Sweet Filthy Boy

HARLOW ORDERS FRIES before dropping her shot into her beer and downing it.

She pulls her forearm across her mouth and looks over at me. I must be gaping because she asks, “What? Should I be classier?”

I shrug, drawing the straw through the ice in my glass. After a morning massage and facial, an afternoon spent at the pool, followed by a few cocktails, we’re all more than a little tipsy. Besides, even after chugging a beer with a shot in it, Harlow looks classy. She could jump into a bin full of plastic balls at McDonald’s Playland and come out looking fresh.

“Why bother?” I ask. “We have the rest of our lives to be sophisticates, but only the one weekend in Vegas.”

She listens to what I say, considers it before nodding firmly and motioning to the bartender. “I’ll have two more shots and whatever that monstrosity is that she’s drinking.” She points to Lola, who’s licking the whipped cream from the rim of a hideous, LED-flashing cup.

He frowns before shaking his head and says, “Two shots of whiskey and one Slut on a Trampoline, coming up.”

Harlow gives me her best shocked face but I barely have time to register it before I feel someone press up behind me at the crowded bar. Large hands grip my hips only a split second before “There you are” is whispered hotly—and directly—into my ear.

I startle, turning and jumping away with a gasp.

Ansel.

My ear feels damp and warm, but when I look at him, I see the same playful light in his eyes he had last night. He’s the guy who’ll do a ridiculous robot dance to make you laugh, who’ll lick the tip of your nose, make a fool out of himself for a smile. I’m sure if I tried to wrestle him to the ground, he’d let me win. And enjoy every minute.

“Too close?” he asks. “I was going for seductive, yet subtle.”

“I’m not sure you could have been any closer,” I admit, fighting a smile as I rub my ear. “You were practically inside my head.”

“He’d make a horrible ninja,” says one of the guys with him.

“Oliver, Finn,” Ansel says, first pointing to a tall friend with messy brown hair, stubble, bright blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and then to the one who spoke, with short-cropped brown hair, dark backlit eyes, and what I can only imagine is a permanently cocky smirk. Ansel looks back at me. “And gentlemen, this is Cerise. I’m still waiting for her real name.” He leans in a little, saying, “She’ll have to give it up sometime.”

“I’m Mia,” I tell him, ignoring his innuendo. His eyes trip down my face and stall at my lips. It’s precisely the look he would give me if we were about to kiss but he’s too far away. He leans forward, and it feels like watching an airplane fly ten feet from the ground for miles, never getting closer.

“It’s nice to put a face with all the man shouts,” I say to break the thick sexual tension, looking around him to Oliver and Finn, then point to my wide-eyed friends beside me. “This is Lorelei, and Harlow.”

They exchange handshakes, but remain suspiciously quiet. I’m not usually the one meeting guys in situations like this. I’m usually the one pulling Harlow back from hooking up on a table within minutes of meeting someone, while Lola considers beating up any guy who dares speak to us. They may be too stunned to know how to respond.

“Have you been looking for us?” I ask.

Ansel shrugs. “We may have gone to a couple of different places, just to peek.”

Behind him, Oliver—the one in glasses—holds up seven fingers and I laugh. “A couple?”

“No more than three,” Ansel says, winking.

I spot movement just behind him, and before I have a chance to say anything, Finn steps up, attempting to yank Ansel’s pants down. Ansel doesn’t even blink, but instead asks me, “What are you drinking?” and simply grips his waistband without looking even a little surprised or annoyed.

As if I can’t see a considerable amount of gray boxers.

As if I’m not staring directly at where the distinct bulge in the cotton would be.

Is this what boys do?

“It’s nice to see you in your underwear again,” I say, struggling to restrain my grin.

“Almost,” he clarifies. “At least my pants stayed up this time.”

I glance down, wishing I could get another eyeful of his toned thighs. “That’s debatable.”

“Last time Finn did that, they didn’t. I beat his road time this week and he’s been trying to get me back ever since.” He stops, brows lifting and seeming to only now hear what I said. He leans in a little bit, asking in a soft, low voice, “Are you hitting on me?”

“No.” I swallow under the pressure of his unwavering attention. “Maybe?”

“Maybe if my pants go down, your dress should go up,” he whispers, and no sentence anywhere has ever sounded so dirty. “To level the playing field.”

