Lucky Day

You and your touring band were the grand finale to a two day music event called “Fixation”. Eight other bands were performing along with you. It was all over the alternative genres. The uproar of punks, bellows of metalheads, and haunting echoes of willowy goths. It all formed some sort of dark rainbow medley that summed up the music you created and your band played.

The smell of patchouli and sticky beer filled your head with a nostalgic high. Nothing had changed. The buzzing of the crowd vibrated the concrete floor. The dim amber and stained glass pendant lights glowed dimly along the bar’s walls. The dark wood bar with a mirror behind it was fogged by all the crowded bodies.

You sifted through everyone and entered the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty. The patrons were probably having a hard time finding it tucked in between a broken arcade machine and some folded chairs. You, on the other hand, could find it with your eyes closed. You had plenty of times, after your performances when you were first starting and the sweat of your brows hazed your sight over. Now, in your reunion with those sticker and graffiti encrusted walls, you watched yourself in the cracked mirror and splashed water from the rusted sink. From your jacket, you pulled out a small pouch. You shook it until your pencil eyeliner and a lighter dropped from it into your palm. You flicked the lighter and melted the end of the stubby eyeliner until it was malleable enough to smear it along your eyelid. Your eye twitched when you did the same to your bottom waterline. You used your pinky finger to clean it up and gave yourself one more look over before flinging the bathroom door open with your shoulder.

“Hey, Morgan, the usual? I’ll have to check if we have honey.” You walked up to the bar at the sound of your stage name and met the bartender with a smile. You couldn’t remember a time she didn’t work here. You had just finished signing the poster for this concert that the owner had pasted on the entrance wall of Headrush. So many bands had played here, including some of your greatest inspirations. When you were handed the glow-in-the-dark paint marker to sign your poster right beside its faded predecessor of your first ever paid show, you nearly got emotional. Nearly.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re too busy. I’ll grab a whiskey after the show.” “You sure? No pre-show jitters?” “Nothing alcohol would help.” She laughed and nodded to the girl beside you asking for two vodka-crans. “You know you don’t have to call me Morgan. You’re the one person I’ve given a pass.” “If I call you your real name,” she poured juice into two glasses, you watched her bruise-colored nails as she stirred the drinks, “Then everyone will.” “That’s why I’m giving you the pass specifically. One glare from you and no one would dare.” “Like the glare I used to give you when you tried to sneak through the back before you were old enough to come in?” “Or when I tried to trick you with a paper ID I Photoshopped in high school computer class.” She chuckled and handed the girl the two drinks. “Ten bucks, sweetheart.” The girl handed the bartender a twenty and waved her away when she offered a ten dollar bill in change. “Much appreciated!” The bartender called after her.

She moved back to the half-made drink in front of her, topping it off with ginger ale and a maraschino cherry and sliding it to the man sitting to your right. You couldn’t see his face, obscured by a pine green hat, but he nodded to her and pulled it close to him. You looked back at the bartender who had already moved on to the next drinks, pouring Jägermeister in a line of shot glasses. You could never understand how she kept track of all the orders, especially on a night like this.

“It’s because she knows the drinks are ridiculously cheap here,” you said, gesturing to the girl that had left to the concert room with her drinks, “You could stand to raise the prices.” “In what world would someone want me to do that? Are you so loaded now you want to pay more for drinks?” “Don’t come crying to me when this place gets turned into a Starbucks ‘cause you can’t make rent anymore.” “Over my dead body. Besides, I’m sure we can count on you to make a generous donation. We’ll put a framed photo of you right behind me, or name the bathrooms after you.” You laughed, “You should have done that for me by now, anyway. What are the odds that someone from this town makes it?” “Glad to see you haven’t gotten a big head.” “I had a big head before the fame, you know that better than anyone.” “Sure do,” the bartender smiled. From the other room, the band before you had started their last song. A person beside you thrust a Sharpie and CD of yours in your line of sight with a pleading look and you signed it for them. You gave them a nod as they thanked you and backed away. The bartender inclined her ear towards the preceding band’s ending song then tipped the can of Redbull in her hand as cheers to you.

“It’s almost time. Knock ‘em dead.”

You gave her a final nod and made your way to the door beside the show room to meet with your touring bandmates outside. While you were making your appearances in the building, most of the bands were preparing in the large white tent out back because Headrush itself was to small to hold everyone at once. You were stopped abruptly by your drummer who put her hand against your chest to halt you.

