It’s mid-September, and the city still stews. At 100 percent humidity, the air is saturated. (Which, I’ve learned, doesn’t necessarily mean rain. Thanks, Dan the Weatherman.) My feet are so sweaty they slip down to the tips of my high heels, crushing my pinkies and reinjuring my right big toe. I’m wearing a tiny dress. The neckline is high, but so is the hem. It has little more fabric than a bathing suit, which should make me feel cooler, but every inch of it clings to my skin.
After seeing Trip and becoming suspicious that he might have another love interest, I did what any woman with a pulse does—I tried to look fabulous. I washed and even blow-dried my hair. I put on foundation. I swiped bronzer between my breasts—a trick to fake cleavage that Caroline once showed me. I doubled my mascara, and while waiting for my nails to dry, I put Crest Whitestrips on both my upper and lower teeth. If I were to run into Trip, I’d blind him with my very fucking happy shiny smile.
As expected, there’s a line for Stripes. I queue up on the red carpet. The people in front of and behind me wear shimmery fabrics: Lurex, spandex, polyester. A muscular bouncer hooks and unhooks a velvet rope, admitting people one at a time. Calm down, everyone. We’re in Charleston, not Miami.
The room is packed with people in their sexual prime—all round tits and square jaws. I scrunch my shoulders together and cut a path to the bar, which is two people deep. I find a space next to a young guy, smile, and nudge my way between him and the bar. He doesn’t smile back but does let me in front of him. I shout my order at the bartender.
“Don’t pay for that.” Kevin’s steel-blue eyes seem more intense in this light. He grabs my hand and drags me over to a cluster of orange couches. “We got bottle service.”
The four girls from the boat crowd around the table. Their dresses don’t cover much more than their bikinis did, but then again, neither does mine. I can almost see up their skirts and make a mental note to keep my legs crossed when sitting.
Taylor turns toward me. She’s the one who urinated on me. Not on purpose, of course, but still. That face, those labia, were imprinted on me forever.
Kevin tugs on my arm, pulls me down to sit next to him, and starts to mix a vodka Sprite. Not my fave, but it will do. The music is loud, so we have to shout to hear each other, though he shouts louder than necessary. “I’m really glad that dog decided to let you go out tonight!”
“Cheers!” We clink glasses.
“Yeah, I was surprised you texted back. I thought you didn’t have fun on the boat. But then I figured you just like to swim.” He picks up a napkin to rub at a water stain on the glass tabletop. “You’re different. You’re not like them.” He gestures to his lady friends. “You’re . . . real. You know?”
That, even from him, is nice to hear. “Thanks,” I say, and genuinely mean it.
“And you’re hot, too. But you don’t flaunt it. And you don’t care what anyone thinks. I like that.”
I instinctively smooth my skimpy dress. Actually, I do care what people think . . . sort of. My eyeliner job took seven Q-tips and ten minutes, and I might lose a pinkie toe at night’s end, but the heels are staying on. Oh, well. I like being thought of as low maintenance.
“Isn’t this place great?!” His tone has a sharp, unfamiliar edge. His energy seems almost manic. He reaches past me to scour another sticky spot on the far side of the table. Maybe he’s a clean freak?
I lean back to create some room between us and take stock of my surroundings. The glitzy chandeliers are fun. They look odd, though, hanging next to the industrial-chic HVAC tubes. Oil portraits of sexy women with pouty, sultry expressions stare down at the crowd. Their silky dresses spill open, revealing ample décolletage. In one, a woman lies on her side next to an overturned martini glass. In another, a brunette with teased hair bites her lip. Martha would call it “bachelor art.” Still, I shouldn’t be so dismissive of the evening. It’s a pleasant novelty, after a long drought, to be around someone happy to see me.
Kevin, now evidently satisfied with the appearance of the table, has started to make me a second drink. “Sprite or cranberry?” He yells so loud I feel I’m at the wrong end of a megaphone.
“Cranberry,” I say back, lowering my voice in the hope that he’ll follow my lead. Shakily, he pours the vodka. This drink is stiffer than the first.
