The Bar was more than just a bar: it was also a café and restaurant, a quirk that charmed Maya more than it probably should have. All the tables were occupied tonight: couples, study groups, serious-looking people typing on their laptops, taking advantage of the last hour of relative quiet before the nighttime rush. There was one stool open at the end of the counter—Maya’s usual spot—but as she headed to take her throne, she felt a pair of warm hands slap over her eyes. Maya jumped. “Shelby?” she asked, laughing as she felt her friend’s familiar shape settle behind her.
“She’s early,” she heard someone—Joe?—attempt to whisper.
“Wrong,” Shelby said to Maya, throwing her voice into a fake, low pitch. “This is your abductor.” She started leading Maya around the bar, hands still firmly over Maya’s eyes.
“Weird,” Maya said as she walked along hesitantly. “My abductor smells like Glossier You.”
“Just be careful,” Shelby responded. “We’re taking the stairs.” She led Maya cautiously down the steps, stopping when they reached the level floor of the basement storage room. Maya could hear some shuffling and smell a familiar dankness—they’d spent a lot of time hiding from The Bar’s owner, Eli, in that room.
Maya shifted her weight on her heels. “Isn’t this the part where you take your hands off?”
“Just another second . . .” Shelby answered over the sounds of more shuffling. “Okay now. Surprise!”
Maya blinked as her eyes adjusted, and looked around to see Shelby, Faison, and Joe, her three favorite bartenders. There were grounded pink balloons littered around the room, Party City streamers hanging from the rafters, and a Morton Williams cake, balanced atop a pallet and punctured by twenty-two blazing candles. There was even a pitcher of something pink. Maya surprised herself with a delighted giggle.
“Happy birthday!” they called.
“Quick, blow out the candles before they melt all over the cake,” Joe ordered, barbecue lighter in hand.
“Oh, God forbid this masterpiece gets ruined,” Maya joked before she bent down to blow out the candles, holding her raw virgin bundles back from the tiny flames.
“Hope you wished for some gratitude,” Shelby said when Maya was finished, lowering herself onto one of the four crates they’d gathered around the makeshift pallet table.
“Yeah, you know, we almost splurged on a real bakery for you,” Joe scolded. Despite his boldly tattooed arms, Joe had a level-headed, dad-like quality, especially with a barbecue lighter in his hand.
“But?”
“But then we didn’t,” Shelby said blithely, sending everyone into snickers.
Maya turned to Faison, who was pouring some of the cocktail into a glass with quiet concentration, his mouth turned into a pronounced pout. She raised her eyebrows at Joe and Shelby: What’s wrong with him? But before they could answer, Faison handed her the glass.
“Happy birthday, Maya,” he said. “I did a pomegranate marg. Cause you like pink and stuff.”
“Thanks Faison. I do like pink.” Maya took a sip and winced. “Jesus, this is strong.”
“That,” Shelby said, digging a spoon into the cake, “is just the taste of Faison’s tears.”
Joe took a sip and nodded. “Oh yeah,” he croaked. “That’s the taste of heartbreak for sure.”
“Ooooh no,” Maya started. For someone who spent at least three nights a week at The Bar, it should not have taken her that long to catch on. Faison, The Bar’s resident flirt, had just embarked on a relationship with his Instagram baddie du jour, who he’d already insisted he could see himself “building” with. Whatever that meant. The conspicuous moping and triple-strength cocktail could only mean one thing—it was over. “Already?”
“What, did you guys take bets?” Faison replied bitterly, his face reflecting a sort of cartoon sadness.
Shelby stuffed a frosted rose into her mouth, hiding the grin that would betray the fact that, yes, they had in fact taken bets (and Maya now had an extra twenty dollars for tonight’s tab). She withheld a laugh. It wasn’t that they liked seeing Faison sad, it was just that heartbreak was the only thing that even dented Faison’s enormous ego. He was one of the first bartenders Maya had met when she first moved in, and he’d tried for weeks to get her number, apparently baffled that she wasn’t interested, and only relenting when he saw Maya making out with her current situationship, Francesca, in the corner of the bar one night. She couldn’t really blame Faison for being cocky: he had the kind of indisputable good looks that meant he never had a shortage of tips or regulars sidling up to the bar to see him. He was tall and gently muscled, with dark curly hair, thick princess lashes, and full lips that, when he wasn’t heartbroken, often sat in a suggestive smile.