“Don’t be mad,” was all she said before you heard your guitarist throwing up in the trash can a few feet away. He swayed on his feet for a moment before falling on his ass and staying there looking defeated.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Again?”

“I know, I know. When he was watching the concert yesterday he drank a lot. And today he woke up with such a bad hangover–”

“That he thought the solution was to drink more?” You asked, almost at a loss for words.

Your drummer shrugged, dejected.

“He can’t go on,” you stated. You had turned your back to him, but could hear he had made his way back to the trash can, “We can’t perform without a guitarist. What the hell are we going to do?”

Fans had already gotten their fluorescent wristbands strapped on and your merch was almost sold out at the booth before you had even performed. You had to go on.

At least you had your drummer. She had toured with you from the very beginning. You always were thankful for her advice. Until now. As she dragged you by the shoulder back into the building while explaining her idea, you started to worry she had truly lost it.

“I know you don’t know him, but he can play the music,” She whispered, trying not to draw attention from the crowd around them.

“What if he can’t? People payed for this. They drove hours to see this show. You want me to put my trust in some stranger who’s never even been on stage?”

“What choice do we have?”

The man was sitting on a wooden bench at the bar when your drummer led you to him. It was the same man that had been beside you when you spoke to the bartender. He didn’t look like any guitarist in your genre. He wore a denim jacket that looked a size to big and his hair poked out in unruly curls from beneath his cap. Compared to your all black structured clothes, slick hair, and heeled boots, he stuck out like a sore thumb. People would probably figure he was a drunk guy on a night off from his nine-to-five who got the bright idea to bum rush the stage.

Your eyes flicked to the drink he was nursing in one hand. The condensation of the sweating glass bled through its cork coaster and onto the dark wood bar top. For him to have managed to get a seat at the stools, he must have been there a while, probably before even you arrived. He met your stare for a silent moment before raising a hand to shake. You ignored it, keeping your arms crossed.

“You’re not drunk, are you?” You asked in place of a greeting.

“No, Shirley Temple.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. you closed your eyes and rubbed your temple.

Your guitarist had left you putting your faith in a man half your height who looked like he had gotten pulled away from his weekly Dungeons and Dragons meet up. On a normal concert night, the nerdy guy schtick would have worked for you and you would have gladly spent your post-show high with him in one of the dim bathroom stalls. But right now, you felt a stress headache coming on and the nonchalant look on his face wasn’t helping.

“I’m a fan,” He said, in what seemed to you like a very flimsy olive branch.

“I would hope so, if you’re going to play the music. You can play it. Can’t you?”

“Yeah, wanna practice?”

“We don’t have time,” your drummer interrupted, “We have to go on.”

The bartender looked at you with concern, but you gave her your best reassuring smile. You always ended up making things go your way. You were lucky like that. That was how you got here in the first place, after all. You puffed the air out of your cheeks and made your way to the stage.

Your hair stuck to your forehead blocking your vision. Your eyesight melted into bleeding colors as the bright stage lights spun in hypnotizing circles. The pads of your fingertips sweat condensation on the base of the microphone. Your veins were sparking live wires. The cheering of Headrush’s audience in the cramped stage room is louder than the speakers. Even louder than some of the sold out arenas you had played. You felt more at home here than in any penthouse or five star hotel. This was why you started all of this. This was why you do it.

You spared a glance to the side to check on your new guitarist. You had caught his name, Spencer, moments before you had to start. He was focused— trying his best to not fuck this up, evidently. His eyes were always either screwed shut or glazed over in a meditative concentration. He was avoiding eye contact with the crowd. His tongue rubbed the top of his lip as he played. Your own mouth tasted metallic.

When he looked up to you, you didn’t try to hide that you had been watching him. There was something comforting about his grounded presence. It was a cool rag laid on the back of your neck, a welcome reprieve from the heat. You gave him a nod, barely perceptible. You could be worse, I guess. His face broke in a wide genuine smile like a puppy being applauded for rolling over.

When your three song performance came to an end, Spencer laid the guitar on the stand and turned to exit the stage. You shook from your euphoric haze fast enough to grasp him by the shoulder.

“Look at your crowd,” you commanded, your voice hoarse and breathless.

Spencer looked out to the audience and you felt his shoulder tremble under your hand.

