Girl Dinner, page 23
Fawn had opted for evening-gown Barbie, wearing a tight satin dress that stretched across her hips. She looked too refined, almost upsettingly so, compared to everyone—Nina included—who seemed now, unmistakably, to be a partially drunken clown. Fawn stood out from the crowd, peerless, alone. How had she chosen Nina; how could she while away her time with Nina when there were so many others more worthy—prettier, kinder, smarter, better tasting, probably? Why was Fawn always alone when surely there were throngs of admirers, mobs of desirers, countless throbbing bodies pulsing amorously with want? Nina had the sudden, distressing urge to shove Arya in front of her like a shield until she could regain some poise, sober up, change all her clothes.
Too late. Fawn spotted her, a brief, wolfish look coming over her face as her mouth twisted up in a smile.
“Little Sis!” Fawn said, holding out her arms for what Nina realized belatedly was Dalil, not her. She held herself back half an inch, and then it was her turn, like a peasant in line for the queen, to bask in the gracious light of Fawn’s attention. “Wow,” Fawn breathed in Nina’s ear. “Your date is fucking hot. Should I be jealous?”
“No” was all Nina could manage. She wanted to laugh, honestly. Arya was basically a sibling, or furniture. Arya could start a disco flash mob or flawlessly perform a sonnet or drop dead on the sidewalk and Nina would still be looking at Fawn. “Where’s your date?”
“Oh, I never bring one to these,” Fawn said with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Have to stay sober for liability stuff anyway, so—oh my god, Maud, I love that bodysuit!”
Nina felt herself being pulled by the tide onto the bus, shivering again as her moment in the sun passed away. She glanced over her shoulder, catching Fawn’s wink, and let herself be directed to the fray, Fawn still the fulcrum of everything. But the chorus of bawdy songs had already caught like wildfire, and Nina found herself in the thrall of the night before she even knew it had begun.
29
“We should go out,” Max had said to Sloane earlier that evening, in an unusual display of interest. Performative? Maybe just inspired. “It’s been a while, don’t you think?”
As she often had over the course of the previous fortnight, Sloane suppressed the urge to discuss cannibalism. She also fought the reflexive grimace that came with the thought of hyping herself up for sex. It would, she realized with a sprig of optimism, be much easier with the lubrication of wine and dinner conversation. Max had always sparkled in social situations, even among just the two of them. It was Max’s brain that Sloane had been most drawn to, despite the benefit of his aesthetic. He could—often did—dazzle her conversationally, by virtue of a singularly brilliant or humorful thought.
There was, of course, the hesitation at the thought of leaving Isla, even for an hour or two. Max’s colleague whose wife had been helpful in the past was unavailable, and it wasn’t as if Sloane was going to call a random number off the Starbucks job posting board.
Grudgingly, Sloane realized there was always one person she could reliably call.
“Of course, no problem at all,” said Alex on the phone, a knowing hint of something in her voice. “Are you at all concerned that I’ll try to feed her human flesh?”
“Thanks, Alex,” Sloane said loudly, giving Max a thumbs-up. “I really appreciate it.”
“It’s my pleasure. Theo and I’ll be over at six with the freshly slaughtered corpse.” Click.
“It’s nice that you finally have someone you trust,” Max observed, materializing from behind Sloane to wrap his arms around her in the kitchen. He’d been particularly touchy lately, a sudden, sharp increase that had driven Sloane to ask him about the Scrabble app.
“You’re not using that thing to cheat on me, right? I’ve heard about people DMing their paramours using the chat features in games like that,” she’d said, astonished that she’d said it aloud. Surely it wasn’t a serious concern, right, if she could ask him that, flat out? If she actually thought it was a possibility, she’d just check on his phone while he showered. Was this growth? Maturity? Lunacy?
“Of course not,” Max said, rolling his eyes, and that was that. “Seriously? A guy can’t like wordplay without getting his dick sucked?”
“Who knows what you men are capable of,” teased Sloane, in a tone of voice she hoped did not suggest that she knew of any women who might take such generalizations to a malicious or culinary extreme.
