like he wanted to slip under the kitchen counter and hide. “You’re not ready for that now, but in the future, when you do find a worthy man, take your time, and don’t be afraid to let yourself be the student.”
I bit my lip and considered this. It would be nice to have someone show me the ropes and build up my sexual aplomb. I wondered if Jackson would want to do something like that. A no-strings-attached kind of thing. Hell, his ex-wife was practically whoring him out.
I flicked my gaze his way—his posture was rigid, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth slightly open. At most he was annoyed. At worst, mortified by Kat’s teasing. Nope. He most definitely was not down to be my teacher.
Not that I wanted one.