“You never get used to it,” you smiled. Your shot voice was almost inaudible over the din around you.

“Thank you, Headrush!”

You threw a fist up and the crowd reanimated. Your drummer let out a shout. Spencer waved politely like he was on a thanksgiving float.

“And thank you to our guest guitarist, Spencer!”

Your legs felt week as you exited the the stage. You pushed open the back door and breathed in the chilly tobacco laced air. You knew your drummer had joined the throngs of people at the merch table. She always liked to bask in the immediate afterglow of a performance. You, on the other hand, always needed a moment alone to recuperate. It seemed Spencer didn’t get that memo. He caught the door behind you and joined you against the Headrush's brick wall.

In mutual silence, the two of you watched the other bands pack up in their tour buses and minivans. A few shouted compliments to you on your performance and you raised a brief hand to them in thanks. The night had gone great, all things considered. Maybe better than it would have if you’d had your usual guitarist. He was probably devouring a huge breakfast at a 24-hour diner by now. The thought was so endearing you almost didn't want to kill him for what he did tonight.

You feigned nonchalance by absentmindedly kicking a small rock around with the tip of your boot. People were leaving Headrush to head home and their chatter joined the wonted din of crickets and distant traffic. Some lit cigarettes, the red embers bobbing about like fireflies as they inhaled languid puffs.

“Thank you.”

Spencer was looking up at you with such a sincere smile you looked away immediately. The stormy gray of his eyes had glistened in the warm light of the bar’s wall lamps. You still saw them even as you looked out into the now vacant lot.

“I forgot you were here,” you reply, evenly.

Even so, you felt your face grow hot. You couldn’t even remember the last time that happened. You have had quite enough models in your DMs and “strictly-business” celebrity relationships to approach the idea of romance with nothing but ennui. All the hot-blooded songs you wrote about beautiful love and devastating break-ups were fiction. Which made those evil little butterflies in your stomach that much more concerning.

Spencer had turned to look in front of him, but still with a small smile.

“I should be thanking you,” you sigh purposely overdramatic, “you saved the night, after all.”

“You would have been been fine with or without me.”

“That’s true.”

Spencer laughed out curtly and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Really, though,” you turned to him and waited for him to meet your gaze, “You were great. Better than great. You made this a night to remember.”

Spencer shrugged and turned away, awkward with the direct praise. The two of you fell into another comfortable silence broken finally by your drummer poking her head out the door from inside. For a moment, her eyes flitted between Spencer and you before giving you a toothy grin and letting you know she was heading home. You thanked her for her help and Spencer gave her a quiet wave.

“Does she play with you every show?” Spencer asked after she had left the two of you alone again.

“She tours with me, but with everything else I’m pretty much solo.”

Spencer made a hmm sound in his throat. Before surprising you with a light punch on the arm.

“Maybe we could be a duo.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Fine, fine. Would you settle for a drink?”

"If you're paying, big shot."

Spencer’s not really my cup of tea, but i know he’s the people’s princess, so here’s this.

“When we last left off, our couples were about to reunite after three nights apart. Our girls stayed here, at the villa, while the boys,” The host paused. Arasha assumed it was so the people watching at home could boo or chuckle when reminded of how the men had acted.

“Well, our lads found themselves at Casa Amor, the Love House!”

Arasha could hear the women around the bonfire, the ones who had to stay at the villa, scoff and remark to each other.

The host must have been speaking to the women directly, “We all saw how devastated all of you were when you woke up to the boys being gone. Especially after learning they were in a separate house with a whole new group of girls. How are we feeling now?”

There was a brief pause before a high pitch voice said, “I’m feeling good. I mean, Enrique and I haven’t been coupled together for long, but I know his heart. I know he wouldn’t hurt me.”

Arasha looked over to Enrique standing ahead of her. He was clearly shitting bricks, eyes wide and nervously licking his lips. He let go of the hand of the girl he had chosen to bring back with him and rubbed his face.

This was going to be a bloodbath.

Arasha had auditioned for Love Island on a whim. It had just started airing its American version a few years ago and she figured it couldn’t hurt. The chances of meeting a guy and actually falling in love were slim, falling in love and not getting emotionally cheated on in the process was even slimmer, but what was the harm? She was young, single, and bored.