The more time had passed since Alex’s confession, the less Sloane really believed it. It was true, apparently, that humans could adapt to almost any condition, including the one where you walked around knowing some fundamental wrong was occurring in the world and yet you still worried about the tedium of what to make for breakfast. Though, that was true of all things, Sloane realized increasingly, her brain digesting the truth of Alex’s atrocities as if it were a brick of shredded wheat. (Slowly, but digesting nonetheless.) It was true that Sloane walked around in the world knowing that at any given time there were at least three ongoing genocides; that at least one city in the United States could not give its residents lead-free water; that in all likelihood, her life’s work was trivial at best. That the daily disappointments of her husband were far more likely to crush her than any distant loss of human life. The brain simply couldn’t cope with the scope of plausible trauma. Instead it wondered what to wear, or how to make small talk with a woman who had been eating people on and off for the last decade of her life.
Of course, Alex and Theo arrived while Sloane was still choosing an outfit—nothing seemed to fit her as it had before; this was not an existential state, and yet—and so she walked into the kitchen with Isla on her hip to discover that Max was already chatting animatedly with Alex, who wore a look of mild rapture.
Sloane walked over to Theo, who was picking up a die-cast car from Isla’s new Montessori shelf, purchased via a link that had been sent to Sloane by Britt. “Hi, sweetie,” Sloane said quietly, and Theo looked up at her with big, innocent eyes, waving a shy hello before scrunching up his nose in greeting to Isla.
Sloane looked up, noticing that Max was now gesturing broadly with his hands. She caught Alex’s eye, and there was a moment—a little slip of pretense—where Sloane became aware that Alex was performing attentiveness. Sloane realized from that single blitz of contact that Alex was incredibly bored and unimpressed, and then Sloane became aware, in perhaps the lowest moment of her life thus far, that she had married the kind of man who didn’t understand when a woman wasn’t interested in what he was saying.
“Max. Ready to go?” Sloane’s voice was forcefully chipper. For god’s sake. Why did it matter whether Alex found her husband interesting? Personality divergences were natural, even expected. This wasn’t one of those situations where the husband was an uncharismatic blob—some generic, unremarkable Dad Bod wearing clothes she’d bought for him (although he was). Max was incredibly handsome, almost unreasonably smart. Yes, Sloane had considered in the past that his charisma sometimes bordered on controversial, but never in any real way. People loved Max. He was a very interesting person on a tenure track at a prestigious University and for fuck’s sake, Sloane couldn’t wait to have dinner with him!!! The end!!!
“Ah, there she is!” Max said, shepherding Alex into the living room. “I was just telling Alex how nice it is that you’ve got such a good friend.”
“I, of course, assured him that good was highly relative,” said Alex, whose face changed at the sight of Isla. “Hi there, Miss Isla!”
There was something so warming, so fondly assuring about people who loved your baby. Sloane had told Max just that morning that sometimes, when Isla said hi to random passersby on the street who didn’t look up or wave back, she felt capable of murder. “It’s just this wash of something, this total hatred,” she mirthfully explained as she scrubbed a spot of mold from the straw of Isla’s sippy cup. “Like, my brain goes white for a second. Why wouldn’t you wave back to this precious little baby?”
“One of these days you’ll really have to check your violent impulses,” said Max.
“I’m just joking,” Sloane insisted, although she wasn’t, really. It wasn’t as if she was actually going to snap and kill a stranger on the street, but that feeling—that inexplicable, primal desire to tear something down with her teeth—she realized only belatedly that she’d said it to the wrong person.
Because of course Alex would understand.
“She’s started saying hi to random people,” Sloane said now as Alex got on her knees to play, apparently unbothered about the pleats in her casual trousers. (Did they iron themselves? Was that a benefit of consuming human organs? Where was the line, exactly? That was a real question, Sloane registered. Suddenly she wished she were staying behind.)