“She’s way too hot for you,” Finn says from behind him. Ansel reaches back, putting a hand on Finn’s face and moving him farther away. He nods to my drink, wordlessly asking what was in my now-empty glass.

I stare back at him, feeling the strange warmth of familiarity spread through me. So this is what chemistry feels like. I’ve felt it with other performers, but that kind of connection is different from this. Usually chemistry between dancers diffuses offstage, or we force real life back in. Here with Ansel, I think we could charge large appliances with the energy moving between us.

He takes my glass and says, “Be right back,” before glancing at Lola as she steps away from the others. She’s watching Ansel like a hawk, with her arms crossed over her chest and stern mom-face on full display. “With a drink,” he tells her good-naturedly. “Overpriced, watered-down alcohol, probably with some questionable fruit. Nothing funny, I promise. Would you like to come with me?”

“No, but I’m watching you,” she says.

He gives her his most charming smile before turning to me. “Anything in particular you desire?”

“Surprise me,” I tell him.

After he walks a few feet away to get the bartender’s attention, the girls give me exaggerated what the hell stares and I shrug back—because, really, what can I say? The story is laid out right in front of them. A hot guy and his hot friends have located us in a club, and said hot guy is buying me a drink.

Lola, Harlow, and Ansel’s friends make polite conversation but I can barely hear them, thanks to the booming music and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I try not to stare down the bar to where Ansel has wedged himself between a few bodies, but in my peripheral vision I can see his head above most others, and his long, lean body leaning forward to call out his order to the bartender.

He returns a few minutes later with a new tumbler, full of ice and limes and clear liquid, offering it to me with a sweet smile. “Gin and tonic, right?”

“I was expecting you to get me something adventurous. Something in a pineapple or with sparklers.”

“I smelled your glass,” he says, shrugging. “I wanted to keep you on the same drink. Plus”—he gestures down my body—“you have this whole flapper girl thing going on with the short dress and the”—he draws a circle in the air with his index finger near my head—“the shiny black hair and straight bangs. And those red lips. I look at you and I think ‘gin.’” He stops, scratching his chin, and adds, “Actually I look at you and think—”

Laughing, I hold up my hand to stop him there. “I have no idea what to do with you.”

“I have some suggestions.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Would you like to hear them?” he says, grin firmly in place.

I take a deep, steadying breath, pretty sure I’m in way over my head with this one. “How about you tell me a little about you guys first. Do you all live in the States?”

“No. We met a few years ago doing a volunteer program here where you bike from one city to another, building low-income housing as you go. We did it after university a few years back and worked from Florida to Arizona.”

I look at him more closely now. I hadn’t given much thought to who he is or what he does, but this is far more interesting than a group of asshole foreign guys blowing money on a Vegas suite. And biking from state to state definitely explains the muscular thighs. “That’s not at all what I expected you to say.”

“There were four of us who became very close. Finn, Oliver, me, and Perry. This year we did a reunion ride, but only from Austin to here. We’re old men now.”

I look around for the fourth one and then raise my eyebrows at him meaningfully. “Where is he?”

But Ansel only shrugs. “Just us three this time.”

“It sounds amazing.”

Sipping his drink, he nods. “It was amazing. I dread going home on Tuesday.”

“Where exactly is home? France?”

He grins. “Yes.”

“Home to France. What a drag,” I say dryly.

“You should come to Paris with me.”

“Ha. Okay.”

He studies me for a long beat. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are.”

He sips his drink again, eyebrows raised. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I suspect you’re also the most clever.” He leans in a little, whispering, “Can you juggle?”

Laughing, I say, “No.”

“Pity.” He hums, smiling at my mouth. “Well, I need to stay in France for another six months or so. You’ll need to live there with me for a bit before we can buy a house Stateside. I can teach you then.”

“I don’t even know your last name,” I say, laughing harder now. “We can’t be discussing juggling lessons and cohabitation quite yet.”

“My last name is Guillaume. My father is French. My mother is American.”

“Gee what?” I repeat, floundering with the accent. “I wouldn’t even know how to spell that.” I frown, rolling the word around in my head a few times. “In fact, I’m not even sure what letter it begins with.”

“You’ll need to learn to spell it,” he says, dimple flashing. “You’ll have to sign your new name on your bank checks, after all.”