She knew from watching every season of the show, both U.S. and U.K., that getting labeled the hopeless romantic was basically asking to get stepped on. So when the team behind Love Island stamped Arasha with it, she knew it was over before it started.

They had led her onto a set with a blank wall in sunset tones and neon lights. She was told to say things about herself, but play it up for the camera. But don’t play it up too much. But don’t be boring either. Every girl had to have their archetype and personality – the girl-next-door, the maneater, the one who is just “blonde”. Even if the personality wasn’t hers, clearly, all she could do was look good for the promo photos and pray her entrance song wasn’t terrible.

When they all arrived in Fiji, Arasha had finally started to get excited. While what she said for her intro wasn’t entirely herself, production couldn’t control her as strictly once she entered the Villa. She had finally figured out what her “thing” would be, friendship. It sounded corny, but so was this whole show. Besides, its not like Arasha was dead set on finding a guy and nothing else. A lot of girls came into the Villa with the mindset of “I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to find love” and Arasha knew from watching the show that that got tired really quick. The friendships were the best part half the time!

So she had it all planned out. Maybe she’ll be the first person in the Villa, and as the girls came in, she’d greet all of them warmly with a kiss on the cheek and pour them champagne and say, “Forget the guys, ladies. I wanna hear about you.” and everyone at home would comment on her social media (which was now in the hands of a most trusted friend) and on the voting app, “finally, a ‘girl’s girl’.” Not only would Arasha label herself a ‘girl’s girl’, she was a ‘woman’s woman’. She wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was, but she liked the ring of it.

And whose to say, maybe down the line, one or two of Arasha’s gorgeous women co-stars might send her a little message saying she’d like to get to know Arasha now that they’re out of the villa. That’s not what this is for, though! No! Arasha is just trying to show how important friendships are for women, they just all happen to be drop dead gorgeous women.

In the end it didn’t matter, because Arasha – along with seven other women – was pulled aside a while before filming was set to begin. Arasha was so confused. She was the first to admit that she didn’t know everything about the behind the scenes of reality shows, but wasn’t this unorthodox? She had been banking on not seeing the girls until they were in the Villa to make the best first impression, now here she was in an oversized t-shirt and joggers awkwardly huddling with the rest of them before the show even began. She had really been counting on the lukewarm champagne to work its wonders.

Then, the bomb was dropped on the girls. They weren’t going to the Villa, they were going to Casa Amor. The reactions of the women fell between anger and sadness. One girl looked like she was going to start crying. Arasha just stood shocked. She thought it was bad enough everyone had to share one bathroom; somehow this was worse.

Love Island had introduced Casa Amor a few seasons into the U.K. addition with the hopes of garnering more drama and they certainly succeeded. The premise was that the show would start off as it always had, with the men and women meeting, coupling up, and getting to know each other. Throw in some “bombshells” throughout the process, and you have some drama, but the chance of couples actually getting somewhere and forming connections is pretty high.

Then, halfway through their time in the Villa, either the men or the women are sent to Casa Amor while the others stay at the Villa. Either way, the women get introduced to eight new guys and the men get introduced to eight new girls. They spend three days together.

After that, and here’s where it gets grim, each member of one of the original couples chooses whether or not they want to couple up with one of the newcomers instead of the person they were with before. They then all join back up around the Villa’s fire pit, reuniting one by one. If someone decides to pick someone new and so does the person they were coupled up with previously, both new couples are safe. If your previous person doesn’t choose someone new and decides they truly like you and that you wouldn’t choose someone new over them. Well, that now single person is usually sent home or at the very least sleeping alone outside.

It definitely creates drama. That was the idea after all. But there is also one little issue that gums up the works. The issue is that most of the men that sign up and go on a show like Love Island are terrible fuckboy trash heaps. They always always seem to develop terrible cases of “goldfish brain” the second they see the new women, forgetting their previous partner immediately. And who do the viewers blame for this? Why, the new woman, of course.

And Arasha was the new woman. Wobbling in her high heels and tugging at the shimmery tight orange dress production squeezed her in, Arasha’s mind was swimming. It hadn’t been hard to get here, at the side of a guy she had convinced to bring her back. She had gone into Casa Amor with a simple plan: trick a man into liking her by using her evil womanly magics and gain a spot at the Villa. Lucky for her, the guy standing beside her (Cody? or was it Chris? Carp?) had chosen her from the line up after their lovestruck conversation of him talking at her about his lucrative investment strategies his dad taught him and her nodding occasionally while subtly watching the other girls play an oh-so-interesting game of beach volleyball. Female sports were very important to Arasha after all! She really was a woman’s woman.