The booze does its work; soon, I feel I’m dissolving into the night. The music loosens my spine. I feel my inhibitions begin to melt, along with my regrets, my second guesses . . .
Kevin stands. “Come on.” He leads us confidently to the dance floor, apparently unconcerned with stepping on toes or knocking drinks in the crowded bar. He snakes an arm around my back and presses me close. I hadn’t planned on anything this intimate with him, in public or in private, but I allow it. Trip wouldn’t touch me, so what the hell.
Swiveling his hips, he bends his head low so that his lips touch my ear. “You’re so fucking hot. Your eyes are like a supermodel’s. I could do you right now.” When he inhales, he makes a hissing sound. Then he grabs my butt. Hard. Ouch. This is what I wanted, right? New experiences. He slaps my butt again, even harder this time. Ouch, but . . . okay?
He leans in to kiss me. I let him. The inside of his mouth is mealy and unctuous, like an overripe banana. I involuntarily pull back. I don’t like it. Maybe I could learn to like it? He leans in again, but I maneuver past and drop my head against his chest. He’s tall, so I end up pressing my ear awkwardly against his stomach. We don’t fit well together like Trip and I did, but I hold tight, because it’s all I have right now.
We join his group for more drinks, then dance again. And again, ’til the music stops. Harsh overhead light flickers on: closing time. “Let’s go,” Kevin says. He walks fast, cuffing my arm tightly. I have to trot to keep up, to keep from falling. We weave through hordes of twentysomethings, steadying themselves as they orient to the world outside the bars. The boys lean against street lanterns, smoking. The girls sink onto the King Street curb, relieved to be off their feet and sitting.
“Where are we going?”
Kevin turns back, his eyes wide. “Your house!” he yells in an almost-militant voice.
“No, Kevin,” I say, struggling to find the right words. So much alcohol, so quickly. “You can’t stay with me.”
“Yeah, but look at this.” He lets me go and swings his arm wide, gesturing to the parking lot. I follow his gaze, unsure of what he means for me to see. “The car, Simons. I can’t drive. I’ve had too much to drink.” He hands me his keys. “Just let me stay with you.”
I hand them back. “You could get an Uber.”
“I got you bottle service. I took you out on my boat. You can’t just let me crash?”
Well, that’s true. Maybe that does warrant a bed for a night. I’m not cruel.
He raises his large hands, his palms facing me. “See? No touching.” He stumbles, regains his balance. “I won’t touch you.”
“Okay, fine.” We walk in hurried silence to my apartment. I choose a zigzag route, vaguely hoping I’ll lose him, but he manages to follow, moving with the singular focus of a zombie.
As we ascend the rickety stairs, I hear Bruno scratching against the door. Taking two steps at a time, I race to intercept Bruno in order to prevent him from scraping off more paint with his sharp claws; Kevin trails close at my heels. “Kevin, this is Bruno.” The dog wriggles wildly in my arms.
“Hello, Bruno.” He nods heavily, as though he has weights in the front and back of his head. Stumbling into my kitchen, he swipes his hand along the wall, locates the switch. The kitchen floods with light. “Roaches!” He stomps on the ground with his polished, glossy shoes. Bam! One roach finds refuge beneath the slanting oven. He finishes off the two dying ones—unable to escape, stuck on their backs—in a series of clomps, leaving my kitchen floor a mess of exoskeleton shrapnel and greasy, yellow innards.
Bam! Bam! The roaches are dead or gone, but he keeps going. “Kevin, stop! Just stop.” If it hasn’t happened already, this idiot is going to wake the neighbors.
I steer him toward the sofa. Fortunately, Kevin seems willing to lie down. “You can sleep here. I need to take Bruno out to pee.” Kevin collapses his long body onto the couch, yawns sleepily. Thank goodness.
I grab the leash and hurry Bruno down the stairs. He pees for what seems like a full two minutes. I give him time to sniff around, in the hope that Kevin will be fast asleep by my return.
When I get back, he’s not on the couch. “Kevin?”
“I’m in your bed!” he shouts through a pillow. “I can’t fit on that couch. I’m too big. I’m a big boy.”
