So Thirsty E-Book

Rachel Harrison

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 396

Beschreibung

A woman must learn to take life by the throat after a night out leads to irrevocable changes in this juicy, thrilling novel from the USA Today-bestselling author of Such Sharp Teeth and Black Sheep. Sloane Parker is dreading her birthday. She doesn't need a reminder she's getting older, or that she's feeling indifferent about her own life. Her husband surprises her with a birthday-weekend getaway—not with him, but with Sloane's longtime best friend, troublemaker extraordinaire Naomi. Sloane anticipates a weekend of wine tastings and cozy robes and strategic avoidance of issues she'd rather not confront, like her husband's repeated infidelity. But when they arrive at their rental cottage, it becomes clear Naomi has something else in mind. She wants Sloane to stop letting things happen to her, for Sloane to really live. So Naomi orchestrates a wild night out with a group of mysterious strangers, only for it to take a horrifying turn that changes Sloane's and Naomi's lives literally forever. The friends are forced to come to terms with some pretty eternal consequences in this bloody, seductive novel about how it's never too late to find satisfaction, even though it might taste different than expected.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PRAISE FOR SO THIRSTY

“Dysfunctionally adorable (and terrifying) vampire hijinks meets the complexities of female friendship and aging? Yes, please. So Thirsty takes mid-thirties ennui and adds teeth, charm, and a beating heart (of borrowed blood). Another winner from Harrison!”—KIERSTEN WHITE,#1 New York Times-bestselling author of Lucy Undying: A Dracula Novel

“So Thirsty is the gory, sharp, and darkly comedic vampire novel of my wildest nightmares. I devoured it.”—ALEXIS HENDERSONauthor of An Academy for Liars

“As beautiful as it is horrific, So Thirsty is a potent ode to love in its many forms. Rachel Harrison weaves a dark and gruesome tale of true friendship’s ability to transcend both death and undeath.”—CHUCK TINGLE,USA Today-bestselling author of Camp Damascus

“An outrageous romp, a sexy, scary, wacko heart-racer, and an ode to epic, once-in-a-lifetime, die-for-you friendship. I loved every character in this as much as if they were my own chosen family. The undead have never made us feel so alive! This is Rachel Harrison at her finest.”—CJ LEEDE,author of Maeve Fly

“Rachel Harrison is one of the sharpest, most engaging voices in horror, and So Thirsty is her most captivating yet. Injecting fresh blood into the vampire genre, this one has it all—fun, fury, and a friendship that’ll make your heart bleed. You’ll drink it down in one big, gleeful gulp.”—JOSH WINNING,author of Heads Will Roll

“So Thirsty is quirky, empowering, and scary as hell, and a unique spin on the idea that to start living, sometimes you just gotta take a bite out of life itself. Wild and unforgettable!”—JENNA LEVINE,USA Today-bestselling author of My Roommate is a Vampire

“What a delight! Harrison pulls you into this car, insists we’re in it for a good time, forever, and tears off on one fun, bloody ride. So Thirsty conjures up those chaotic in-it-to-the-end friendships you’d set your life on fire for, and you’re happy to watch it burn so long as you’re together.”—HAILEY PIPER,Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of All the Hearts You Eat

“You’ve never read a vampire novel like this. So Thirsty is wonderfully funny and tender and there are lines that knocked me flat out. There’s a reason Harrison’s work is becoming part of the new horror canon: she’s a knockout talent.”—ERIKA T. WURTH,author of White Horse

“Harrison turns the vampire genre upside down, bleeds it dry, and breathes new life into it. So Thirsty is an unforgettable, blood-soaked tale about aging, found family, and the most gruesome girl’s trip of all time.”—LIZ KERIN,author of the Night’s Edge duology

“An exhilarating journey, Rachel Harrison tells an unsettling yet heartwarming tale about the love between friends and what it means to be a woman who dares to act on her impulses. So Thirsty is one of the most inspirational books about bloodthirsty vampires you’ll ever read!”—CARISSA ORLANDO,author of The September House

“Scathing, unapologetic, and stunningly rendered.”—OLESYA SALNIKOVA GILMORE,author of The Haunting of Moscow House

“With a realistic protagonist who faces choices that are sometimes scarier than monsters, this book will have readers sinking their teeth in.”—LIBRARY JOURNAL(starred review)

“The addictive latest from Harrison is by turns gory, rage-inducing, eerie, melancholy, and hopeful . . . a smart, scary, and occasionally sexy page-turner.”—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

Also by Rachel Harrisonand available from Titan Books

Cackle

Such Sharp Teeth

Bad Dolls

Black Sheep

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So Thirsty

Print edition ISBN: 9781835410981

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410998

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: September 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Rachel Harrison 2024.

Published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

Rachel Harrison asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For my friends. Forever wouldn’t be long enough.