Finally, I have to look away. I need to take a break from his grin and this DEFCON-1 level of flirtation. I need oxygen. But when I blink to my right, I’m met with the renewed wide-eyed stares of my friends standing nearby.

I clear my throat, determined not to be self-conscious about how much fun I’m having and how easy this all feels. “What?” I ask, giving Lola the don’t overreact face.

She turns her attention to Ansel. “You got her talking.”

I can feel her shock, and I don’t want it to consume me. If I think too much about how easy I feel around him, it’ll rebound and I’ll panic.

“This one?” he asks, pointing at me with his thumb. “She doesn’t shut up, does she?”

Harlow and Lola laugh, but it’s a yeah, you’re insane laugh and Lola pulls me slightly to the side, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You.”

“Me what?”

“You’re having an instalove moment,” she hisses. “It’s freaking me out. Are your panties still on under there?” She bends dramatically as if to check.

“We met last night,” I whisper, pulling her back up and trying to get her to lower her voice because even though we stepped away, we didn’t move that far. All three men are listening in on our exchange.

“You met him and didn’t tell us?”

“God, Mother. We were busy this morning and I forgot, okay? Last night they were partying across the hall. You would have heard them, too, if you hadn’t had enough vodka to kill a horse. I walked over and asked them to quiet down.”

“No, that wasn’t the first time we met,” Ansel interjects over my shoulder. “We met earlier.”

“We did not,” I insist, telling him with my expression to shut it. He doesn’t know Lola’s protective side but I do.

“But it was the first time she saw Ansel in his underwear,” Finn adds, helpfully. “He invited her in.”

Her eyebrows disappear beneath her hairline. “Oh my God. Am I drunk? What’s in this thing?” she asks, peering into her obnoxiously flashing cup.

“Oh stop,” I tell her, irritation rising. “I didn’t go into his room. I didn’t take the gorgeous stranger’s candy even though I really wanted to because hello, look at him,” I add, just daring her to freak out even more. “You should see him with his shirt off.”

Ansel rocks on his heels, sipping his drink. “Please continue as if I’m not here. This is fantastic.”

Finally—mercifully—Lola seems to decide to move on. We all step back into the small semicircle the guys have made, and drink our cocktails in stilted silence.

Either ignoring or oblivious to the awkward, Ansel pipes up. “So what are you all celebrating this weekend?” he asks.

He doesn’t just speak the words, he pouts them, pushing each out in a little kiss. Never before have I had such an urge to touch someone’s mouth with my fingers. As Harlow explains why we’re in Vegas, drinking terrible shots and wearing the world’s sluttiest dresses, my eyes move down his chin, over his cheeks. Up close I can see he has perfect skin. Not just clear, but smooth and even. Only his cheeks are slightly ruddy, a constant boy-blush. It makes him look younger than I think he is. Onstage, he would remain untouched. No pancake, no lipstick. His nose is sharp, eyes perfectly spaced and an almost intimidating green. I imagine I’d be able to see the color from the back of a theater. There is no way he can possibly be as perfect as he seems.

“What do you do when you’re not riding bikes or juggling?” I ask, and everyone turns to me in unison. I feel my pulse explode in my throat, but force my eyes to hold on to Ansel’s, waiting for his answer.

He plants his elbows on the bar beside him and anchors me with his attention. “I’m an attorney.”

My fantasy wilts immediately. My dad would be thrilled to know I’m chatting up a lawyer. “Oh.”

His laugh is raspy. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’ve never known an attorney before who wasn’t old and lecherous,” I admit, ignoring the looks Harlow and Lola have trained on the side of my face. At this point, I know they’re counting how many words I’ve said in the last ten minutes. I’m breaking a personal record now.

“Would it help if I said I work for a nonprofit?”

“Not really.”

“Good. In that case I’ll tell you the truth: I work for the biggest, most ruthless corporate firm in Paris. I have a horrible schedule, really. This is why you should come to Paris. I’d like a reason to come home early from work.”

I attempt to look unaffected by this, but he’s watching me. I can practically feel his smile. It starts as a tiny tug in the corner of his mouth and grows the longer I pretend. “So I told you about me, what about you? Where are you from, Cerise?”

“I told you my name; you don’t have to keep calling me that.”

“What if I want to?”