Fuck. Seriously? I find him flat on his stomach, lying as straight as a pencil on the edge of the bed. His face is turned to the wall. There’s still plenty of room for me to get a decent night’s sleep. A night on my stiff sofa would wreck my workday tomorrow, which has already been decimated by a night of heavy drinking.
“Okay, fine, but we are not hooking up. You’re only sleeping here because I don’t want you to drive drunk. You got that?”
Wordlessly, he gives a thumbs-up.
A minute later, he looks to be out cold. I retreat to the bathroom to change my clothes; I wear a big T-shirt and a sports bra and shorts and underwear to bed. I lie on my stomach, as far away from him as possible, my arms tucked under my chest.
* * *
In my dream, I am in the desert, and it’s sweltering. I am surfing on sand. My board bobs unevenly, like a car bumping down a country road. I am thirsty. I want to drink water. I want to be in water. On the horizon, I see a sapphire lake. I glide on my board down the dunes toward the water.
The sand gives way to a caked, lumpy mudflat. On this terrain, the bouncing gets rougher. I spread my feet wider to avoid getting bucked off and having my body scraped against the hard clay. I bounce and bounce and bounce and bounce . . .
And then I wake up.
I am still bouncing. What the hell? My bedsprings squeak rhythmically.
I turn to see Kevin above me, straddling me, on his knees. He is still wearing his shirt, but he’s naked from the waist down. “Yeah . . .” I hear him whisper beneath a slapping noise. He is masturbating, and . . . ouch! He spanks me.
OH. MY. GOD.
When I wanted freedom, I didn’t want some drunk asshole sexually assaulting me. Is this what the single life is like—shiny clothes and genitals? Give me back the white dresses and pearls. Give me brunches and tea sandwiches. Rescue me, Trip. Take me home. Call me Cinnamon.
But he’s not here; I have to save myself. I grab on to the bed frame and, thankful for every push-up I’ve done to be a stronger surfer, use it to wrench my body from underneath him and scamper out of the bed.
“Wait,” he pleads, “I’m close.” Still on his knees, he rubs a slimy, erect penis.
“Get out! Get out right now!” I grab one of my toe-crushing stilettos. I hurl it at him; it pings off his chest.
Kevin, still masturbating, uses his free hand to swat it away. “Just wait . . .”
I throw the other shoe, this time aiming at his dick. He blocks it.
Bruno charges, barking hysterically. Kevin claps his hands to his ears. “Your fucking dog!” He flops onto his back, moonlight illuminating his pornographic silhouette.
“Get out! Get out! If you don’t get out this instant, I am calling the cops.”
Kevin rolls to the far side of the bed and slips on his pants. “What’s wrong with you? Taylor said you were kinky. You’re a fucking little-girl prude.”
Taylor—the pee girl? Is that where he got this whole idea? “Maybe I am,” I say, thankful for the little bit of class still left in me. I run to the hall, get my phone. “I’m dialing.”
“All right,” he says, with his hands lifted again. “Jesus, just give me a minute to put on my shoes.”
“Get out,” I say, pointing at the door. “Now.”
The shithead actually sits down on my bed to put on his shoes, but at least he’s putting them on. I wait for him to get up and leave my apartment. As soon as he’s on the other side of the door, I slam it shut behind him and turn the lock.
“Cunt,” he mumbles from the other side of the door.
I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my breath for quite some time. I slide against the door, onto the floor, finally safe. Bruno circles me and moves closer to lick my face.
I consider calling the police. Should I? Was I really ever hurt? He didn’t rape me, right? I think of Rachel Ronan. She sent Sonny’s texts to our news station, and look what happened. Even though my show ran only the one photo of her and Sonny, images of her life dug up from her personal social media account parade across thousands of television screens: snapshots of her drinking beer, dancing in a scanty outfit. Last I heard, Ms. Ronan resigned from her job, moved back home to Connecticut.
I broke off an engagement. I’ve puked outside an independently owned bike store and flashed boob at a musician after we had sex. I don’t want my indiscretions blasted across the TV sets of the Lowcountry.
“Come on, Bruno.” We huddle together on the couch, where I finally fall asleep.