As if his God-given jawline weren’t enough, he preened around The Bar in A$AP Rocky cosplay, showing up to weekday shifts in baby-blue cashmere waffle pants or Yeezys, and he always made sure conversations revolved around his favorite topic: himself. If he wasn’t flirting his way into a huge tip, he was probably pitching his T-shirt line, celebritees, to captive patrons. Maya had lost count of how many times she’d walked up to the bar only to find Faison in the midst of scrolling through the celebritees Instagram, explaining why the brand, which was just a bunch of Hanes undershirts with celebrities’ faces airbrushed onto them, was due to redefine personal style any minute now. Today he wore the Solange celebritee, which, Maya knew, meant he was really, truly in his feelings. The same empty-headed earnestness that made him pitch celebritees and fall in love weekly made it impossible to hate him.
“Tell us everything, Faison,” Maya sighed. The sooner they got through Faison’s newest tale of romantic woe, the sooner they could get to more interesting updates, like Shelby’s subletting drama. Just as Faison opened his mouth to speak, scratching at his stubble to indicate deep thought, a loud slam from upstairs shook the storage room.
“No,” Maya said immediately, her voice tense and loud. “No, no, no.”
“Shit,” Faison muttered.
Joe leapt off his crate and up the stairs.
“Don’t say it,” Shelby whined.
“We’re locked in,” Joe confirmed from the top of the stairs. He jiggled the door handle as evidence.
“Are you sure? Shelby definitely left it open!” Maya clopped up the stairs in her birthday heels, then reached around Joe to jiggle the door handle violently. It didn’t budge, and Maya groaned. The only person not trapped in the basement was Eli, and he’d probably welcome their absence. Of course she’d have to spend her birthday evening stuck in The Bar’s storage closet for God-knows-how-long with absolutely zero cell service. She loved the staff of The Bar, but she hadn’t exactly put on vintage Moschino and a pack of eyelashes to not be seen.
“Okay calm, everyone, calm,” Joe said. “Eli has to notice we’re gone at some point . . . right?”
* * *
It didn’t take long for Delali to regret her decision to get drinks with her study group. As soon as Tanner began recounting an apartment-hunting trip to Bed-Stuy, sounding not unlike a modern-day Charles Marlow, it became clear that she’d made a terrible mistake. She took a sip of her second whiskey sour—Tanner had ordered another round as soon as she’d put down her empty glass—and let her gaze drift away from the table as Scott-maybe-Steve launched into a lecture on how a deep dive into Young Thug’s discography revealed he was prophesying the end times.
Delali’s eyes landed on one of The Bar’s televisions. Most of the TVs were broadcasting various sports games, but this one was flipped to the E! red-carpet coverage of the Cha Cha Cha UK premiere. Delali had gotten pretty good at avoiding Hollywood news over the past three years, but the one thing she hadn’t been able to dodge was Cha Cha Cha, a movie that had gotten such effusive praise from its initial screenings that mentions of the film pierced even the most effective internet filters.
All across the city, the sides of buses announced that the movie was “expansive and ebullient.” Subway ads declared it “captivating” and “a brave exploration of what it means to live, love, and land on your feet.” When praise for Cha Cha Cha had first started rolling out, Delali had thought it was a fluke—how could the bland, uninspired script she’d read and dismissed her sophomore year really be “the must-see film of the year; an emotional feast that allows us all to savor and delight in the feeling of falling in love” (Rupert Harper, New York Times)? But as Cha Cha Cha broke box-office record after box-office record, Delali had to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth she’d often tried to ignore while she was living in LA: everyone there had the same awful taste, something she should’ve kept in mind when passing up the role of Ella, an aspiring Broadway actress who gets discovered while waitressing at a vegan restaurant in DTLA and falls in love with a scrappy college dropout who dazzles her with his passion for miming and silent improv. It was the only script she’d read since leaving Hollywood—at Lionel’s behest—and at the time, it was the confirmation she’d needed to stay away. Since then, she’d asked Lionel to stop sending her scripts, and he’d more or less respected it. Except for one script, which he’d mailed despite her protests. She’d taken some notes on it during class before tossing it in the garbage at the end of the semester. Delali signaled the waiter for another drink.