1

Sunlight severs me from sleep. I grasp at a fading dream, catch its last breath, quiet and wispy as a cobweb. It feels tragic, but I already forget what the dream was about. Something good. Was I at the mall again? I’m always dreaming about this mall. It’s the same mall, except a little different every time. The stores change, the layout. The fountain to throw loose change into while wishing to strike it rich.

I’ll have to tell Naomi. She also has a dream mall. It’s a cornerstone of our friendship.

Someday we’ll meet in the dream mall, she’ll say.

How do you know it’s the same mall? I’ll ask.

It’s obviously the same mall.

I take her word for it. She speaks with such certainty, it’s impossible not to.

Sometimes when I bring up the dream mall, she’ll go on a rant about capitalism infiltrating our subconscious. Sometimes she’ll try to interpret, say the dream is about choices, about decision paralysis, or insecurity, or identity; then she’ll eulogize her beloved dream dictionary, which she accidentally left on a train when she was a teenager. It was a gift from her favorite aunt, who bought it from a clairvoyant in Prague—irreplaceable.

I’ve never asked her why we’ve yet to find each other there, at the dream mall, what that could mean. I’m sure she’d have an answer. Naomi has an answer for everything.

I yawn, shut my eyes tight. I call the dream back to me, make a silent plea with sleep, but they’re both gone, so I might as well get up.

My morning routine looms. As I lie under the covers, the simple task of brushing my teeth feels monumental. Then everything that comes next. Applying moisturizer, vitamin C serum, SPF, foundation, blush, mascara. All this effort just to look half-decent. To look alive.

And then making coffee, and logging in to work, and checking email. Slathering peanut butter on a slice of almost-stale bread that I’m too lazy to toast. Smiling at Joel when he offers a cheery Good morning.

He snores beside me now, impervious to the morning light, its brightness amplified by a fresh dusting of ultra-white snow. Joel could take a nap in an Apple Store, on the surface of the sun. Doesn’t bother him. He always forgets to close the blinds at night. So do I, but it’s too early for accountability. At seven thirty a.m., there’s only blame.

I roll onto my back, tongue the drool crust at the corners of my mouth. A face materializes, just for a second. There was a man in my dream. His image has already escaped me. Not someone I know, I don’t think. A stranger, maybe? Or a figment of my imagination.

What would have happened between us had the sun not interrupted?

Joel grunts, twitches, then resumes snoring. Sometimes I feel guilty for dream cheating, even though I know I shouldn’t, considering. . . . But, turns out, seven thirty a.m. is too early to contemplate the complexities of monogamy and the enduring hurt of infidelity.

I get a leg free of the covers, put a cold bare foot on the carpet. I lost a sock in the night. Like the dream, it’s now gone forever. I don’t know where all my missing socks go, but wherever they are, I hope they’re happy.

I thrust myself to standing and stumble into the bathroom, shivering, my knees stiff. I avoid the mirror as best I can. Lately, my reflection has been the bearer of bad news. You’re tired, it tells me. You’re sad. You’re getting older. Last week, I spent over an hour examining a line on my forehead that I could have sworn appeared overnight. The line shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

It really bothers me.

It instigates these spells of debilitating angst that punctuate a bland, general malaise. Upon the arrival of my new forehead wrinkle, I Googled “existential crisis” directly after I Googled “Botox.” I’m aware that my imminent birthday is exacerbating this angst.

But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. There’s no cure for getting older, no solution for the harsh seep of time, save for maybe an attitude adjustment, a positive outlook, which I’m incapable of. Best I can do is acquiesce.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I’d talk to Naomi about it, but she couldn’t relate. Her life is a wild, glamorous adventure.

I squirt out some toothpaste, brush my teeth with my back to the mirror, turning to the sink only to spit.

*   *   *

“So, I know you hate surprises,” Joel says, scooping some coffee grounds into a refillable pod. He pops it into the Keurig and turns to me, rubbing his stubble like he always does when he’s nervous.

“I hope that’s the end of your sentence,” I say, and lick a knife clean of peanut butter, then stuff it into the dishwasher, which is somehow already full. “I emptied this last night. I know I did. Do we have a ghost?”

“A ghost that uses all our dishes while we sleep?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A midnight snacker. A hungry ghost.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sloane.”

“I’m haunted by chores! Also—sorry—there’s no more milk.”

“Really? I thought we got more. . . .” He opens the fridge, because he can never just believe me. He rummages around, validates the absence of dairy.

“Ghost must have gotten to it,” I say, imagining an ethereal floating milk mustache. “You should try it black.”

“I’m not cool like you.”

I grind my own beans, prefer a French press. Maybe because I’m a snob, or maybe because, freshman year of college, I lost my virginity to a random guy at a party and in the morning, in his grimy off-campus apartment, he put on a Jimmy Campbell record and made me coffee with a French press, and I felt special for five seconds. Felt cool. Like an adult. Like I wasn’t a girl anymore. I left that morning thinking, This is the kind of woman I am. The kind who takes a lover. The kind who drinks strong French press coffee. I never saw the guy again, but leave it to teen me to let a complete stranger spoil me to the ordinary, to allow myself to be ruined for what’s simple and easy in favor of some romantic notion of who I imagined I would be.

