Page 11 of So Thirsty

“What?” Naomi asks. “Am I wrong?”

I always forget how well she knows me—better than I know myself. It’s saved me in the past, her intimate knowledge of my heart, my mind. I’ve used it for clarity, for comfort. But sometimes this knowledge feels invasive, unwelcome. Sometimes it terrifies me.

She makes eye contact with Todd in the rearview mirror. “We’re very pretty but very grim.”

“Hmm?” he says, as if he hasn’t been listening.

The drive to Main Street is short, only a few minutes. We pull up to the curb in front of one of the shops.

“This okay, girls?” Todd asks.

“Perfect,” Naomi says sunnily.

The door opens, and I’m about to step out when Todd says, “Now, you give me a call when you’re ready to go back, and I’ll pick you up. As long as it’s before one a.m. You have the number?”

“Think so,” I say.

“Good. Be smart, girls. Be safe.”

“We will. Thank you, Todd,” Naomi says, following me out of the van. The door shuts and he’s off down Main Street. She turns to me. “Why the face?”

“I don’t like ‘ma’am’ or ‘lady,’ but somehow ‘girl’ is worse.”

“What would you prefer, Goldilocks?” she asks, patting me on the head. “What would be juuusssst right?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking her off. “I don’t know.”

“God,” she says, looking around. “What a sweet little American town. Smells like apple pie and willful ignorance.”

She threads her arm through mine. “You hungry? You want to eat now, or you want to shop?”

“If by ‘shop’ you mean go into every store and not buy anything, then shop.”

“Done!” she says, pivoting on her heel and dragging me into a small store that sells artisan soaps shaped like mythical creatures—mermaids and unicorns and fairies. The prettiest of fictions.

—

After exploring every shop on Main Street, we get a tiny booth at the Pharmacy—the only bar in town. It’s eccentric but sophisticated. Exposed brick; built-in bookcases brimming with tchotchkes, like rusty funnels, apothecary bottles, antique syringes, crystal skulls, plaster molds of teeth, and fraying books. There’s a fireplace, inside it a neon sign made to look like a fire, glowing red and orange and yellow.

The ceiling is distressed tin. The lighting fixtures are all art deco with bulbs emitting a dim purple hue. The drinks are expensive, and the food is outrageous.

Naomi and I split some truffle fries as we sip our first cocktails of the evening. I ordered a Negroni; she got something called Soylent Green.

“What’s in that, again?” I ask, pointing to her glass.

“Very funny.”

“No, really. I’m asking.”

“Gin with cucumber, mint, and lime.” She slides the glass across the table. It’s a beaker, actually. They serve their drinks in beakers, shots in test tubes.

I take a little sip. “Mm, mm. People-y.”

She laughs, taking her drink back. She looks at me for a moment, and I can almost hear her wheels turning over the music in the bar, some mellow indie rock playlist. She’s analyzing me, and under her keen gaze I’m at once both desperate to know what she’s thinking and filled with such dread that I might prefer to stay ignorant.

She parts her glossy lips but, whatever she’s about to say, she’s interrupted by “Kitchen Floor,” Data Ave’s big hit.

Naomi downs her drink. “I can’t escape.”