A bubbly redhead was interviewing Celeste Porter, the star of Daisy and the Dukes, the Thursday-night sitcom that had been Georgia’s biggest competition. She’d ended up playing Ella once Delali turned down the role. The press always tried to set Delali and Celeste up as competitors in a neck-and-neck race, but Delali had always suspected things might turn out this way. Celeste would do anything to be famous—an LA virtue Delali totally lacked—and it seemed to be working out for her. Delali watched the muted scene play out. Celeste flashed the interviewer a bright smile and twirled, sending her skirt swirling around her. Delali had to admit she looked good. In fact, she looked a lot like Delali used to, back when she was regularly attending red carpets. Who was styling her these days?
Delali shook her head, looked away from the TV, and started to plan her escape. She was so over this night. Even the prospect of seeing Darren seemed dull when she really thought about it. She was Delali Tamakloe for God’s sake, and if she hadn’t been so committed to keeping herself closed off from Hollywood these past few years, she could be late-night texting literally anyone she wanted right now: a model, a senator, a trust-fund movie producer with a thought-provoking Instagram layout—any of those options sounded better than her life right now.
Delali was trying to think of a way to slip out when Tanner nudged her with his shoulder, apparently a last resort after failing to get her attention with a series of aggressive waves.
“Hey, do you think it would work if I sent her a drink?” he asked, jerking his head toward The Bar’s entrance. Delali followed his gaze, her eyes landing on a girl standing by the door and sliding a crochet shrug off her shoulders to reveal a retro Abercrombie camisole with lace straps. The girl looked skittishly around the room before settling onto the empty stool closest to the door.
“Please,” Delali said. She took another sip of her drink before giving Tanner a dubious look. “That girl definitely has a boyfriend.”
“How do you know?” Tanner leaned so close to Delali that his chin was almost touching her shoulder, as though sitting in her seat would help him see what she did.
“I don’t know,” Delali said. “You just know. Date-night pumps? No earrings? Four-day-old twist-out she’s trying to stretch by putting her hair in a bun?” It was exactly how the costume designers on Georgia had styled her in episode 5x07, where Georgia, newly dating the boy next door, agrees to get dinner with her book report partner without realizing he thinks it’s a date. “She definitely has a boyfriend.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. Tanner frowned, squinting. “I’m gonna take my chances.”
Tanner waved over what appeared to be the only bartender in the whole establishment and asked him to send the girl an espresso martini. Delali watched as, minutes later, the bartender set the drink in front of the girl and nodded at their table. The girl shot Tanner an awkward smile.
“I’m going over there,” Tanner said to no one.
Delali opened her mouth to respond, but Scott-maybe-Steve cut her off. “do it!” he yelled. Their waiter came back to the table and slid a tray of tequila shots right in front of Delali.
She rolled her eyes and took her shot. She could stay just long enough to watch Tanner strike out, then sneak out and never see these people outside of class again.
As Tanner lumbered over to the girl, Scott/Steve slid into the now empty seat next to Delali. “A douche,” he said, looking over at Tanner. “But a loveable one.”
“Loveable?” Delali sputtered. She flipped a coin in her head. “Steve, you’ve clearly had enough.” She went to nudge his drink away, but accidentally knocked it over, spilling all over the front of her jeans.
“Shit,” Delali said, reaching for a napkin to blot. Steve did the same, and she shooed him away. “It’s fine. I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” As soon as she stood, her legs wobbled, and she realized she was drunk drunk. She grabbed her backpack and made her way to the bathroom.
* * *
Gabbie sat at a stool near the front door of The Bar, trying to look everywhere other than at the guy who was maybe, definitely approaching her. She surprised herself by wanting immediately to flee—that’s how long it had been since she’d flirted with a guy. But she stayed where she was. In line with her effort to get out of her comfort zone, she decided she would accept a couple of compliments, politely inform the guy that she had a boyfriend, and then let him excuse himself.