I’ve abandoned enough of that idealized self. The French press is my last holdout.

Though it is kind of a pain to wash.

“Guess I’m going out,” Joel says, sighing. “Do we need anything else?”

I shrug. “Not that I can think of.”

“Oh,” he says, tossing up his keys and catching them in the opposite hand. “Birthday surprise. You want to hear it?”

“Okay,” I say, battling a sudden bout of stress-induced nausea.

“This Thursday through Sunday, I booked you a cottage at the Waterfront in Auburn. For you and Naomi.”

“Naomi?”

“My coconspirator.”

I screw and unscrew the lid of the peanut butter jar, fidgeting until I figure out how I feel.

“This is the exact reaction I was hoping for,” Joel says. He’s joking, but I can sense the frustration lurking under the surface. I can see its dorsal fin.

“I’m . . .” I start. “That place is so expensive.”

“It’s a big birthday,” he says, and my existential angst returns, batting around my chest. Is it a big birthday? Is thirty-six big? “Plus, it’s off-season.”

“Naomi’s coming?”

“Yep,” he says. “Girls’ weekend.”

“But she’s in Europe,” I say, my voice at a mortified pitch. “I think.”

“Not this Thursday through Sunday. I’ve been planning this for a while. You don’t need to worry about anything,” he says, which, of course, makes me worry. “All right. I have to go get the milk; my first meeting is in twenty.”

“Okay. Thank you, Joel. Thank you.”

He nods and slips out through the door to the garage.

I walk over to the front window to watch his car pull out of the driveway, tires interrupting the perfect powdering of snow. I’m still holding the peanut butter, and I’m struck by this riotous impulse to chuck it at the wall. Instead, I return it to its rightful spot in the pantry. Then I roam around the house clenching and unclenching my fists, compulsively sighing.

I’d call Naomi, but I know she wouldn’t pick up. And what would I say?

I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you!

Or, Why didn’t you tell me? You know I hate surprises. I don’t feel like celebrating my birthday. I’d rather just ignore it. If you ever bothered to ask me how I was doing, you’d know that.

Or, Do you think this is a generous gift from a guiltless husband, or do you think it’s suspect?

I park myself in front of my laptop and attempt to get some work done.

Joel comes back with the milk, which he leaves out on the counter, either absentmindedly or with the expectation that I will put it away. At around five o’clock, I log out and go down to the basement to pedal the stationary bike for half an hour while staring off into space. Then I come upstairs and put a pot of water on the stove to make pasta for dinner. I step into my knockoff UGGs and take the kitchen recycling out to the bin at the side of the house. The bin is already full, overflowing, and a cherry seltzer can falls onto the icy pavement. I reach to pick it up and notice something small and furry and still in the dark, wedged in the narrow space between the bin and the house.

It’s a mouse. And it’s dead.

If the mouse were alive, I’d be screaming, flailing. I’d wish it were dead. But because it is dead, I wish it were alive.

I don’t want to just leave it there, let its corpse freeze to the driveway, so I get a garbage bag and a pair of plastic gloves from the garage and pick it up, wrap it in the bag, toss it in the trash.

Someday me, too, I think, carefully removing the gloves and throwing them on top. Someday I’ll be dead in a bin and none of this will matter.

This sudden grimness provides a nebulous sense of relief, like tonguing a sore in the mouth.

I let the lid slam down and wheel the trash and recycling to the curb, go inside, wash my hands vigorously. Then I get my suitcase out of the closet.

I consider that maybe I do need this weekend away. More important, maybe I want it.

2

Your luxury experience awaits at the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. An oasis nestled in the heart of—”

“Are we really doing this?”

“Nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes. The—”

“Naomi.”

“The picturesque American village that we call home has been at once restored and transformed, the perfect location for the ultimate escape.”

“You done?”

I hear a big, deep inhale through the receiver, and I understand that, no, she is not done. “From our modern yet cozy cottages, to our lavish spa, to our fine-dining restaurants, discover a vacation experience like no other. Welcome . . . to the Waterfront.”

“Should I applaud?”

“Well, yeah. That would be nice,” Naomi says, breathless from her dramatic reading of the hotel website. Not hotel. Collective. Vacation experience. Ultimate escape. “This place is posh as fuck. Are they even going to let us in? We don’t play tennis. I’ve never eaten a scallop. What even is a scallop?”

She knows what a scallop is, but she likes to pretend her parents don’t have money. I play along with the charade. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

“Never taken a picture with an American flag draped over my shoulders at the beach at sunset. I don’t wear white. I’ve been arrested, you know.”

“I know. I was there.”

“The first time. Not the second.”

“A shame to have missed it.”

