Page 29 of So Thirsty

“Technics SL-1200. Original model,” I say, stepping in. I slip the record out of the sleeve and put it on the platter. “Pretty nice record player for someone who doesn’t know how to use it.”

He chuckles. “It come with the house.”

“And the extensive collection?” I say, gesturing to the stack on the floor and the albums stuffed into the stand.

“Yes, yes,” he says.

“That’s lucky.” The song starts to play, filling the room with that famous, mesmerizing ostinato.

“Oh, yes!” Ilie says, his eyes igniting with recognition. “I know this one. Good music.”

“How long have you had the house?” I ask him.

He ignores me and starts to dance around the room. He sweeps Naomi away from Elisa, and they spin and laugh and touch each other, and I stand perfectly rigid, right where I am, my hands pulled into fists, gnawing on the inside of my cheek until my mouth fills with blood and I swallow it down, hoping my suspicion goes with it, but it doesn’t. It’s stuck between my teeth like a stubborn piece of meat. Now that it’s here, I can’t get it out. Can’t be rid of it.

The thought. The suspicion.

This isn’t his house.

“ ‘Let’s get together before we get much older!’ ” Naomi sings, orbiting Ilie as if she is the earth and he is her sun. Elisa stays close, a tenacious moon.

As I watch them it’s like they’re playing a game, only no one’s explained the rules.

I’m not alone in their audience. Costel and Miri have come up for air. Tatiana models her pink manicure as she covers her mouth to hide a sly smile.

Urgent nausea alerts me to the fact that it’s starting, that whatever is going to happen here tonight is about to be happening. I look over my shoulder. There’s the candlelit front hall, and then two other hallways off the living room, but they’re dark and I don’t know where they lead, and I’m afraid to wander around this house that may or may not belong to these people.

I believed that the crazy Batmobile belonged to Ilie; it seemed like the kind of car someone like him would drive. But this house? It doesn’t seem like the kind of house a young überwealthy person would buy. It’s dated, and not in a kitschy, fun way. There are water stains on the ceiling. Or maybe they’re just shadows. Maybe I’m searching for things that aren’t there. Searching for excuses, for justification to keep myself on the sidelines.

Ilie stands behind Naomi; Elisa stands in front. Ilie holds her waist; Elisa holds her face.

I stare down at the floor, at the patchwork of ugly rugs and blankets and pillows.

Someone moans.

Christ. I really don’t want to be here for this.

I beeline to the far corner of the room, beyond the reach of firelight, and settle on the floor. I’m tempted to turn toward the wall, like a kid in time-out. I regret not bringing my phone, regret leaving it to die. But what would I do if I had it? Message back and forth with Joel, playing dumb? Check the doorbell camera again?

Everything Naomi said to me in the bathroom, in the hall, has me in my head, has me questioning. What if I can’t keep doing this? What if I can’t go on as this version of me that continues to let this happen? That accepts less because it’s easier than longing for more.

My eyes flick up. Miri is naked, bent over a couch. She looks at me and smiles, bites her lip, then waves me forward with a single come-hither finger.

What if I want to? What if I’ve buried my desire so deep that I don’t even remember what it looks like? Sounds like. Tastes like. Feels like. What if I want to get fucked by someone just for the sake of getting fucked? What if I let go of my reservations? What if I didn’t anticipate the worst possible outcome? What if I didn’t give a shit if it was Ilie’s house or not? What if I let myself be guided by something other than fear?

What if Naomi is right? What if it’s not too late?

All of a sudden an ember appears, fizzling near my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

There’s someone next to me. A man. He smokes a cigarette.

“You scared me,” I tell him, bringing my hand to my heart, as if that’ll prevent it from beating out of my chest. I take a sip of the gin.

“You’re scared?” he says, passing me his cigarette. “Good. You should be.”

11

M y breath hitches in my throat. I watch in horror as my hand reaches out for the cigarette, accepts it, brings it to my lips. My body has gone rogue.