She averted her eyes as he neared, her chest thudding. In the five or so seconds it took him to walk to the bar, a million thoughts ran through Gabbie’s mind: first regret for even going out, then guilt. Dan was probably teaching some malnourished child how to read or write or pronounce American vowels right now, and here she was, letting herself be courted by a banker type in a noisy bar, wearing a trashy skirt she wasn’t even sure belonged to her.
“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Tanner.” He smiled, and Gabbie immediately felt her entire body tighten.
“Um, hi,” Gabbie responded. She turned her face to her drink so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact.
“And?”
Gabbie looked at Tanner, confused.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Oh.” She laughed uneasily, feeling vaguely threatened by his one oblong dimple. “I’m, um, Gabbie,” she said, hesitating as though she’d forgotten her own name.
“Nice to meet you, Gabbie.” She could feel his hairy knee against her shaven, exfoliated one, and wanted to recoil, but she hated hurting people’s feelings, no matter the circumstances. So she sat still in her chair, trying not to make her distaste too obvious.
“I just wanted to come over and say hey. You looked pretty bored sitting here all alone.” Tanner flashed his malicious dimple again and leaned in close to her.
Gabbie couldn’t respond. Not that she really wanted to.
“Just thought I’d keep you company,” Tanner continued.
Gabbie shrugged and let out another awkward laugh. “I’m sorry,” Gabbie said. Apology was a reflex of hers. “I have a boyfriend.” Tanner raised an eyebrow and Gabbie rushed to fill the silence. “This drink is really delicious, though!” She pulled a massive swig as proof.
“Oh, come on,” Tanner said, “I saw you looking at me.” He parted his little lips into something that may have looked seductive on a different kind of guy, with a different set of lips. “No girl dresses like that if she wants to go home alone.”
Gabbie froze, her mouth glued to the rim of the glass.
“Maybe you just need to warm up.” Tanner placed his hand on Gabbie’s knee and leaned in to force eye contact. Gabbie jumped, her entire body tingling, in flight mode.
“I—uhh—I have to go to the bathroom,” she lied. She grabbed her purse and shrug off the counter and hurried toward the back of the bar.
* * *
Eli did not, in fact, realize that Maya, Shelby, Joe, and Faison were absent. It wasn’t until 11:32, when a bartender named Marcus started his shift and headed downstairs to grab a case of Jack, that they were finally found and let out. Maya inhaled dramatically when they walked through the door, as if she’d been trapped in a cave for weeks. Joe gave one of his “bewildered dad” headshakes and laughed.
“What?” Maya said defensively. “That windowless air was starting to make me gag.” Just then, Maya’s service kicked in, and her phone lit up with missed calls and messages. She groaned.
“How bad is it?” Shelby asked.
“I completely missed dinner, and the girls are already on their way to SNEAK!” She started to head to the bathroom; she needed a quick touch-up before leaving. “And I’m already white-girl wasted off Faison’s margs—no offense, Shelb.”
“None taken,” Shelby confirmed.
Maya walked across the bar before she could hear Shelby’s response. She was surprised by how badly she wobbled in her sandals—this was usually how she felt at the end of the night, not the beginning. She looked at her phone again and opened her messages app. Too scared to call Denise and encounter her panic, Maya quickly shot her a text:
Maya
Maya pushed the door marked W. This would only take a second, and if she took a taxi, she’d be at the club in no time.
Inside, Maya leaned close to the mirror, grunting in disgust when her nose accidentally hit the cool glass. She was tempted to wipe off the oily brown foundation smear it left behind, but she figured that was someone else’s job. Maya looked at her reflection, watching with satisfaction as her swimming features snapped into focus, coming together in the perfect harmony that was her face. Maya sometimes surprised herself with how good she looked, even drunk in a bar bathroom with her lipstick melting. Her skin was still perfectly matte and pore-less, courtesy of her new setting spray, and the wings of her eyeliner were sharp and damn near identical.
“A vision,” she murmured to herself in the empty bathroom. She began to reapply her lip liner, pausing when a girl stumbled into the bathroom, glassy-eyed and murmuring to herself as she swept her box braids over one shoulder. She wore a blue, Nike-branded cardigan over a white tube top and black jeans, and her face was flawlessly—though subtly—made-up. Kind of a look, Maya thought to herself. She slid her eyes back to her own reflection as the girl ducked into a stall.