What Arasha hadn’t really considered was how the Casa Amor girls were never really a part of the family when they make it back to the Villa. Oh God, the girls were gonna hate her. Even her fellow Casa Amor girls were avoiding her eye contact. They were actually here to find love with these men and now it was them and their Calvin Klein models against the world. Arasha tried to rack her mind on what she can say.

Take him! I don’t even want him!

No, everyone would think she’s snaky.

I’m not even really looking for love!

Absolutely not. That’s how you get voted off the show at the first opportunity.

Callum (or was it Colby? Cramp?) wrapped his hand around Arasha’s but she swatted it away. Maybe she can use his white button-up shirt as a flag of surrender. Maybe if she faints it will garner sympathy. Maybe if she bundles some of the fake potted flowers she can make a peace offering bouquet.

“— and do you think he will come in with another connection?”

The host had moved on to what must have been the last girl, if Arasha’s math was right.

“No. I don’t think Cameron would do that to me…”

Cameron! That’s what it was. Arasha’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That would have been a bad look if she had called him the wrong name. But wait…

Arasha’s head snapped up. If Cameron’s partner was the last girl…

“Cameron knows what we have,” the voice continued, “We’ve even talked about the future. We agreed I’ll move to Utah with him when we make it out of here together.”

“Fuck!” Arasha swore under her breath. A camera man beside her gave her a dirty look.

If she was the last one, that means she’s the dramatic finale. This is the couple people are banking on. This is the couple that people think will go all the way and Arasha just wedged her way between them like wilted spinach between two pearly white teeth. This is bad. Really bad. The friend manning her social media had probably lost their mind by now and it was only going to get worse.

“My connection with you is way stronger, Arasha,” Cameron whispered to her. It felt incredibly hollow. For one, he still couldn’t bother to pronounce her name right; and two, she wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line up with the rest of the guys in the Villa, let alone see a future with him. The future she wants is cheering the girls on during their beach volleyball matches while she sips water right out of a coconut, and that dream was looking less and less likely.

She was now bad guy numero uno. Far more so than the man that’s cheating in the first place. Something, something, patriarchy. Arasha ran her hands over her face at risk of smearing the rose gold glitter adorning her eyes and the lipstick color she never would have chosen herself. Maybe there was still enough time to jump into the ocean and swim back home…

One by one, each couple reunited and Court watched in amused horror. If the girl had been loyal, the guy hadn’t and vice versa. On and on, couple after couple. It was looking like a seven car pile-up crash, and she was behind the wheel of the eighth. The night was cold. Court hugged their bare arms. The girl they were closest to had stayed loyal and nearly jumped for joy to see the man she was coupled with had too. At least something good came out of this. They had $100,000 winners written all over them. Court huffed. She had been dreaming of all the things they could have done with that money and now it was washed away. Her fault for choosing Cameron to be her partner in crime when it was seemingly impossible for him to keep it in his pants. Court kicked themself for all the times they fantasized of taking all the money instead of splitting it with Cameron. This was karma.

Her friend and her partner sat down, clutching each others hands like he had just returned from war. The host – in all her glossy glory — turned her attention to Court. Court stood on shaky legs. She felt like a baby horse.

The host asked a few questions to be drama fodder in the edit later, while Court tried her best to sound like she really believed Cameron loved her. At least she got to look at the host. She was blonde last season, but the brunette is stunning on her. Were those bisexual rumors true? Would I be her type? Court had mastered thinking one thing and saying another since she stepped out of the shiny rented jeep and had to pretend she didn’t lose all attraction for the men as soon as they opened their mouths.

“Okay, Courtney,” The host sighed, looking more stressed than they did, “Here comes Cameron.”