She shrugs. I know her so well, I can sense it. We’re on different continents, but we might as well be in the same room. I can picture her in front of me. How she’s sitting. Her legs tucked to one side, her feet pointed. Wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a crazy lace bra. Some combination of Hanes and La Perla she can somehow make work. If I didn’t love her so much, she’d be insufferable.

“Ooh, you can get married here. This venue is insane. A sprawling estate with exceptional lake views, originally built as the summer residence for some crusty old chin beard . . .” She trails off.

“Do you want to get married?”

“Fuck no,” she says. “Damn. I’ll need to pack extra sweaters to tie around my neck. WASP cape.”

“Do you not want to come?”

“Of course I want to come. I’m coming. Flight is booked out of Munich.”

“You’re talking like the Finger Lakes are fancy, Miss Flight-out-of-Munich. You’ve been traveling around Europe for the last, what? Three, four months?”

“And I’m coming back to the States with a vague accent to prove it.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

“It’s not as bougie as it sounds. It’s work. Most days I’m wrangling at least one hungover man-child, or getting groupies to sign NDAs, or chasing Rolling Stone, or spending a tragic amount of time on the band’s Instagram. Some days I’m a glorified roadie. Plus, the showers over here have no water pressure. And the toilets are weird.”

She’s not being dishonest, but she is downplaying her journeys for my benefit, so I won’t be so jealous. I’m both grateful and a little insulted. “Still . . .”

“Sure. Still . . .” she says. “But fuck it. I get to see you!”

“I hope this goes without saying, but you don’t need to fly back from Europe for a weekend.”

“Your birthday weekend,” she says, and I flinch so hard, I almost fumble my phone. “And the timing worked out. European leg is done. Lee and the band fly home right after me. You and I will get up to some trouble, some birthday debauchery—you know, classic high jinks . . .”

“Right, right.”

“Then I get to go back to being a PR bot slash rock star’s girlfriend.” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “You know, their last show is Friday, they fly back Saturday, and he’s got everyone back in the studio next week. And not where we live, in New York fucking City, no. In Pittsburgh. His new hometown dream studio that he had to open, in Pittsburgh. So now I have to haul my ass there to document the creative process. I think he’s afraid of losing momentum. He’s relentless.”

“You fell in love with the ambition of an ambitious man.”

“And you failed to talk me out of it. This is on you,” she says. “Anyway, I should probably go. Start to pack. Lee’s out with the guys, and it’s easier to get shit done with him out of my hair. Mr. Ambition is salty about having to survive a few days without me.”

“He just can’t bear to be parted from you,” I say, swoony like an animated princess.

She snorts. “All right. Later, angel. Meet you in paradise.”

“I’ll see you there.”

I set my phone screen down on my desk. It’s eleven seventeen a.m., and I’m supposed to be in a meeting. I saw Naomi calling and wondered if she was canceling. I don’t know why I always assume the worst.

It’s typical Naomi to call at inconvenient times. When I’m supposed to be in a meeting. When I’m doing my weekly Saturday cleaning, rubber gloves on, bleach in hand. When I’m asleep at three a.m. She doesn’t understand time zones, or home maintenance, or nine-to-fives, but she’s so authentically freewheeling and oblivious that it’s impossible to be mad at her for it. It’s her finest magic trick, transforming her most frustrating qualities into part of her charm.

I take a deep breath and a sip of my now-tepid coffee, dial into this meeting late, prepared to apologize for my tardiness, but no one seems to notice my arrival, or that I hadn’t been there in the first place.

*   *   *

It’s one of those miserable January days so frigid it’s difficult to breathe. The wind is ruthless, stinging any exposed skin. I feel the baby hairs on my neck and at my temples go frosty. I reach to pull my hat down, and my fingers suffer. All feeling in my extremities fades. The cold infiltrates my brain, and I imagine my thoughts cased in ice like the branches of the peach tree in the front yard, which has been scrawny and barren since September.

I stand in the driveway, waiting for Joel to come say goodbye. He went inside to get something and has been gone for too long, leaving me here to freeze.

The door opens and he comes shuffling out holding a small gift-wrapped box. The paper is gold, edges clean, tape invisible. There’s a neat pink ribbon tied around it, an impeccable bow teetering on top.

“Another present?” I ask.

“Not for now,” he says. “For your actual birthday. Day of.”

“Open it in the car as soon as I pull away?”

“You would. Present shaker.”

“I’m not a present shaker. I’m patient and normal.”

He raises an eyebrow and I pout.

“All right,” he says. “Got everything you need?”

“Yep. Do you?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Okay. Love you,” I say, and give him a quick, dry kiss—our lips winter chapped. “And thank you. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?”

“Have fun.”

“Don’t I always?” I say, opening the car door and climbing inside. I set the present down on the passenger seat, put the heat on full blast, and give Joel a wave before driving off.

