“Have fun! Be safe!”

I roll my eyes at my mother’s words, but hold back on any sarcastic replies. I completely forgot she’d be working tonight. I offered to cancel my plans as soon as I realized, but she wouldn’t have it and got one of her friends from the health centre to spend the night at our place and watch Amanda.

“You sure this is alright?” I ask her. “I can come home early.”

She shushes me. “I mean it. Have fun. You work so hard, sweetie. You deserve a night out with your friends.”

I didn’t mention that I’d be seeing Steve as well. My mom is convinced that we ended things because Steve was too selfish to deal with my other commitments, and that I just put on a brave face and let him break my heart. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but no matter how many times I explain this to her, she still refers to him as ‘Selfish Steve.’

I give her a kiss goodbye and feel like a pre-teen heading off to a sleepover. This is definitely not how most twenty somethings start their nights out.

Brittney invited us to her place to get ready and have some pre-drinks. She’s one of the students who work part time at Dark Brown, and shares a house with two other girls from her school. She lets me inside the cramped apartment and I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of one of the most stereotypical movies about college life ever made. There’s a framed Beatles poster on the wall, a shelf decorated with empty vodka bottles and a string of purple mini lights, along with an obligatory sagging futon tucked away in the corner.

“Hey girl hey!” she cries, pulling me into her tiny bedroom where Trisha is already sitting on the chevron patterned bedspread. More mini lights are tacked to the walls of the room.

“I’m kind of low on drink supplies,” says Brittney, opening up a bottle of Smirnoff, “so I can offer you vodka with cranberry juice, or just vodka.”

“I’ll take one with cranberry juice,” I laugh and then add, “I also brought wine.”

“Sweeeeet. Wine is my thangggg,” drawls Trisha from the bed, swaying to the dance music pumping out of a speaker on Brittney’s dresser.

Clearly the two have already had a few vodkas without me. I didn’t really peg Trisha as having a wild side, but sitting here in Brittney’s bedroom and seeing my coworkers in outfits other than their uniforms has made me realize how little I know about their lives outside the Dark Brown bubble.

In true college student fashion, Brittney gets us a few mugs to drink the wine out of and then sits down at her dresser to start doing her makeup. Trisha and I watch, entranced, as she flicks her eyeliner out into a wing so perfect it would even make a MAC employee drool. We both ask if she’ll do ours too.

“Of course, ladies,” she says, gesturing for us to move closer, “but we better get this done fast, because if the vodka starts hitting me any harder I don’t think I’ll be able to draw a straight line.”

It’s just after nine thirty when our Uber car pulls up in front of the bar. We’re all tipsy by now, and getting out of the car in high heels is a bit of a struggle.

“What even is a flirtini?” asks Trisha, clutching my arm as we walk up to the front door.

“It’s a martini with champagne and pineapple juice,” answers Brittney, digging in her purse for ID.

This is definitely not Brittney’s first night out. She’s wearing shimmery high-waisted black pants and a silky top with a deep V-neck, over which she’s thrown a cropped motorcycle jacket. Her heels are high enough to be a health hazard, and while she was giggling as much as Trisha and I in the car ride over, she’s now adopted the poised attitude and expression of a runway model.

“You look fierce, Brittney,” Trisha tells her, punctuating the statement with a gesture like a cat swiping its claws.

I have a feeling I should make sure Trisha holds back on the flirtinis for a bit.

While we don’t quite live up to Brittney’s fashion icon status, I have to admit that Trisha and I also clean up good. Trisha is rocking a naughty secretary sort of look, pairing a tiny, skin-tight pencil skirt with a blazer and sheer blouse. I have a clingy navy blue mini dress on. I chose the colour to match my eyes and offset my hair, and while I’ve got it covered by my coat right now, there’s a keyhole back that adds a little va va voom to the whole look.

Va va voom? Really? Maybe I should lay off the flirtinis too.

As we show our ID to the bouncer and step through the door, the thought that I’ve been trying to bury in the back of my mind since agreeing to this starts pounding to get out.

I don’t know if I told Steve I’d be here in spite of the fact that I might run into Jordan, or because of it. It’s not a question I’ve allowed myself to contemplate, so I can’t tell if the rush I feel when I walk in and scan the bar for his face is one of excitement or alarm. I do know that when I looked in the mirror to take in the effect of Brittney’s makeup job and my half hour struggle with a hair curler, my first thought was to imagine his reaction if he saw me like this.

Scouting out the bar doesn’t bring me any immediate sighting of him. What it does reveal is a huge, crowded room filled with fuchsia lighting and dominated by a long glass bar. The walls are lined with white leather couches in shadowy alcoves, and while it’s still too early for anyone to be getting their freak on, I can see a raised dance floor at the far end of the room.