Court turned to the arch of fake leaves. They clenched and unclenched their fists and tried to breathe steadily through lungs that felt much smaller. Cameron’s shiny black loafer was the first thing to emerge before his full form made his way to her. For a moment, relief spiked through her, then she saw a hand nestled in his. The woman who walked beside him was clearly nervous. She was walking as far behind him as she could without ungrasping his hand and her eyes darted around the fire pit to all the women seated. Finally, she met Court’s eyes with what could only be fear. Court was confused. This wasn’t how the other Casa Amor bombshells had entered. They had sauntered in like femme fatales or snuggled up to their men with pride. This girl looked at Court like it was their opinion that mattered. Her eyes were so big. Shiny, with long framing lashes. Her hair fell like ribbons of black silk down her elegant fawn shoulders. The glint of the dress hugging her curves lit her aflame with its reflection of the fire pit. Her parted lips looked so soft and decaden— What are you doing, Court! Stop it!

Court shook their head and looked to the host to see that she had clearly asked a question.

“Sorry, I–uh…” Court stammered.

“She’s in shock!” one of the girl’s behind her cried, “How could you do this to them, Cam! They trusted you!”

“We’re here for you,” another girl called.

“Tell him off!”

“Be strong, Court!”

While misplaced, their encouraging was sweet. Court shook out her shoulders and looked at Cameron. She had forgotten he was even there.

“I’m, um, hurt.”

“Ugh!” a girl from behind cried in sympathy, igniting a discord behind her of enraged women.

“I’m, like, really hurt, Cam,” Court said, “Heartbroken. I was totally going to move to Utah for you. I definitely planned to actually do that. But I guess, not anymore.”

Cameron at least had the decency to look ashamed but the girl beside him looked Court up and down. Was she sizing them up? A little voice in Court’s head said she was actually checking them out, but there was no way.

“Arasha,” The host acknowledged, “How do you feel right now? Is this hard for you?”

“I mean, yeah, it is,” The woman admitted, Her tone was blunt and genuine, “I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. Especially the women here. The very lovely women, uh, in front of me.”

“I’m sure, though,” The host replied, “That’s not as important as your feelings for Cameron?”

The woman stood still for a moment as if forgetting herself and gave a dramatic, “Oh yeah, no. Nothing is more important than Cam!”

She gave him a dramatic pat on the chest and laughed nervously.

“Arasha,” Court whispered to themself. Everyone looked her way, including Arasha.

“I was just saying it to hear it,” Court confessed quietly, “Arasha.”

“Yeah,” a girl behind her exclaimed, “She’s the one who stole Cam!”

The rest of the girls ignited in rage on Court’s behalf but her attention stayed on a confused Arasha. She couldn’t blame Cameron if she tried.

Court then spent the next hour or so avoiding everyone like the plague. When someone asked if she was okay, she spun a lie that the betrayal had hurt so bad she contracted a stomach bug and hid away in some thick foliage with a purloined bag of chips.

When people had started dispersing as the night grew late, Court walked back to the lounge area to grab their things. Most of the newly formed Casa Amor couples huddled around the fire pit debriefing.

“Ugh, don’t even look over there,” her friend sneered, appearing at her side and giving her shoulder a pat, “I can not believe Cam did that.”

“It’s fine,” Court replied, “I’m okay.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t need to pretend to be strong with us,” her friend gave her a pitying look, “He’ll come crawling back. She has nothing on you, girl!”

Her friend left her to get ready for bed. Court looked back at the fire pit to see Arasha already looking at her, seemingly unaware of Cameron talking at her side. Neither of them broke the eye contact until Court finally turned away.

“I think she’s beautiful,” Court confessed to the empty night air before walking up stairs to sleep alone.

Arasha lay in the cloud-like bed beside Cameron. The lights hadn’t shut off yet in the communal sleeping room, and she stared at the ceiling. The new girls that had joined her from Casa Amor were gawking at the Villa in their own friend group while the original girls watched them with thinly veiled disapproval.

“Isn’t this bedroom so much nicer than Casa, Arasha.”

Arasha looked away from the ceiling to one of the girls she came in with giving her a pitying look from the foot of her bed. She replied with a half-hearted nod. It’s harder to enjoy the big closets and quirky neon signs when half the people around you want to strangle you in your sleep.

“You think the other girls will come around to us?” Arasha asked, more to herself than anyone else.

The girl gave Arasha’s foot a light squeeze through the blanket.

“Of course! We’re all here to have fun. We’ll work it out. Maybe you should talk to Courtney.”

Arasha’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s a good idea. I should talk to them tonight.”

“Yes!” The girl smiled, “Air things out now so you and Cameron can be happy together without worrying.”

That wasn’t exactly what Arasha was scheming for, but it was definitely a solid plan. She turned to Cameron who already almost asleep.