It’s really hard to concentrate when he’s smiling like that. “I’m not sure I should tell you where I’m from. Stranger danger and all.”

“I can give you my passport. Will that help?”

“Maybe.”

“We can call my mom,” he says, and reaches into his back pocket for his phone. “She’s American, you’d get on fantastically. She tells me all the time what a sweet boy I am. I hear that a lot, actually.”

“I’m sure you do,” I say, and honestly, I think he really would let me call his mother. “I’m from California.”

“Just California? I’m not an American but I hear that’s a pretty big state.”

I watch him through narrowed eyes before finally adding, “San Diego.”

He grins as if he’s won something, like I’ve just wrapped this tiny piece of information up all shiny and bright and dropped it into his lap. “Ahh. And what do you do there in San Diego? Your friend said you’re here celebrating graduation. What’s next?”

“Uh . . . business school. Boston University,” I say, and wonder if that answer will ever stop sounding stiff and rusty to my own ears, like I’m reading from a script.

Apparently it sounds that way to him, too, because for the first time, his smile slips. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

I glance to the bar and, without thinking, down the rest of my drink. The alcohol burns but I feel the heat seep into my limbs. The words I want to say bubble up in the back of my throat. “I used to dance. Ballet.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said those words to anyone.

His brows lift, his eyes moving first over my face, then trailing down my body. “Now that I can see.”

Harlow squints at me, and then looks at Ansel. “You two are so fucking nice.”

“It’s disgusting,” Finn agrees under his breath.

Their eyes meet from either side of me and hold. There’s some sort of silent acknowledgment there, like they’re on the same team—them against us—each trying to see which one can mortify their friend the most. And this is when I know we’re only about an hour and a half from Harlow riding Finn reverse-cowgirl on the floor somewhere. Lola catches my eye and I know we’re thinking the exact same thing.

As predicted, Harlow lifts her shot glass in Finn’s direction. In the process, much of it slops over the side and onto her skin. Like the classy woman she is, she bends, dragging her tongue across the back of her hand before saying to no one in particular, “I’m probably gonna fuck him tonight.”

Finn smiles, leaning closer to her and whispering something in her ear. I have no idea what he’s just said but I’m sure I’ve never seen Harlow blush like this. She reaches up, toying with her earring. Beside me, Lorelei groans.

If Harlow looks you in the eye while she takes her earrings off, you’re either going to be fucked or killed. When Finn smiles, I realize he’s already figured out this rule and knows he’s coming out on top.

“Harlow,” I warn.

Clearly, Lola can’t take any more, because she grabs Harlow’s hand to haul her up and out of her chair. “Meeting of the minds in the ladies’ room.”

“WHY IS HE calling me ‘Cherry’?” I blink up to my reflection in the mirror. “Does he think I’m a virgin?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s talking about your blowjob mouth,” Harlow says, winking. “And if I may, I’d like to suggest that you hit that French boy like a hammer tonight. Is his accent not the hottest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Lorelei is already shaking her head. “I’m not sure Mia is the best one to be talked into a one-night stand.”

I finish dragging the wand of my lip gloss across my mouth, press both lips together. “What does that mean?” I hadn’t planned on having a one-night stand with Ansel. I’d planned on staring at him all night and then going to bed alone, where I’d fantasized that I was someone else and he would in fact teach me the ins and outs of hallway sex. But as soon as Lola says this I feel a rebellious pull in my ribs.

Harlow studies me for a beat. “I think she’s right. You’re a little hard to please,” she explains.

“Seriously, Harlow?” I ask. “You can say that with a straight face?”

Lola’s eyes are similarly wide in disbelief as she turns to me. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, I’m definitely impossible to please,” Harlow admits. “I just love watching men try. But Mia takes about two weeks before she converses without a thick sheet of awkward.”

“Not tonight, she doesn’t,” Lola mumbles.

I shove my lip gloss back in my clutch and give Harlow a look. “Maybe I like going slow and getting past that weird need people have for nonstop conversation. You’re the one who likes to bang off the bat, and that’s fine. I don’t judge.”

“Well,” Harlow continues as if I haven’t spoken. “Ansel is adorable and I’m pretty sure from the way he stares at you, he won’t need you to do much talking.”