I steal a look in the rearview. At the house. At my beloved peach tree. At the shimmery snow-covered yard. At Joel. He remains in the driveway watching me, seeing me off in his puffy coat and aviator hat, and I think about how he leaves his dishes in the sink and his socks bunched up in the laundry basket, so I have to individually unbunch them or else they’ll never dry. I think about how he can be so condescending over such stupid, insignificant things, like my not knowing how to put more peppercorns in the grinder. I think about how he chastises me for not carrying cash and for avoiding the dentist. I think about how he lied about the first girl but didn’t deny the second. I think about whether staying with someone is really a choice, or if it’s a complete lack thereof.

I turn the corner and Joel disappears.

At the first red light I hit, I reach over to the passenger seat and shake the gift-wrapped box. Something shifts inside.

“Hmm.”

The light turns green, and I drive on, waiting for some excitement to set in. But all I feel is this kneading of dread. This impulse to turn around, go home. I don’t really desire my life, but I’m reluctant to leave it. There’s comfort in the mundane, safety in the routine. In waking up and knowing exactly what my day will look like.

I fear breaking my routine will break everything.

And I fear wanting too much out of this trip. I fear want in general. I made a promise to myself years ago to always temper my expectations, protect myself from disappointment. So this trip will just be miles on the car, a few nights in a picturesque cottage, some time with Naomi that will be good. That will be fine.

And then I’ll be a year older, and the peaches will fall from the tree, and I’ll avoid my reflection, put cream on my neck.

The tang of blood awakens me to my teeth’s nefarious inclination to gnaw on the delicate flesh inside my cheek. A violent nervous habit my body executes without permission. I never realize I’m doing it until it’s too late.

I swallow, and the blood drags down my throat. It seems thicker than it should be, and it leaves me uneasy. I swallow again. Again. I can’t undo the damage, can’t erase the flavor.

All I can do is shudder at the aftertaste.

3

I choose a back route, no highways, hoping for a scenic drive. The sun melted the ice, the snow, leaving the roads slushy. Everything drips; everything is wet, the snow-covered hills gone muddy and soft. I pass by antique malls and dilapidated barns and rusty tractors and the occasional cow. I pass through small towns with general stores and unsavory political signage. A lot of Christmas decorations are still up, strands of lights drooping, wreaths browning, nativity scenes missing wise men, Santas covered in muck. I pass by beautiful lake houses and wonder what the owners do for a living. Who can afford such houses? What decisions did they make? What mistakes did I make?

I sing along to “American Pie” because no one is around to judge me. I think about Buddy Holly dead in a field. The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens—who was only seventeen. I think about Patsy Cline, also killed in a plane crash. Before her death, she supposedly said, “Don’t worry about me, hoss. When it’s my time to go, it’s my time.” I wonder if she was able to maintain that attitude as the plane went down.

I hope so. It seems the cruelest fate, to die scared. But maybe that’s the only way.

I put on “Walkin’ After Midnight.” I wonder if I should start calling people “hoss.” If I could pull it off.

When I arrive in Auburn, I crack my window and inhale. Pure, crisp winter air. There’s music playing, big-band jazz. There’s a quaint Main Street with a movie theater that has a classic marquee, and an ice-cream shop, a bar called the Pharmacy, a pharmacy called the Drug Store, some retail shops that I know must be overpriced, gouging tourists like me. There’s a Chase bank, which shatters the illusion of the old-fashioned, the 1950s “aw, gee, shucks,” “take a nickel to the soda fountain for a cherry-lime rickey,” “call your sweetheart on a rotary phone,” “listen to a transistor radio,” meat-loaf-and-mashed-potatoes Americana.

At a traffic light, I make a right onto a tree-lined street. Grand Victorian houses are spaced evenly, set back on clean lawns—all with hibernating gardens and ornate birdbaths or fountains, each with its long driveway neatly plowed. Any remnants of snow are white, unsullied. Again I wonder, Who lives in these houses? How do they have this kind of money, living out here? What do they do?

This place is a postcard, a fantasy. A profound trepidation materializes in my chest, spreading quickly to my limbs, giving me pins and needles. I shudder and close my window. The GPS advises that I make a left in four hundred feet. All I can think about is going home.

But it’s too late for that, and there’s a car coming up behind me, so I go ahead and take the left.

The road winds down a wooded hill, and through the skeletal trees I get glimpses of the lake glittering beneath the rapidly setting sun. The main building reveals itself at the bottom of the slope—a titanic stone mansion with an elaborate porch, countless arched windows, tall chimneys. The whole structure is swathed in thick vines, which contribute significantly to its air of Gothic romance. Aptly named the Waterfront, it seems to rest precariously on the edge of the lake, at least from this vantage point. I pull around the circular drive and park in front of what I assume to be the entrance. There’s an awning—an extension of the porch.

By the time I open my car door, there’s a porter, a boy who might be fresh out of high school or college—I can’t tell. He wears a ridiculous old-timey uniform. He must hate it.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says. Ugh. Ma’am. “Checking in?”

“Hey. Yes,” I say. “Okay to park here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Again with the “ma’am.”

