Page 33 of So Thirsty

I shiver watching the snow come down. It’s cold in here. There are plants wilting against the glass. There’s some dusty patio furniture. A stack of magazines on the coffee table. Architectural Digest and Life in the Finger Lakes. There’s a worn copy of The Power Broker.

I don’t believe for a second that any of these people have a keen interest in Robert Moses.

Whose book is this?

Whose house is this?

The man circles the room and lands in a chair, draping himself across it, limbs swinging. He wears a long, thick silver chain tucked into his sweater. It glints in a patch of moonlight.

I take a good look at him. As I stare, my heart takes off, beating faster and faster until my head catches up and I realize he reminds me of someone, only I can’t remember who.

Right now I’d give anything to be younger, for no other reason than to escape this feeling. Rewind to a time before this was possible, before I’d lived enough to discover a ghost in a stranger’s face.

“What is it?” he asks me.

Have I met him before? In life? In a dream?

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Mm. Do you lie for my sake or for your own?”

I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. I move back toward the stairs. Above me a mound of snow slumps from the roof, lands with a dense thud.

“Tell me something true,” he says.

“What is this? Truth or dare?” I ask without turning around. I press against the wall. Beyond the glass, the snow is piling up. How much more will fall tonight? I imagine this view completely obscured. I hear Naomi’s voice: It’s some snow, not an apocalyptic blizzard. But how would she know?

“Have you ever played truth or dare?” he asks.

“I never played any of those games.” If I had, maybe I’d be less scandalized by the X-rated spin-the-bottle debauchery happening in the other room.

“I’ve never played either. Would you play with me now?”

I look over at him. He wears the biggest, goofiest smile, delighted by his own idea, and it’s infuriatingly endearing. I snort.

“I’m serious. What else are we to do?”

There’s an insinuation, and it sends a spark rocketing up from the arches of my feet through my core and out of the top of my head. Sweat breaks over me like a wave.

“Okay,” I say, sitting down in the chair opposite him, crossing my arms and legs, creating a barrier with my extremities because I’m nothing if not committed to deluding myself.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Truth or—” I can’t even finish. It’s so absurd.

“Or…?”

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Dare?”

“Yes. Dare.”

“I thought you’d pick truth, since you’re Mr. Honest.”

“I am. That’s why truth isn’t exciting. For me. Maybe not for you since you lie.”