As Delali closed the bathroom door, she noted that she had accidentally planned herself the saddest birthday she’d ever had. She pulled down her pants with a sigh and hovered.
A cool sense of safety washed over Gabbie as she entered the bathroom and let out a big yoga breath. She was fanning herself furiously when she noticed a girl at the last sink in the row, packing up a glittery hot-pink makeup bag.
She’s super pretty, Gabbie thought as Maya zipped the bag closed and clacked into a stall. Gabbie crossed her legs tightly while she waited for the other stall to empty, realizing how badly she actually had to pee. When Delali finally walked out she almost bumped into Gabbie, who was practically pressed against the stall door.
“Hey.” Delali took a step back to assess Gabbie before letting out a surprised laugh. “I know you,” she blurted drunkenly. “You’re Tanner’s girl. The one at the bar.”
“What?” Gabbie responded, repulsed. “I have a boyfriend.” I’m Dan’s girl, she thought.
“Called it,” Delali said smugly, sidestepping Gabbie to get to the sink. She dried her hands on a paper towel and used it to wipe a big brown smudge off the mirror.
“What does—” that mean, Gabbie was going to say, but Maya, locked inside a stall, interrupted her.
“Does anyone have a tampon?” she called. It was just like her period to start on her birthday.
“I don’t!” Gabbie answered brightly, turning to enter the second stall.
“I’ve got one,” Delali said, digging into the front pocket of her backpack. She stepped toward the stall and crouched to hand it off beneath the reclaimed-wood door.
“Thanks so much.” Maya reached out, three silver chain bracelets sliding down her forearm before landing at her wrist. “Oh my god,” Maya said as her hand closed around the tampon. “Gorgeous nails. What color is that, Simply Mauvelous?”
“Grape Expectations,” Delali replied.
Nice, Maya thought to herself as she fumbled to open the wrapper. She flushed, pulled her dress back down, and stepped out into the bathroom. “Thanks again,” Maya said to Delali, heading over to the sink.
Gabbie flushed and exited the stall. “I just have to say,” she hiccuped in Maya’s direction, “you’re like, so pretty.” She started washing her hands at the third sink. “Isn’t she so pretty?” Gabbie turned to Delali for confirmation, swaying despite the sturdiness of her pumps.
“Mm-hmm,” Delali said distractedly, examining her eyebrows in the mirror. She was thinking about making an appointment with Louise for next Tuesday when her eyes belatedly caught the sparkle of Maya’s plastic rhinestone tiara in the mirror.
Delali gestured to the crown and smiled. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was, like, thirteen.” Back when she spent most of her birthdays on set filming for Georgia, she and her costars would always gift each other huge plastic tiaras from Claire’s before decorating each other’s trailer doors to make up for the fact that they didn’t have lockers like most kids her age. “Wait,” Delali said, her voice rising as she made the realization. “Is today your birthday?”
“Yeah,” Maya said, throwing some of her hair behind her shoulder. “It is.” She lifted her chin and readjusted her tiara, feeling somewhat slighted by the “thirteen” comment. She and her sorors had bought each other birthday tiaras all throughout college. They were cute.
“No way!” Gabbie exclaimed, letting her pot of homemade beeswax lip balm clatter into the sink. Maya and Delali both turned to look at her. “It’s my birthday, too!”
“Same . . .” Delali said. She took a step backward. “I’m turning twenty-two.”
“Me, too,” Maya and Gabbie said in unison.
“Whoa,” Delali said.
“Cray-cray,” said Gabbie.
“Oh my god,” Maya said. An amazing, drunk thought dashed through her head. “My friends and I have a table at SNEAK tonight, for my birthday, you guys should come with!”
“No way!” Gabbie said. “That is so cool!”
“It’s the best place on Fridays in the fall,” Maya said, pulling her phone out. “Have you been?”
Delali suppressed an eyeroll. Who hadn’t been to SNEAK? Of course, she hadn’t been in years. As far as she knew it was actually pretty dead these days, and she felt tempted to say so—Maya looked far too pleased with herself.