I follow him inside to the lobby, a two-story foyer with a grand staircase, dark walls, gilded molding. There’s a marble counter to the side, and another adolescent appears behind it, a bony girl in a similarly old-fashioned getup. She bounces upon seeing me, smiles widely, revealing gapped teeth encased in plastic aligners.

“Hello. Welcome to the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. My name is Mary Beth. Do you have a reservation with us?”

“Yes. Should be under Parker.”

She stoops behind a gold MacBook. “Ah! Yes, Ms. Parker.”

Ms. Thank God.

“I see we have you with us for three nights in our Whispering Woods Cottage.”

Heaven help me if Naomi finds out that’s what it’s called.

“If you’ll please give me a moment, I’ll get you your key cards,” Mary Beth says, opening a drawer. “And here we are! Will you be taking advantage of our valet service? We have a heated garage, convenient for winter months. We can escort you to your cottage, and then for your stay we have a shuttle service available as well.”

“Uh, sure.” I drop my Mazda fob on the counter and pick up the small black velvet envelope with two matte crimson key cards. Fancy, fancy.

“Have you stayed with us before or is this your first time?” she asks. She’s using a sort of fitness-instructor voice. Overenthusiastic, with an ever so slight undercurrent of condescension. She’s young, and I can tell that she’s performing her idea of adulthood, using this affectation in an attempt to appear professional. I used to do it, too. You never feel old enough, until the day you don’t feel young enough.

“First time,” I say.

“We’re so glad to have you! I’m delighted to tell you about our amenities. . . .” She chatters on about the spa, the wellness center; about snowshoe rentals, snow tubing, ice-skating, cross-country skiing. She takes out a pamphlet, then proceeds to read me the entire pamphlet. She talks about how the Finger Lakes region rivals Napa when it comes to wine. She lists every restaurant and store on Main Street.

“Matthew will take you to your cottage,” she says, gesturing to the porter, who hovers at my back. “Please let us know if you need anything. Thank you for choosing the Waterfront Collective. We do hope you enjoy your stay!”

“Ready?” Matthew asks me. Something about how he says it gives me the impression that he’s annoyed with me. Completely uninterested in my existence. Or maybe he’s perfectly pleasant, but Mary Beth was so bubbly and saccharine that he seems stoic in comparison. I don’t know. He’s not looking at me.

It pinches a little, that no one really looks at me anymore. Not like they used to.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry. I’m ready.” I give a thumbs-up for some reason. He grabs my fob off the counter and then opens the lobby door for me. I realize this isn’t an act of chivalry, that I’m probably expected to tip him. I hope I have cash.

I follow him out to my car, where he opens the passenger-side door and gestures to me.

“Oh. Um, okay,” I mutter to myself, climbing in.

He gets in on the driver’s side, adjusts the seat.

He pulls onto a gravel drive behind the main mansion.

“I have a friend meeting me here. She’s taking a car service from Syracuse. Is there . . .” As he waits for me to finish my question, I begin to feel like it’s a stupid one. “. . . transportation for her? Should I direct her to the cottage or . . . ?”

“She can check in at the desk. The shuttle will take her to you,” he says, making a left onto a dirt road. Tucked back in the trees, there’s a contemporary cottage, white, with a red arched door. It’s tall, two stories, and oddly narrow. All windows at the front. A stone chimney rises up off the steeply pitched roof.

Matthew puts the car in park and makes quick work of getting my suitcase out of the trunk. I grab my bag, Joel’s mystery gift, the key cards.

The ground here is hard and crunchy, winter frozen. The trees sway, and it really does sound like the woods are whispering.

Matthew drags my suitcase up to the cottage door.

“Thanks,” I say when we reach it. “I can take it from here.”

I fumble around in my bag for my wallet, then gracelessly search for an appropriate bill. I give him a five.

“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your weekend,” he says. Doesn’t sound like he means it. He bows slightly before getting back into my car and driving it away. Hopefully to that heated garage. It’s a seven-year-old Mazda, though, nothing worth taking for a joyride.

I burrow inside my coat and take a moment to look around, wonder how close the nearest cottage is. Who’s inside it, what they’re doing, and if they’re doing it in matching plaid onesies. It’s too cold to continue to stand here speculating.

Blowing into my hands, I admire the view of the lake—the water dark and eerily still. The sun has gone pale as it sinks behind the trees, steeping the horizon in a tawny haze.

Shivering, I turn around, slip one of the key cards out of the velvet envelope, and tap it on the scanner. There’s a faint click, and I twist the knob, open the door. I’m greeted by an aggressive woody scent and a soft wave of light. I grab my suitcase and step inside, letting the door shut itself behind me with a heavy thunk.

It’s tricky to figure out how I feel about the space because I’m too busy anticipating what Naomi will think of it. What she’ll make fun of or comment on.