When Steve mentioned a cocktail bar, I expected something a bit more modest. This place looks like a New York fashion week after party. I start to wonder whether I dressed stylishly enough to drink here, and more importantly, whether I can afford to drink here.

The three of us stand in the entrance, gaping like provincial girls thrown into the big city.

“Hailey!” a voice calls, snapping me out of my glamour-induced daze. Steve is approaching the three of us.

“You made it!” he exclaims, and then runs his eyes up and down the length of me. “Shit, Hailey. I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but you look amazing.”

“Have anything to say about your two other dates?” croons Brittney.

Steve slides his gaze over to her and Trisha as if noticing them for the first time.

“You all look stunning,” he says diplomatically. “Anyone need to check their jackets?”

Brittney and Trisha keep theirs, but I let Steve help me out of mine and we wait as he takes it to the coat check after insisting on doing it for me.

“He wants you, Hailey,” Trisha announces, giving me a nudge. Brittney nods in agreement.

“All he wants is to catch up over a few drinks,” I protest, but after seeing the way Steve looked at me, I don’t believe myself anymore than they do.

Steve comes back and leads us over to one of the couch alcoves, where four men in their twenties and thirties wearing expensive looking dress shirts are already sitting.

“Look who I found,” says Steve, as we all take seats.

Introductions are made between everyone and we’ve started discussing how terrible of a name ‘Dark Brown’ is for a cafe when a waitress who looks like she belongs in a Gucci ad comes and asks what we’d like.

“You have to try the flirtinis,” says one of the guys. “It’s not Flirtini Friday without one.”

“Or five,” says another, and everyone laughs.

Brittney, Trisha and I all look between one another. We nod and order a flirtini each. I make sure to ask for waters as well.

The drinks turn out to be pretty tasty and Steve’s friends are more entertaining than I expected. From the stories they tell, I gather that they’re all as unenthused about working for Knox Security as the cafe staff is about working for Dark Brown.

Brittney appears to be in her element, flirting up a storm. She’s like a trained sniper, all stealth and precision, and soon has every guy at the table wrapped around her little finger.

I hold my own conversation with Steve, while keeping an eye on the very inebriated Trisha.

“You still planning on going to school?” he asks.

“That’s the plan,” I say, and then shrug. “At least, that’s my mom’s plan.”

“I think it’s a smart idea,” he tells me, taking a sip of the fresh flirtini that just arrived for him. “Remember that writing thing you wanted to do? Now that wouldn’t have been smart. I didn’t say it at the time, but I’m glad you never did it.”

I feel a burning inside me that’s more than just the alcohol.

“I still might,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

“Oh,” he replies, looking embarrassed. “I mean, I just think it would be better to try that once you’ve gone to school and have a fallback.”

Trisha comes to the rescue by tapping me on the arm and stage whispering, “I have to pee.”

“I should go with her,” I tell Steve.

I pull a teetering Trisha to her feet and almost stumble myself. The room spins and I realize I’m drunker than I thought.

“There’s so many cute boys here,” Trisha coos as we pass the packed bar.

I keep a hold on her arm, as much for her balance as for my own.

“They all look like assholes,” I mutter. It’s just past 11:30 and house music is blasting from the DJ booth at the end of the room, where a few people have started to trickle onto the dance floor.

Steve’s comment about my blogging idea has set me on edge. He’s one of the only people I’ve ever mentioned it to. I remember telling him about it as we lay spooning in bed one lazy Sunday morning, talking about the future. Hearing him bring the topic up so bluntly hurt.

Thankfully there’s no line in the bathroom. Trisha and I lock ourselves into adjacent stalls. I sit down and press my head against the cold metal of the door.

Heh. I’m pretty drunk.

I must have laughed, because Trisha asks me what’s so funny.

“I’m pretty drunk,” I say, out loud this time. We both start giggling.

“Stop making me laugh!” Trisha squeals. “It’s too hard to pee and laugh at the same time!”

This, of course, makes us both laugh even harder.

“It’s not my fault you can’t multifask. I mean multipask. I mean, uh—”

I’m laughing so much now I can’t even finish my sentence. The drinks are shooting up to my brain faster than a thermometer rising in midday heat.

“It’s like my brain is a ther-mo-mo-meter,” I say with a snort, as Trisha and I both walk out of our stalls.

“A what?” she shrieks, staggering against the wall.

“A THER. MO. ME. TER.”

Trisha is now sliding down the wall as she clutches her stomach, tears of mirth streaking makeup down her face.

This upsets me. This is a very bad thing.

“Your nice eyes! Brittney will be so sad.”

I grab a paper towel and crouch down beside Trisha, dabbing at her face. I do an excellent job. Trisha looks stunning now. She looks even better than before.