“Oh god, that’s so cute. Theo did that as well, always waving to people. Sometimes when people don’t wave back I feel this need to shove them into traffic,” Alex said without looking up, because in that moment, Isla was offering Alex a cup from her singing tea set, and therefore Isla was more important to look at than Sloane.
Gratified, hot tears pricked inexplicably behind Sloane’s eyes.
“Should we go?” asked Max, checking his watch. “Should leave a little time for parking.”
“Right. Yes, thank you.” Sloane rose to her feet, lingering for a moment. “Call me if you need anything,” she said. “Seriously. Nothing is too small.”
Alex did look up at her then, a small glimmer of sympathy like a balm to Sloane’s senses. “I will, I promise.”
“Okay.” Sloane backed away. Did she really trust a cannibal? Did that even mean anything to her anymore? Was it like when you said a word too many times and it stopped making sense? “There’s dinner for her in the fridge.”
“Perfect. I brought some zucchini bread, too, just in case.”
“Oh, that’s great, thank you.”
“Sloane,” said Max. “Ready?”
“Bye, Isla,” said Sloane softly. Isla looked up then, a beautiful, open look of childlike adoration on her face.
“Bye bye, Mama,” said Isla. The first time she’d ever said it like that, in sequence, like a big girl. Sloane wanted to stay and stay and stay, to make her repeat it one hundred times, to eat her cheeks and cry all over her hair until Isla smelled like Sloane forever.
Sloane got in the car and slumped down in the passenger seat, suffering the same rush of self-loathing she felt every day at drop-off.
“God, I’m absolutely starving, I hope the traffic downtown’s not too bad. I’d have picked somewhere less busy, but Chris over in Classics said we had to give it a go.” Max tinkered with the vents, looking quizzically over at her. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” Sloane sighed. “The usual thought spiral.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s like a permanent recording in my head. What if Isla feels abandoned?” Sloane mused, mimicking her own depressing thoughts. “What if she wants me at bedtime and I’m not there? What if this is how she learns to stop asking for me, because sometimes I won’t come when she calls?” Sloane looked out of the window as Max pulled into reverse. “What if she starts to love Alex more than me?”
“Then I guess Alex is moving in,” Max joked, which wasn’t what Alex would have said.
Alex would have said: You are her mother, and she will never love anyone like she loves you.
Then Alex would have said: Now go have a nice meal with your stupid husband before I boil him in a soup.
Faintly, Sloane smiled.
“What?” asked Max, amused.
“Nothing,” she said. Fucking Christ.
She’d gotten used to it, just like that.
30
Arya was an incredibly bad dancer. He was, however (relatedly?), very generous with his fist pumps. He also seemed to know the words to every song, no matter what genre, which was very amusing. Nina couldn’t help matching his energy, enjoying herself more than she’d expected at what was essentially a more naked version of prom.
“Your date looks like Aladdin!” Ryoko screamed in Nina’s ear.
“What?” Nina shouted back. The song changed to something from Arya’s youth, which was funny and terrible in terms of the reaction it provoked in Arya.
“My sooooong!” he roared. Three other frat guys roared back, hypermasculine call and response.
“Oh my god,” said Nina faintly.
“He’s really hot, like Aladdin!” Ryoko yelled.
“Arya, they can’t all be your song,” Nina shouted at him. He ignored her, attempting something that might have been the Dougie, and her phone buzzed. “Hey, Arya? I’m going to the bathroom.”
“What?” said Arya.
“I have to pee!”
“Okay! This is my song,” Arya shouted at her, gesturing to the speakers.
“I’m peeing,” Nina informed him, and began to push her way through the sea of sweaty Kens, emerging onto the edge of the dance floor and making her way toward the front entrance.
The venue was a restaurant that had closed down for the event, something that had seemed an absurd thing for a restaurant to do until Tessa explained how much The House prepaid for alcohol. Nina said she’d been trying not to think about stuff like that—she’d spent the first month after bid night bracing silently for the bill, like every spare breath of enjoyment in The House was being added to her tab—and Tessa had said, quote, dude, you’re in The House, you never have to worry about money again!
Nina had felt dazed at the time, fully dazzled.