Lorelei sighs. “He seems really sweet and they’re obviously both into each other, and what’s going to happen?” She shoves everything back in her clutch and turns to lean against the bay of sinks and face us. “He lives in France, she’s moving to Boston, which is only marginally closer to France than San Diego. If you have sex with Ansel,” she says to me, “it will be solid missionary with tons of talking and soft-focus eye contact. That’s not one-night-stand sex.”

“You guys are freaking me out right now,” I tell them.

“Then she can just insist on doggy, what’s the problem?” Harlow asks, bewildered.

Since I’m clearly not needed for this conversation, I push my way out of the bathroom and back to the bar, leaving them to decide the rest of my night, without me.

AT FIRST, IT’S as if our friends metaphorically evaporate into the background as they, too, grow more comfortable (or drunk) together and their laughter tells me they’re no longer listening to everything we’re saying. Eventually they head to the blackjack tables just outside the bar, leaving us alone together only after delivering their meaningful be careful stares to me and don’t be pushy stares to Ansel.

He finishes his drink and puts the empty glass down on the bar. “What did you love most about dancing?”

I’m feeling brave, whether from the gin or Ansel, I don’t care. I take his hand and pull him to his feet. He steps away from the bar and walks beside me.

“Getting lost in it,” I say, leaning into him. “Being someone else.” That way I could pretend to be anyone, I think, in their body, doing things maybe I wouldn’t do with mine if I thought about it too much. Like leading Ansel down a dark hallway—which, though I might have needed to take a deep breath and count to ten first, I do.

When we round the corner and stop, he hums, and I press my lips together, loving how the sound makes my lungs constrict. It shouldn’t be possible for my legs and lungs and brain to all quit working at the same time.

“You could pretend this is a stage,” he says quietly, leaning his hand against the wall beside my head. “You could pretend to be someone else. You could pretend to be the girl who pulled me down here because she wanted to kiss me.”

I swallow, forming the words carefully in my head. “Then who will you be tonight?”

“The guy who gets the girl he wants and doesn’t have any fires to put out back home.”

He doesn’t look away, so I feel like I can’t, either, even though my knees want to buckle. He could kiss me right this second and it wouldn’t be soon enough.

“Why did you get me over here? Away from everyone?” he asks, smile slowly fading.

I look past him, over his shoulder into the club, where it’s only slightly lighter than where we’re standing.

When I don’t answer, he bends to catch my eyes. “Am I asking too many questions?”

“It always takes me a while to put words together,” I tell him. “It’s not you.”

“No, no. Lie to me,” he says, moving closer, his heart-stopping smile returning. “Let me pretend when we’re alone like this I render you speechless.”

And still, he waits for me to find the words I want to say in reply. But the truth is, even with a bowl full of words to choose from, I’m not sure it would make sense if I told him why I wanted him down here, away from the safety of my friends, who are always able to translate my expressions into sentences, or at the very least change the subject for me.

I’m not nervous or intimidated. I simply don’t know how to slip into the role I want to play: flirty, open, brave. What is it about another person’s chemistry that makes you feel more or less drawn to them? With Ansel, I feel like my heartbeat is chasing his. I want to leave my fingerprints all over his neck and his lips. I want to suck on his skin, to see if it’s as warm as it looks, and decide if I like what he was drinking by tasting it on his tongue. I want to have an entire conversation with him where I don’t second-guess or struggle with a single word, and then I want to take him back to the room with me and not use any words at all.

“Ask me again,” I say.

His brows pull together for a beat before he understands. “Why did you bring me down here?”

This time I don’t even think before I speak: “I want to have a different life tonight.”

His lips push out a little as he thinks and I can’t help but blink down to them. “With me, Cerise?”

I nod. “I know what that means, you know. It means ‘cherry.’ Pervert.”

His eyes shine with amusement. “It does.”

“And I’m sure you’ve guessed I’m not a virgin.”

He shakes his head. “Have you seen your mouth? I’ve never seen lips so full and red.”

Unconsciously, I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, sucking it.

His eyes grow heavy and he leans closer. “I like when you do that. I want a turn.”

My voice is nervous and shaking when I whisper, “They’re just lips.”

“They’re not just lips. And please,” he teases, and he’s so close I can smell his aftershave. It smells like fresh air, like green and sharp and soothing all at once, something I’ve never smelled on a man before. “You wear red lipstick so that men won’t notice your mouth? Surely you know what we dream about a mouth like that doing.”