“Hailey!” she gasps, grabbing my wrist, suddenly very serious.

I put on a serious face too. She must have some very serious news.

“Hailey,” Trisha repeats, blinking a few times as she stares straight into my eyes, “we have to go dance.”

I realize that Trisha is right. There is no question about it. Dancing is a must, and it needs to happen as soon as possible.

I stand up and pull her to her feet, almost crashing down on top of her as I do.

“Dancing!” I shout, punching the air above my head.

We race out of the bathroom and over to the alcove where Brittney is still sitting with the guys.

“We have to dance!” shouts Trisha.

That’s when I notice the tray of shots sitting on the table.

“We were waiting for you,” says Steve, reaching for my arm and pulling me onto the couch beside him. “Up for some shots?”

Before I can even think of an answer, Trisha, who hasn’t even sat down, grabs one of the shot glasses and downs it before slamming it back onto the tray.

“Spicy,” she says, smacking her lips.

“It’s Fireball,” laughs one of Steve’s friends. “So I guess that’s our cue to drink?”

Everyone grabs a shot glass and clinks them together to cheers.

Why do people drink this stuff? I think, coughing at the burning in my throat.

Then the post-shot warmth blooms in my chest, and I turn to look at Steve. He’s so handsome. He has such a noble jaw. He smells like charisma.

“So are we dancing?” he asks. I blink at him and then nod vigorously.

“Let’s do this!” exclaims one of the guys, slapping his palms on the table before standing up.

The rest of us follow suit and we lurch towards the dance floor, knocking into each other like bumper cars. We clear a space for ourselves amongst the churning bodies. The music is thumping inside my chest like a second heartbeat. I throw my hands up in the air and start to sway my hips to the rhythm of the deep and pounding bass. Everything is moving in slow motion.

Steve’s face swims into focus in front of me. He’s smiling, his teeth tinted purple under the coloured lights. My lips have gone tingly and smiling back at him seems to take forever. I push the corners of my mouth up with my index fingers to make them move faster.

Steve starts laughing. I like making Steve laugh.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and moves his lips to my ear. Now all of me feels tingly.

“You okay?” he asks, loud enough that I can hear him over the music.

As an answer, I pull away from him and throw back my head to shout, “Woooooo!”

I start dancing again, smiling at Steve until he joins in. The swaying people around us push us closer and closer together until we’re pressed up against each other. I throw my arms around his neck and I feel his hands take hold of my hips as we keep moving to the rhythm of the music.

I breathe in the smell of his shirt. Steve is so comfy. He was always so comfy.

“I missed you Hailey,” I hear him say, almost shouting it into my ear to make up for the noise around us.

I look up at his face and focus my gaze on his mouth. I remember what it felt like to kiss him, to have those lips travel down my neck, up the insides of my thighs...

Liar, thinks the very small part of my brain that’s still sober. Steve only went down on you twice the entire time you were together.

I tell that part of my brain to hush.

We’ve been jostled to the edge of the dance floor by now. Steve leans against the railing that runs along the edge of the platform. I move one of my hands down to his chest. His grip on me slides from my hips to my lower back. We’re not dancing anymore.

I lean my head against his chest, closing my eyes to block out everything around us. He really is so comfy. Maybe I could just have a little nap right now. I feel him stroking my hair and I tell myself not to start purring. That would be weird.

I decide to ask Steve if we can go sit down. Opening my eyes, I catch a glimpse of one of the white couches a few feet from the dance floor.

Jordan is there. There’s a girl in a green dress with thick black hair sitting next to him, her entire body leaning towards him, but he’s not looking at her. He’s looking at me.

Everything seems to speed up as the realization of what I’m doing right now sinks in. The music morphs from a dull throb at the back of my mind to an obnoxious pop anthem blaring at migraine-inducing volume from the speakers right above our heads. Strobe lights are pulsing everywhere I look, flickering so fast my head spins.

I look up at Steve. He’s staring down at me with a hazy expression, fingers digging into my back as he presses my body even harder against him. His face is far too close to mine.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” I yell over the sound of a bass drop building up.

“What?” he shouts.

“Bathroom!”

I break away from his grasp and head towards the bathrooms without looking back. I have to pass right in front of Jordan’s table, but I don’t stop and he doesn’t call out to me.

There are a few women standing in the bathroom chatting, but I don’t care. I walk right up to the sink and start splashing water on my face and neck, trying to shock myself out of the sluggishness that still fills my brain.

Straightening up, I stare into the mirror. A girl with runny mascara and smeared lipstick stares back. Grabbing a paper towel, I dampen it under the sink and clean myself up as best as I can.