Really?
Really really. Everything’s paid for. Alumnae funds.
Seriously, everything?
Seriously, everything. SISTERHOOD, BABY!
“There you are, finally—”
Someone grabbed Nina’s hand and pulled her into the corridor leading to the bathrooms. Nina hiccuped a laugh, letting herself be pressed flush against the wall.
“Missed me?” she whispered to Fawn, letting her palms trace the silk of Fawn’s dress.
“Absolutely. I’m bored as fuck. You look hot.” Fawn’s lips brushed Nina’s neck as she laughed. “But you smell like sweat and vodka.”
“Mmm,” Nina said in an exaggerated moan. She felt electric as Fawn’s hand slipped under her skirt.
“Not leaving much to the imagination, are you?” said Fawn. “Good. Who has the time.”
Nina giggled, a little breathy moan slipping out. Vodka did something to her volume control. And her balance.
“Fawn?” came a voice, and Fawn stepped coolly away from Nina, turning to look at Summer Toft, who Nina now understood was Fawn’s executive vice president.
“Everything okay, Sum?” The nickname felt weaponized, somehow. Nina shifted like she’d poked herself on it.
“Oh yeah, just Katy’s date throwing up in the bathroom. I sent them off in a cab—Katy’s fine, she’s taking him home.”
“Great,” said Fawn. “Thanks.”
“Just doing my job.” Summer smiled at Nina. From a blurry place of observation, Nina felt there was a strangeness, some blockade between Summer and Fawn, such that one or both were pretending the other was invisible or simply did not exist. “Having fun, Nina? Your date is really hot,” Summer informed her with a wink. “Even Alina’s boyfriend thinks so. I think he might have turned half the guys in that room.”
“Oh, Arya’s a family friend,” Nina started to say, but Fawn gripped her hand covertly.
“We’ll be back in a sec,” Fawn said to Summer, who shifted her attention away from Nina and back to Fawn with something that might have been a grimace, although the corridor was only dimly lit. “I’m taking Nina outside to get some air. She’s feeling faint.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Nina,” said Summer, looking genuine in her concern. Probably because they were sisters, and sisters cared! “Do you want me to get you some water?”
Fawn interjected, “I’ve got her, Summer, thanks. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
“Okay, take your time.” This, too, was directed at Nina, who suddenly couldn’t remember what it looked like to feel faint, and wondered if she were committing appropriately to the improvisation. Summer’s voice was already growing distant, Nina tripping casually toward the door in Fawn’s thrall. “It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve lost a cleaning deposit—”
Fawn tugged Nina out the side door, the cold night air like a knife to Nina’s lungs. The venue was one in a row of high street restaurants, beside which was another hot downtown spot with a long line of respectable-looking middle-aged adults. Fawn guided Nina out of sight, into the narrow entry path between buildings.
“Holy fuck, it’s cold out here,” Nina gasped, and then Fawn’s mouth was on hers, warm and delicious. She capitulated with a sigh, or maybe something louder, before licking the inside of Fawn’s mouth. Like catching drips of maple syrup, honey falling on her tongue.
Fawn laughed. “You’re horny as fuck. Down, girl.” She gestured over her shoulder, taking a step away. “We’re in public.”
“I’m drunk,” said Nina. “You’re hot. Do the math. What’d we come outside for anyway, if not this?”
“Not my best plan, all things considered.” Fawn kissed Nina hard, then stepped away, back toward the restaurant’s side door and in view of the street. “Are you gonna be hooking up with your date tonight?”
“Depends,” Nina said coyly, reaching out in an attempt to find Fawn’s nipple through the whalebone of her shapewear and then giving up once she realized it was an impossible task in her current state. “What are you doing later?”
“Not me, dummy, your actual date. What’s his name? Arya?”
“Oh,” Nina said, her hand slipping to find Fawn’s. “No way. I told you, Arya’s just—”
She stopped, unintentionally locking eyes with one of the people in line for the restaurant next door. He was looking curiously over at her as a woman stood impassively beside him, typing something into her phone.