It’s small but open. To the right there’s a floating staircase that leads up to a loft. To the left is the fireplace, rustic white stone. There’s a leather couch in front of it, covered partially by a chunky knit throw blanket. There’s a modern kitchenette in the corner, a basket of apples on the counter. A café table and chairs. Under the staircase are two doors. One to a surprisingly spacious bathroom, all white marble and glass, with a double vanity, a waterfall shower, and a freestanding tub. It smells of fresh linen. There are fuzzy towels, and two luxe robes that I know Naomi and I will end up in.

The other door leads to a bedroom. There’s a four-poster bed and a midcentury dresser, some funky wallpaper to make it a little less West Elm. The lone window is covered with heavy curtains. I pull them back to check out the view. The lake is there, obscured only partially by the trees. This will be Naomi’s room.

I lug my suitcase up the stairs to the loft. There’s a daybed; a nightstand with a twin-bell alarm clock; one of those flat TVs that can look like pieces of art, only it’s on a stand, not mounted, so the jig is up. The ceiling is vaulted, which helps it not to feel too top bunk, too cramped. Especially with the windows. At the back and the front, just walls of glass. Through them the trees, the lake. It’s a stunning view. But I don’t get any curtains, so I guess I’ll be up with the sun.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. I take a breath, shimmy it free from my jeans. A message from Naomi. Be there soon!!! Don’t have any fun without me. Seriously. Not even a little.

Wouldn’t dream of it, I reply.

“Soon” is a vague term in Naomi-speak. Could mean ten minutes, could mean an hour.

I hate not knowing how much time I have to kill.

I use the bathroom, wash my hands, sample the complimentary lotion. It smells too strong, too floral. I attempt to wash it off, rigorously soaping my hands, running the water hot, despite knowing I’m stripping my skin of its natural oils, which I’ve read in numerous articles is very bad and will age me faster. Women’s hands are the tell. There are no fillers, no lifts for withered, veiny witch hands. At least not that I know of. Not yet.

I take a quick glance in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes that I need an ice cube and concealer to correct. I take my hair down and put it back up, smoothing some flyaways that pop right back out. It’s exhausting to care this much.

I slog back upstairs to my suitcase, get out my cosmetics bag, which is the size and weight of a concrete block. I take it into the bathroom and get to work. I put on a podcast about Chernobyl while I primp, because there’s nothing like hearing the grisly details of acute radiation syndrome while staring at your own face to really put things in perspective.

I know Naomi doesn’t care what I look like, that she’ll just be happy to see me. She’s also high on something half the time, so everything and everyone is beautiful to her. But still, it feels necessary that I do this, that I attempt to put myself together. Otherwise I’ll be too preoccupied for any chance of a good time.

It’s moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, highlighter, mascara. Lipstick.

But lipstick is never just lipstick. It’s a sort of soul-preserving lie, like putting on armor before battle. You can die wearing armor, but you’ll feel better about your chances. Confident on the front lines before the arrows fly.

I go for my most expensive tube, a splurge purchase from a designer more famous for couture than for makeup. I read online that it’s the best there is, that it has a cult following, which made me sad but also made me buy it. It is pretty. A satin-finish crimson red. The shade is Killer.

“Sure,” I say to myself, and blot with a tissue. “Sure.”

Then I rewind the podcast thirty seconds in case I missed something crucial about the rupture of the reactor core.

I wonder if anyone living near the plant had any inkling of doubt. If, as they passed under the shadows of the smokestacks, they’d ever considered the worst-case scenario. I think I would have, but who knows?

Besides, anticipating the worst-case scenario doesn’t prepare you for the worst-case scenario. Just gives you the opportunity to be smug in the face of disaster.

4

She doesn’t need to knock. I can sense her. I can smell her, somehow. Her signature smoky vanilla perfume. She says it makes her feel like a sexy campfire.

I’m at the door as the shuttle pulls up. I open the door and there she is.

She wears a faux-fur bucket hat, a 1970s denim halter jumpsuit with wide bell-bottoms, cowboy boots, and her Penny Lane jacket—orange suedette with fuzzy pink trim. Her long black hair is in a thick braid that falls down to her ass. The only makeup she has on is some metallic green eyeliner, artfully smudged. No lipstick. No mascara. No foundation—she doesn’t need it.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then she tackles me to the floor in an aggressive hug.

“I’m going to fucking eat you!” she yells into my hair as her arms wrap around my neck.

“I’m dying,” I say. “Help! Help!”

“Sorry. Do I smell like I’ve been traveling for twenty hours?” she asks, letting me go.

“You smell like you.”

She gasps. “Do I always smell like I’ve been traveling for twenty hours?”

“Stop. You smell famous and you look like a Spice Girl.”

“Aw, I’m blushing.”

We sit up, catch our breath. Her hat was knocked off in the wild embrace. She picks it up and puts it on the couch, goes back outside for her massive suitcase and an obnoxious carry-on that I doubt fit in the overhead bin.

“Do you need help?” I ask her.