I still stumble a bit in my heels when heading back to the dance floor, but my thoughts are clear. I’ll find Brittney and Trisha and tell them I want to leave. The fact that I was just grinding up against my ex-boyfriend’s crotch in full view of the entire room before trying to take a nap on his chest is a clear sign that it’s time to go home.

I approach the edge of the dance floor and glance over to Jordan’s couch, but neither he nor the girl in the green dress are there.

Probably took her out back to kiss her against the wall and then never speak to her again.

“Hailey!” I hear someone shout.

Jordan is hovering over Trisha at one of the couches. She doesn’t look good. I hurry over to them.

“Trisha, are you okay?” I ask, ignoring Jordan and bending down towards her.

“So dizzy,” she moans.

“I saw her wander off the dance floor. I don’t think any of your friends noticed,” Jordan explains.

I whip around to face him. “I can take over now. You should go.”

He seems to shrink under my anger, but stays where he is. “I’ll help. I can get her some water.”

“Just go. I wouldn’t want you to keep your friend waiting.”

He blinks, confused, and then realizes who I’m referencing. “Hailey, that wasn’t anything. She’s just some secretary. I don’t—”

“Just some secretary?” I repeat, spitting the words out like poison. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Before he can reply, Brittney and one of Steve’s friends approach.

“Is she okay?” demands Brittney, looking to where Trisha is slumped over the table.

“She needs to go home,” I answer, and then turn to Jordan. “We’re fine now.”

His eyes dart between all of us for a moment, coming to rest on mine. I stare him down until he turns and walks away, my eyes boring holes into the back of his shirt until he disappears into the crowd.

“Okay,” I sigh, focusing back on Trisha. “Let’s go. I just have to— Oh shit. Steve still has my coat check slip.”

“We’ll take her outside and wait for you,” Brittney offers, as she and the guy she has with her pull Trisha to her feet.

I walk back over to the dance floor and step onto the edge of the platform. I spot Steve dancing with the rest of his friends, although ‘dancing’ might be a stretch. They’re all jumping straight up and down, banging their fists to the beat.

I thread my way through the gyrating masses and tap him on the shoulder.

“Hailey!” he shouts with a wide grin. He’s way drunker than I thought. “Where’d you go?”

I don’t waste time trying to make myself heard. I just grab his arm and drag him out of the crowd.

“Do you have my coat check thing?” I demand once we get far enough that it’s possible to talk.

“Why? You leaving? We were just getting started, Hailey.”

He reaches for my hand and tries to pull me back to the floor.

“Steve!” I snap, keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. “I need my coat. Trisha is sick and we have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, ruffling my hair. “Let’s go, then.”

All I really wanted was the slip, but I follow Steve to the coat check and take my jacket from him once it’s handed back, ignoring his attempt to help me into it.

Outside the bar, we find Trisha sitting on the sidewalk with her back against the wall of the building. Her two guardians are standing beside her. Brittney pulls me aside as we approach.

“I’m going back to Zack’s place”—she nods her head to indicate Steve’s friend— “but Trisha needs someone to help her home. Do you mind? I don’t know if you have other plans.” She glances towards Steve.

“I don’t,” I answer firmly. “I’ll get her settled at her place and then head back to mine.”

We both take a minute to order cars on our phones. I crouch down next to Trisha and ask for her address, coaxing it out of her amidst some incoherent moaning about Fireball.

Brittney’s car arrives first and she climbs into the back seat with Zack after asking me if I’m sure I’m okay. They pull away from the curb and I check on my ride’s progress. It’s still eight minutes away.

Steve is hovering beside me. I keep my eyes glued to my phone.

“Hey, Hailey,” he starts, shuffling his feet, “things got pretty hot back there, and it got me thinking.”

“Did it?” I ask, still staring at the tiny car moving on my screen.

“Come home with me.”

I jerk my head up as I feel his hand close around mine. He’s staring at me, eyes narrowed as he squints to keep me in focus. He sways to the throbbing beat from inside that can still be heard on the sidewalk.

I picture myself going home with him, falling into bed and ignoring the taste of alcohol on his breath as I let him pull my dress off my body. I imagine him sliding himself between my legs, thrusting with the frantic intensity that always made him look both excited and scared. The sex we had thrilled me with its newness, but if I’m honest with myself, I know I didn’t break up with Steve just because of our schedules.

Looking at him now, I realize that Steve was some kind of gateway drug, a mellow high that left me craving something stronger. I needed someone who could make me lose myself to my own body, make my back arch beneath me and coax me past the edge of control. I needed someone who would throw me up against a wall and fuck me so hard I forgot how to do anything but beg for more.

That was never going to be Steve.

“I can’t, Steve,” I say as my car pulls up beside us. “I just can’t.”