Page 8 of The Pleasure of Panic

Chella sets the food on the table and takes the place of Jordan across from me. “What do you mean? Like he turned you down?”

“Yes,” I say, both annoyed and defensive about the way she stressed the word ‘down.’ “Apparently I’m not a good candidate for his stupid game.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Chella says. “Let me go talk to him—”

But I reach over the table and grab her by the shirt sleeve before she can fully stand up. “No. You will do no such thing. I didn’t want to play, remember? It’s just… he was kind of a dick about it. So just fuck him.”

“Jesus, Issy. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I didn’t mean for it to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” I sigh, forcing myself to move on by lifting up the silver dome on the plate. “What’s this? Can we still eat?”

“It’s parmesan risotto with roasted shrimp. And yes, I insist you stay. I’m taking a break right now, so I’ll take that jerk’s place.” She lifts the dome off the other plate and starts spreading her napkin in her lap.

I do the same, but… fuck. This whole feeling of… I dunno… failure washes over me and I can’t shake it. “God, I hate him now. He was so rude, Chella.”

“Forget him, OK? I’m really sorry. And believe me, he won’t be getting any referrals from me again.” She takes a bite of risotto and then feigns orgasmic pleasure.

Which makes me smile, then laugh. And when I take a bite, I try to outdo her. Pretty soon we’re making so much noise, servers are poking their heads into the private tea room to see what’s going on.

“Don’t mind us,” Chella calls to them. “We’re just a couple of girls getting off on food!”

After that, we quiet down and just eat, drinking our wine. Well, I drink wine. Lots of wine, actually. But Chella is eight months pregnant, so she’s got sparkling cider. By the time dessert is served I’m pretty tipsy. It’s a beautiful, decadent strawberry tart with whipped cream on top. And believe me, the risotto was just foreplay compared to this treat.

“So,” Chella says, her lips wrapping around a spoonful of strawberries and whipped cream. “Did you… tell him your fantasy?”

I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m feeling better about it now, so let’s just let it go.”

Chella takes another bite of tart and presses her lips into the spoon to get all the cream as she withdraws it. If you were a man watching her do that you’d probably mistake it for something sensual. And it does come off that way a little, if you’re a man and don’t know her. But I do know her. And I know that move. She does that at tea all the time when she’s got an opinion about something that differs from mine.

“What?” I ask. “Just say it.”

“Nope,” she says. “Moving on.”

“Chella,” I growl. “Just tell me what you’re thinking, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well…” She smooths her napkin in her lap. And now I really know she’s got something to say, but doesn’t want to. “Just…” She looks up at me. “Was it a really weird fantasy?”

I think about this for a moment. “No. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s common.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Come on, Issy! I’ve seen and heard it all. I used to go to Turning Point, you know.”

I make a face, unsure.

“Is it a ménage? Because that was mine and it was”—she laughs—“pret-ty fun.”

“No. Nothing so bold. I mean, all I asked for was a… scene. You know?”

Chella cocks her head at me. “A scene? As in drama?”

“No.” I huff. “Like a sex club scene. You know, where tons of people watch and you get off, and it’s safe, and a little bit anonymous.”

“Mmmm,” Chella says, smiling. “I had you pegged for a panic girl, but what do I know about people’s sexual fantasies?”

I’m about to protest her assumption about me, but then decide I can see her point. I can be a control freak. And it’s pretty common to assume a control freak wants control because they lost it once and never want to feel that way again.