“Yes, generally speaking,” she says. “But not with this. It’s my cardio. My strength training. Joseph Pilates can suck my—Ooh, I like the length.”

She reaches for my hair, then grazes my collarbone with a manicured nail. “Shorter. Edgier. It looks good. The color, too. Going more strawberry than blond. Closer to your natural.”

“Is it edgy? I worried it was too suburban.”

She cradles my face in her warm palm. “You never post pictures of yourself. Last time I saw you, you were platinum.”

The last time we saw each other was at Levi’s birthday party. Joel and I drove six and a half hours to Brooklyn for what turned out to be a sort of grunge rave in a Bushwick warehouse. The music was so loud it hurt my bones. I saw Naomi for about ten minutes, as she dragged me to the bar to take a shot of something, told me she loved me more than salt and missed me like candy, and that she’d be right back. I didn’t see her again until the next day, when we had an awkward brunch at one p.m. Lee didn’t show, Joel was anxious to get on the road home, and Naomi had to excuse herself to go throw up in the bathroom. I followed her in to hold back her hair.

She apologized profusely. “I never get hungover. You know this.”

“I know.”

“It’s him,” she’d said. “I swear it’s not me. It’s him.”

I didn’t have to ask her to elaborate. I knew she meant Lee.

Naomi’s trouble on her own, but with him? Fire, gasoline; gasoline, fire. They have that sort of wild passion that makes you roll your eyes, scrunch your nose. That makes you so jealous you don’t know what to do with yourself. They’re good for each other in that sense, because they understand each other, can keep up. But sometimes Naomi needs someone to reel her in, like I can. Levi can’t do that. I appreciate that she’s with someone who never tries to turn down her volume, dim her light. But now and then, I worry he’ll turn her up so high that she’ll explode.

They’ve been together on and off for a decade, and sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever get married, elope. Other times I wonder if they’ll kill each other.

His party was almost a year ago. A scary thought. The older you get, the faster time goes, as if the sand becomes finer the longer it sits in the top of the hourglass.

“You look the same,” I tell her.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah. Of course it is.”

“Well, shucks. Are my nips out?” she asks, reaching into her jumpsuit to adjust. She looks around the room. “This place is very . . .”

She pauses, tilts her head.

“Not into it?” I ask. “I won’t be offended. Joel picked it, not me.”

“Pinterest chic. Luxe basic. Like, coming down the hill and seeing that mansion, I was thinking, okay, we’re going to drink fucking hot toddies and layer scarves and flirt with the ghost of a railroad tycoon. Like, asking reception, who was that man at the bar last night? And they’d be, like, what man? Pan up to the portrait of him on the wall; he’s been dead for a century. That whole thing.”

“Right.”

“But now, here, this is a different vibe. This is, like, drink hot chocolate, hashtag so blessed. Like, someone who would ask to speak to a manager wouldn’t need to here, because this place was designed specifically for them. Like—”

I interrupt her because otherwise she’ll just keep going. “There’s funky wallpaper in the bedroom.”

“I mean, go figure,” she says. “But is there a ghost we can tag-team?”

“I don’t know, Nay. Did you bring your Ouija board?”

“Fuck! Knew I forgot something,” she says, grinning. “Is that real fruit?”

She walks over to the basket of apples and picks one out. She tosses it up in the air and catches it with the other hand, then takes a confident bite.

“Is it plastic?”

She shrugs. “Might as well be.”

“How was your trip?” I ask her.

“The tour, or coming here?”

“Both.”

She takes another bite, then sets the apple down on the counter. “Good. Bad. Fun. Exhausting.”

“Band must be doing well, though.”

“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful. ‘Kitchen Floor’ pays the bills. But if I hear that song one more fucking time . . .”

She turns to me, puts a finger gun to her temple, and pulls the trigger.

“It’s still weird to hear Lee on the radio,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, sighing. “The song is so thoroughly mediocre. I can’t wrap my head around it. That’s their big hit? Depresses the shit out of me.”

Thoroughly mediocre is generous. “Have you had the talk yet? About them getting someone else?”

“Not yet. Mm. I gotta get that authentic fruit taste out of my mouth,” she says, pulling a handful of Dum-Dums from her coat pocket. She started with the lollipops to help her quit smoking. They were effective in that she doesn’t smoke anymore, but she’s been on a lollipop a day for about three years now. “Want one? Think I’ve got a cream soda.”

“My favorite!”

She hands me the cream soda–flavored one and selects a blue raspberry for herself.

I appreciate the treat but suspect it’s a means of deflection from talking about work. Naomi studied photography in college and had some success working in fashion after graduating. She started managing PR for Levi’s band as a side gig, to be supportive. But then Data Ave took off and took over both of their lives.

For the past year or so, she’s expressed to me some dissatisfaction in working with Data Ave. With Lee. She’s talked about wanting to get back to being an artist. When I asked her why she couldn’t do both, she lost it.