“I haven’t,” said Gabbie. “I’ve totally heard of it, though. $ummer $tacks always posts TikToks from the Jell-O shot jacuzzi,” she added, referring to her favorite influencer.
“I love the JSJ,” Maya said. “But I don’t think tonight’s that kind of night. This is a fresh install,” she added, patting her head.
Delali looked at Gabbie and Maya skeptically. Gabbie looked like she had more than one Team Edward hoodie in her closet, and Maya was kind of . . . extra, to say the absolute least. But then she thought of her other options: heading back to the table where Tanner (shudder) and the others waited for her, texting Darren, or going home to her empty (though newly renovated and perfectly appointed) apartment. She quickly decided that this, going out with two total strangers who happened to share her birthday, was the best option by a long shot. Besides, all the talk about SNEAK had made her nostalgic for her teen years.
“I’m game,” she said.
Gabbie nodded. “Are you sure you want to leave your friends?” she asked, turning to Delali. Delali blinked at her, confused. “Those guys you were sitting with,” Gabbie clarified.
“Oh my god,” Delali said with a laugh. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Great,” Maya said. She turned her attention to her phone. “Lemme just . . . give my friends a heads-up . . .” Her pace slowed as she typed, her glittery gels tapping against her iPhone screen, the rhinestone on her pinky nail catching the weak bathroom light. With autocorrect attempting to rearrange her drunken misspellings, it took a while, but she finally got her message out:
Maya
Gabbie felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine, and she let out a squeal without thinking, which sometimes happened when she’d had too many glasses of white wine. “OMG,” she said loudly. “I’m Gabbie! Can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”
“Maya,” Maya replied, still typing.
“Dee.”
“I’m so excited!” Gabbie exclaimed.
“Ready?” Maya asked. She ran her fingers through her hair one last time.
Delali patted her pockets, making sure she had her phone and wallet. Gabbie played with her bracelet, committing every last detail to memory. Dan was not going to believe this story.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Delali said, and pushed the bathroom door open, holding it for the other girls. Maya rushed out, leaned over the bar to say bye to Shelby and the others, and headed to the door. Gabbie bypassed the bar completely, then, remembering Tanner, looked covertly over her shoulder to see if he was still waiting around. He looked up from his phone at Gabbie, ready to unleash his dimple again, and she whipped her head around and scuttled outside. Delali gave her study group a giddy half wave over her shoulder. As the girls headed outside, their overlapping voices rose to that special pitch only a group of drunk girls could reach.
The girls huddled around Maya as she pulled her phone out of her purse and opened the Uber app. With a few taps, a car was called and, within minutes, a message on the screen announced it had arrived. But when the girls looked around they saw only empty streets. Maya answered her phone with an irritated snap.
“Hello?”
“Hell . . . Maya? Victori . . . ?” The driver, who Uber informed them was named Jean, sounded as if he were underground or in the middle of a remote rainforest.
“Where are you?” The girls glanced around the four corners of the intersection—empty. “I don’t see you anywhere.” Maya walked in annoyed, disjointed circles, stepping out onto the street and then onto the sidewalk again.
Delali sucked her teeth. “He’s probably not even close.”
“Hello?” Maya asked again. “Jean?”
Finally, a black car slipped from Delancey onto Essex. Maya ended the call in a fit of annoyance and stepped one sparkly, sandaled foot into the street, shoving her phone toward her bag. But she missed the opening completely, and instead of landing safely in its designated pocket, the phone soared directly toward a rusted metal drain. The girls all stopped short and gasped, reaching their arms out in a useless reflex, the phone too far out of their reach to be caught. But just as it was about to crash onto the sidewalk, a noiseless spool of light—gold, brilliant, vibrating—appeared from the girls’ hands and surrounded the phone, suspending it in the air. It floated there for a moment, a moment during which the girls felt bound to the sidewalk, their bodies completely out of their control. But they were paralyzed for only a second. Then, suddenly, the phone was back in Maya’s hand. The light disappeared faster than it had appeared, the only evidence of its existence a quickly waning afterimage against the black of the city street. There was a beat of silence, filled only by the quiet whistle of autumn air. Then the girls walked silently, on stunned legs, to the car. In the driver’s seat, Jean sat with his face turned intently to his phone, swiping lazily through Tinder.