I don’t close my eyes when he leans in and takes my bottom lip between both of his, but he does. His eyes fall closed, and every one of my senses picks up the gravelly sound he makes: I taste it, feel it, hear it, see the way he shivers against me.

He runs his tongue over my lip, sucks gently, and then pulls back. I realize it wasn’t really a kiss. It was more a taste. And obviously he agrees: “You don’t taste like cherry.”

“What do I taste like?”

He shrugs a little, thoughtfully purses his lips. “I’m unable to think of a good word. Sweet. Like a woman and a girl still, too.”

His hand is still planted near my head, but the other toys with the hem of my cardigan. I realize that if I want to live a different life I have to do it. I can’t tiptoe along the edge of the cliff. I have to jump. I have to figure out what kind of girl would do what I want to do with him, and pretend I’m her. She’s the one onstage. Mia watches from the audience.

I pull his fingers down to the bottom of my dress, and then under.

He’s no longer looking at my mouth; we’re looking directly into each other’s eyes when I drag his fingers up the inside of my thigh. It feels so secluded here—darker and still—but around the corner the bar echoes with drunken voices, a bass-heavy pop song. We’re hidden but anyone could find us if they wanted to. Without any more urging from me, he slips a knuckle beneath the fabric of my underwear. My eyes roll closed and my head falls back against the wall behind me as he gently slides it back and forth over my most sensitive flesh.

I don’t know what I’ve done, or why, and I’m suddenly consumed with warring reactions. I want him to touch me—God I want him to touch me—but I’m mortified, too. I’ve been with two other guys since Luke, but there was always more lead-up: kissing, and the usual progression of top-to-bottom groping. Having Ansel near me has reduced me to a puddle of want.

“I’m not sure who is more surprised you just did that,” he says before kissing my neck. “You or I.”

He pulls his finger away but almost immediately returns at a better angle, this time sliding his entire hand down the front of my underwear. My breath catches as he strokes me gently with two fingers. He’s careful, but confident.

“Toutes les choses que j’ai envie de te faire . . .”

I swallow back a moan, whispering, “What did you say?”

“Just thinking of all the things I want to do to you.” He kisses my jaw. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I say, and then panic chokes me. “Yes.” He freezes and I immediately miss the rhythm of his broad fingertips. “No. Don’t stop.”

With a raspy laugh, he bends to kiss my neck, and my eyes roll closed as he starts to move again.

IT TAKES FOREVER for me to open my eyes; my head is pounding. My whole body hurts. I press my hands firmly to my temples, palms flat as if, by doing so, I can hold my head together. It must be in pieces. It’s the only thing that could explain the pain.

The room is dark, but I know somehow that behind the heavy hotel curtains the Nevada summer sun is blinding.

Even if I slept for a week, I think I’d need two more.

The night comes back to me in tiny, chaotic bursts. Drinking. Ansel. Pulling him down the hall and feeling his tongue on mine. And then, talking. So much talking. Flashes of naked skin, movement, and the loose-limbed aftereffects of a night of orgasms, one after another.

I wince, nausea sweeping through me.

Moving is torture. I feel bruised and exhausted, and it’s distracting enough for me to not initially realize that I’m completely naked. And alone. I have delicate points of pain on my ribs, my neck, my upper arms. When I manage to sit up, I see that most of the bedding is on the floor, but I’m on the bare mattress, as if I’ve been plucked from the chaos and intentionally laid here.

Near my bare hip is a piece of paper, folded carefully in half. The handwriting is neat, and somehow easily recognizable as foreign. My hand shakes as I quickly read the note.

Mia,

I tried to wake you, but after failing decided to let you sleep. I think we only got about two hours at any rate. I’m going to shower and then will be downstairs having breakfast in the restaurant across from the elevator. Please find me.

Ansel

I start shaking and can’t stop. It’s not just the raging hangover or the realization that I spent a night with a stranger and can’t remember a lot of it. It’s not just the state of the room: a lamp is broken, the mirror is smudged with hundreds of handprints, the floor is littered with clothing and pillows and—thank God—condom wrappers. It isn’t the mortification over the dark stain from a soda bottle on the rug across the room. It’s not the delicate bruises I see on my ribs or the persistent ache between my legs.

I’m shaking because of the slim gold band on my left ring finger.