A YEAR BEFORE THE FUCKING E-MAIL

It’s Friday night. I put on my only dress and a pair of ripped tights, and head to Posey’s for her monthly get-together.

“Look nice,” she’d told me. “None of that Seattle grunge you’ve been wearing.”

The weather is getting warmer, people are wearing fewer layers and more smiles as they walk about the city. It’s comical to see, everyone clamoring for the sun. We look like children gazing up at the faces of our parents, dim smiles and glassy eyes—winter’s presence still paling our cheeks. I’ve known Posey since grade school. She kicked a boy’s arse once when he told me I was ugly. Right there on the playground. She was suspended from school for a week, but that hadn’t mattered to her. Even when her mum took away her Gameboy she’d insisted that he deserved it.

I still remember the shock and glee I’d felt watching it all unfold. Someone was standing up for me.

“Who’s ugly now?!” she’d screamed, standing over him, staring down at his bloodied face.

Even back then Posey had worn androgynous clothes. I remember the long sleeve black button-down and the black jeans hanging limply on her skinny frame, an emo child warrior with blood on her knuckles. She’s insane but those are the sorts of people you cherish. After we graduated I went to university for boring shit—business classes—and then switched my major to hospitality management, while Posey got a degree in art history and now ran a gallery in central London. Her life is beautiful, a reflection of everything she is. My life is also a reflection of everything I am, and that’s quite embarrassing.

I stop at a flower shop a block from her flat and pick up a bouquet to take with me: Marsala calla lilies mixed with grape hyacinth—she’d be more impressed with their names than the actual flowers. Posey lives in a flat right on the river, just a ten-minute walk from my place, which is significantly less posh. Her parties are always the best. She gets the top shelf liquor and plays only eighties music, which is fine by me. Dancing drunk to the eighties is life. But, more than that, she makes a point of inviting handsome men as an incentive for her girlfriends to attend. I’d be fine with just the expensive booze, but I suppose the scenery is a nice plus. When I arrive, the party is in full swing. A man I’ve not seen before is dancing with Sharon, the sluttiest of all of my friends. She has her leg propped up on his hip and is swinging an invisible lasso over her head as she grinds against him. He’s into it, biting his lip and staring at her jiggling tits. They aren’t good tits, they’re just tits. When he sees me he stops dancing and runs a hand through his hair like he’s forgotten where he is. Sharon doesn’t notice, she spins around and grinds her backside against him, whipping her hair from side to side. We stare at each other for a moment, the Dirty Dancing soundtrack is playing and I feel like I should be carrying a watermelon. I break eye contact and squeeze past them to find Posey. She’s in the kitchen taking a tray out of the oven, a cigarette stuck between her lips.

“Who’s that guy dancing with Sharon?” I ask.

“Fuck,” she says. The movement of her lips makes ash fall from the tip of her cigarette and onto the tray she’s holding. Something sizzles.

“I fucked up the appetizers again. Oh, that’s Ethan,” she kicks the oven closed with her foot, “a work wanker. Cooks the gallery’s books. He’s sexy but sort of an arse, if you know what I mean.” I know what she means. And then she adds, “I hear he has a massive Moby.”

Moby Dick is my favorite book. She knows it bothers me when she makes penial references around it.

I ignore him because every other girl isn’t. I’m not one to feed into fandom. Eventually, toward the end of the night, when I’m getting ready to leave, he walks over looking sloshed and holding a beer. He looks at me expectantly. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. It’s me he’s come for.

“Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what?” I ask. I’m surprised he’s broken away from his fan club. I look around him to see if there are any girls trailing behind him.

“I’ve been eye-fucking you all night. I thought it was obvious.”

“Hmmm,” I say, setting my drink down and digging in my purse for my lipstick. “I’ve noticed you eye-fuck yourself in almost every mirror and reflective surface you pass. I must have missed that part. Thank you for fitting me in, by the way.”

I drop the lipstick back in my purse and look away, bored. He’s very good looking. It’s almost hard not to look at him.

“Your name is Yara Phillips, you were born in Manchester, went to school in London, and traveled all over the US just for fun. Your friends say you’re a city whore, and also a man-hater, but that if I asked nicely you might say yes.”

“Ask what nicely?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. And my friends were fucking traitors. They could fuck off, the lot of them.

“I haven’t decided,” he says. “Dinner…drinks…a good fuck.”

He’s drunk. I decide not to be too hard on him. And besides, he took the time to gather some information on me. Not a complete narcissist, yeah?

I eye Ethan warily, the scruff on his chin, the deep-set eyes, the too-cool-for-school haircut. This boy/girl dance is exhausting. It feels the same each time: flirt, sex, date, disappoint, break up. I’m made of glass not steel.

“Let me decide for you then,” I say. And without another word I move past Ethan as he stares after me forlornly. I have to say goodbye to Posey before I leave, so I push past a couple making out and have to step over a drunken guy slouched against the wall. Ethan follows me into the living room where Posey is sitting on the couch half sprawled across her girlfriend. Her white blonde hair is combed back in a low ponytail and her eyes are sleepy either from the liquor or the joint she smoked earlier. I lean down and kiss her on the forehead, promising to call her next week to set up a lunch date. All the while Ethan lingers awkwardly behind me.

“You taking this one home then?” Posey says, jutting her chin toward him.

I glance over my shoulder before shaking my head.

“No,” I say. “I don’t take advantage of drunk men.”

Posey laughs and reaches her hand toward me. I take it and she squeezes my fingers.

“He’s not always an arse,” she says. “He’s quite kind if you look really deep. Really, really, really deep.”

We all laugh, even Ethan who curses colorfully at her before she shows him the finger and tells him to get the fuck out of her house. And then we’re walking out of the flat together, down the stairs, and past the doors with their bright white paint and shiny gold numbers. The minute I push open the doors to her building, the song of London greets me: cars, music, laughter drifting out of a pub, the sounds of people as they love, and flirt, and play. Ethan grabs my hand and I don’t pull away. I figure I’ve given him a hard enough time.

“I’d like it if you walked me home,” he says. “Just to be safe.”

I roll my eyes. “Where do you live?”

“Over by Paddington Basin,” he says. “Next to Selfridges.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not walking all that way. I’ll call you an Uber.” I pull out my phone but it’s dead.

“Shit, do you have yours?”

He shakes his head.

Such a fucking liar, I think.

“Battery died hours ago.”

I notice he’s not slurring anymore. The wanker was faking.

“I can just come to yours then,” he says, cheerfully. “I don’t mind at all.”

We’re trudging through the streets now. It’s started raining. I shoot him a dirty look. Part of me wants the company, but I’d prefer to be the one to suggest it.

“Is this how you get women to sleep with you? Because it’s pathetic. I don’t take strays in, I’m not the bloody pound.”

He laughs. “No, actually. I never have to work this hard. I’m trying a new tactic where I sort of beg and act like a loser and hope you feel sorry for me.”

“Right,” I say. “Unfortunately that won’t work for you. You might want to reconsider.”

“Your friends said nothing would work.” He shrugs. “They reckon you’re still hung up on that David guy.”

I recoil at the sound of his name. It’s like someone just tasered me. How dare they tell him about David! God, I desperately need new friends.

“Who’s David?” I ask.

“Exactly,” he says.

I open the door to my building. Time to move on, Yara, I tell myself.