Yolk(42)

I reach for him and kiss him again. A Hail Mary pass. His mouth is warm and bittersweet from his cocktail and I know this is the weirdest thing to think about, but it’s the perfect moisture level. God, he probably remembers to drink water throughout the day or something annoying. Again he pulls away.

I keep staring. Boldly. He leans into me then, grabbing the back of my neck and kissing me. His other hand is on my hip. I grab him by the waist of his pants and pull him toward me. I kiss his neck. It’s briny and slick. I wonder if the Tinder girl he matched with is prettier than me.

“Okay,” he says, breaking away again when I squirm the tips of my fingers down his pants. I’ve never had sex in a bar bathroom, but I’m game. Patrick is safe. I just don’t want to leave. I can’t face going back to that apartment. Either apartment.

More urgent knocking at the door.

“All right,” he insists, pulling away and reaching for the lock. “I’m calling it. I’ll put you in a car if you want.” Then he kisses me lightly again before turning. “This is not the place,” he says firmly, as if convincing himself. Before he leaves, he looks at me as if he can see all of me. As if he’s privy to something I don’t know about myself.

I close the door on him.

God. Maybe he’s religious. Fuck that. Maybe he’s one of those good Catholic boys. Or maybe he’s just not into me.

I hover pee, thighs burning in my heels, and then wash my hands for a long time, grateful for the cold water on my wrists, grateful that I can’t see my reflection. I’m sure my face is sticky. I don’t want to touch my face, this bathroom is so filthy.

Now that I’m taking a breath, I’m glad we stopped. I like Patrick so much. Even if his ethics feel like poetry in that the meaning behind the words evade me.

When I open up there’s a girl on her phone, dressed like a nun. She shoots me a look like, “Seriously?” and then slams the door in my face.

I’m surprised to find Patrick waiting in the hall. “Jayne,” says a voice from behind. I look over. Patrick turns too. It’s Ivy.

“There you are,” she says. She’s wearing blue lipstick and a matching boa.

“Hey,” I say, throwing myself into her arms and hugging her. “What are you doing here?” I run my palms through her soft feathers. I’m so happy to see her. It feels like a miracle that we’re reunited like this.

“Jayne,” she scoffs, pulling away. “You literally told me to meet you.”

I did. I had. I feel Patrick’s eyes on us. I’d texted her when I was scared that he wasn’t coming.

“Fuck.” I smile and roll my eyes. “I’m so wasted.”

“Okay, well, come with me to Pete’s.” Ivy pulls out her phone to show me. “His Halloween parties are mental.” The IG stories are full of beautiful bodies in lowlight heaving to loud house music. Pete is Benzo Pete. Or Pedo Pete. This creepy forty-something A&R who last year tried to guess my age and was delighted that I was nineteen.

“You said you weren’t going to hang out with him anymore.”

“Jayne.” She says in singsong, teeth flashing, “I have shrooms.”

I sense Patrick’s attention on us. The thought of him meeting Ivy is intolerable somehow. I don’t want my worlds colliding.

“I can’t.” I take her hand in both of mine, but she snatches it back. The idea of partying with Ivy and returning to my body three days later turns my stomach.

“You’re the worst.” She turns on her heel for the bar.

I force myself to smile. “Let’s get some air.” I link my arm gamely in Patrick’s and march out without meeting his eyes. My chin dimples from the effort of keeping my mouth shut. My nose clogs. I cannot let myself cry.





chapter 22


“So,” he says once we’re outside. “Can I make a confession?”

I nod, bracing myself for the news that he’s leaving.

“I really still need to pee. You’ll stay here?”

I nod. “Of course.” I don’t expect him back.

I watch him go. At least the air on the street is deliciously cold. Sweet. The best air I’ve felt in ages.

I check my logs. That I had no memory of texting Ivy until she showed up feels itchy in my brain. I wonder if that was it for us. The thought that she’d be angry with me makes me vaguely ill. Karl Lagerfeld, the late designer of Chanel, said it was best to be sort of afraid of friends, to have a sword of Damocles hanging over you. To have tension where all parties had something to lose. I don’t know that I have that with Ivy beyond how she’s my only friend.

I’m reminded of an evening with her on my bed in my old room. We were smoking cigarettes out of the window, which drove my roommates crazy, but they weren’t home. We’d gotten all dressed up but changed our minds and dumbed out on TikTok and ate junk instead. We’d dipped into Ivy’s good credit card, the one from her dad for emergencies, and tossed all the wrappers and crap onto my floor as we ate until we were numb. I wanted to ask if she did things the way I did. Whether she left her body on the fizzy, glittery, shit-faced nights we saw each other and collected it on the other side of the morning trying not to think about everything that happened in between. Instead Ivy told me she’d been super depressed in high school back in Jersey. She told me how much everyone hated her. I was picking all the breadsticks out of the Chex Mix since the rye chips were gone when she told me her boyfriend in junior year used to “throw her around a little.” She’d slept with his friend as revenge and been so badly bullied for being a slut that she transferred.