Yolk(38)

She called the bar Tinder Live for its hookup potential, and it’s true. You can feel it. The vibe in a word? Ravenous. It reliably runs a special of Pabst Blue Ribbon with tequila shots from brands that have labels that look like Photoshop disasters. There’s one called Luxxx, which I’m pretty sure isn’t certifiably a thing unless that thing is personal lubricant.

I gaze vaguely into the space. Glazing over everyone’s eyes. Trying not to betray how desperate I am to recognize anyone. The guy to my right bumps me, not even turning around to check if he cares. He’s got this reedy voice, Hawaiian shirt opened to his midriff. “I don’t know,” he says through his retro pornstache. “Aren’t cargo pants strictly for botched-surgery Chads?”

The boy with the bowl cut next to him nods. He’s wearing cargo pants. I watch as he discreetly pulls down his shirt while listening. Tag yourself; he’s me.

There’s a spidery jitteriness in my heart. I can’t believe what happened. Fuck June. How fucking dare she.

I take another swallow of my drink to blot out the intolerable discomfort of reality.

Truth is, part of me wishes I could un-know all of this. June hit that nail on the head. I don’t want to deal. And if I hadn’t opened the envelope, I would be eating pad Thai she paid for, watching TV with her. I would feel moderately but not sincerely bad about being a mooch. I’d do her dishes. Everything would be otherwise fine.

Maybe I did know, though. On some level. June has never been this accommodating to me. Or nice. I’ve been cooking and cleaning, but old June would’ve conscripted me into all sorts of other menial tasks. I haven’t massaged her shoulders, lotioned her heels, or walked ten paces behind her holding her bag.

The Cure plays at a volume so loud, I have to squint in an attempt to dampen the noise.

I make a beeline for the smoke-filled patio, carrying my drink past the split vinyl booths, the old-school video games, and the line for the bathroom on the right, which has snaked in the narrow hallway. I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. Everyone else’s need to be seen is embarrassing to me because I so badly need the same.

Despite the chill, it smells human outside. Sour. My phone lights up in my hand. I’m here. You?

Instead of responding, I finish my drink, pulse racing. I check my reflection. I could still leave, I think. As long as he doesn’t come to search for me, I could dip out the side entrance. Even if he calls my name, I could ignore it. It’s loud enough. I slide an ice cube in my mouth and take a deep breath.

I exhale with my eyes closed, breath cool as I sigh.

I imagine myself as an entirely different person. Someone new. Someone strong. Someone whole.





chapter 20


I return to the main bar, flitting through the crowd, excitement unraveling down my spine. I shrug off my coat and then extract my arms from the lumpy sweatshirt, throw it over my head as my skin prickles to gooseflesh. Everything off except the black silk camisole.

I swing my eyes left, then right, enjoying the smearing in my vision. Now, I tell myself, I’m fascinated by everyone.

Next to a girl with glasses pulling on a vape, I see him. He smiles easily.

I make my way over, smiling stupidly at the ground, tilting my head up at the very last minute.

“Graduated, applied to design school, grew my hair long, moved to New York, met up with you,” I tell him as a greeting. I’m giddy with relief that he’s not in costume. “That’s what I’ve been up to in the last ten years.”

Patrick smiles wide and opens his arms for a hug. I sense an unlatching in my chest as I fall into them. It feels like fate that he picked up immediately when I called.

“It’s good to see you.” I sigh into his cashmere-clad sternum, my disguise of someone carefree and confident slipping ever so slightly.

“You too,” he says from above. He holds me longer than I’d expected him to. I leech everything I can out of the hug. Bleed it.

I pull away and look up. His cheekbones are positively architectural. His teeth, impossibly white. His sweater is a heathered gray that brings out his creamy skin. “Hi,” I say, attempting to be a normal, appropriate adult person. “So, we live in New York.”

“We sure do,” he says, taking me in. Then he laughs, looking around. “And of all the places in New York, we’ve chosen to be here. On literal Halloween.”

“It’s the worst.” I smile back at him. “I love it.”

His eyes alight from mine, and I wonder for a split second if he sees someone he knows. But instead of turning away, he touches my shoulder gently to let the person pass. “Do you want a drink?”

We’re standing right in front of the bar. “Vodka soda,” I whisper into his neck. His wallet is slender and expensive.

When he hands me a glass, I take a sip and notice it isn’t the kerosene I’ve been drinking. We toast each other.

Then he grabs my hand with his free one and guides me to a quieter part of the bar. My palm throbs when he lets go.

He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a single-dose pack of antacid and offers it to me. “Pepcid gang,” he says. A beat. “Don’t you get redface when you drink?”

I shake my head.

“Outlier,” he says, downing it.

“Is that a thing?”

“Yeah,” he says. “A lot of East Asians can’t break down the toxins in alcohol. It’s us and Ashkenazi Jews that won that particular genetic lottery.”