“It's not good to go to bed angry. I'm going to talk to Court."

“You're so right babe, "Cameron kissed her forehead. “You’re such a girl’s girl.”

Arasha gave him her best smile and slipped out of the bed. As soon as she was out of his sight she wiped the kiss from her forehead and ran up to Soul Ties. It was the main spot people slept in when there was no free beds. Basically a pit of softness overflowing with bright colored pillows.

When she made her way to the top of the stairs and around the corner to Soul Ties, she looked down to see a curled up form hidden under blankets and pillows. Court’s head peeked out from the pile and looked at Arasha with hesitant curiosity.

“Hey, uh,” Arasha rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, “Do you mind if I…”

Court scooted over to make room. Arasha flopped knees first down into the soft pit.

“Not bad, right?” Court smiled, “I think it’s better than the beds.”

“The privacy is a plus. Kind of gross to think of all the couples that made out right here."

Court chuckled. After it fizzled out, she watched Arasha.

“So, hey,” Arasha said, looking away in embarrassment, “I’m sorry for stealing Collin. I know he was your–”

“Cameron?”

“Oh, right, Cameron, whatever. I just… I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m fine.”

“No really, this is so fucked up, I shouldn’t have said yes.”

“Arasha, I don’t care.”

Arasha looked up to see Court watching her with a small smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“I was a little at first. But, I would say something good came from it too.”

“Oh,” Arasha said, “I would say the same.”

Arasha and Court watched each other silently. The quiet felt good after the constant noise of the past few days.

“You, know,” Court spoke slowly, “It would be for the best if we made up. But, I still care for Cam so much. I just don’t think I can forgive you.”

Arasha eyed Court confused. What she said made sense for how these sort of issues happen on the show, but her expression didn’t match them. It was like she was conveying something else with her eyes. The light bulb lit up in Arasha’s head. Oh, she saw where this was going.

“Well,” Arasha combated, “Cam is mine now. I don’t know what he saw in you. I guess I’ll have to get to know you better to find out.”

Court smiled so wide her eyes crinkled.

“You know what they say,” she opened up the blankets for Arasha to join her, “Keep your enemies closer.”

Arasha dove in without question and sighed dreamily at the warm comfort. The two lay under the blankets, giggling nose to nose like mischievous kids at a sleepover. For the first time since stepping off the plane those weeks ago, Arasha was starting think she might just find love on this goddamn island.

“Court, unrelated but… do you ever play beach volleyball?”

You weren’t an important member of crew, so no one noticed when you slunk off to your car. You lowered your sun visor in hopes to give you some shade and tilted your chair back. You draped your jacket over you like a blanket and jammed your eyes shut. Just a moment, just one single moment of sleep and you can make it through the day.

knock-knock

You opened your eyes with great effort to see Amanda bent beside your window. You roll it down and smile self-deprecatingly at her. You didn’t know her well. Your job didn’t require you to be in direct contact with her. But whenever you could chat with her, you really enjoyed her company. Now, though, you couldn't say you were happy to see her.

"Sorry, just trying to get some sleep," you said, hoarsely.

"I’m sorry to bother you. I was grabbing something from my car,” She pointed behind her to show the two of you were parked beside each other, “I just–why don’t you sleep on one of the couch’s inside."

“No,no," you were too proud to let the people you worked with see you nap on the clock.

Smosh had been a very welcoming job for you compared to the other nightmares you worked before it, but you still didn’t feel comfortable enough. Even Amanda seeing you made you deeply embarrassed, and you had always felt a comfort around her.

"You can say you feel sick and go home and rest," she offered.

"This is every day for me, Amanda," you chuckled, "but thank you, really.”

"Every day?" she reached through the window and patted your shoulder gently. Your eyelids grew slightly heavy at her touch, "that’s not good. You know, I have a tea recipe that will knock you out in no time.”

"I’ve tried tea, trust me. What is it, 'Sleepy Time'?"

‘Well this tea is a good three-quarters liquor.’

You snorted.

"Will you try it for me?"

You couldn’t stand to disappoint her, especially when the way to make her happiest was to let her help you.

Amanda pulled her long coat over her shoulders and buttoned it. She tucked her scarf into it and pulled her hair out from within its collar. She was talking about something you found hard to follow. Your head was growing cloudy with sleep. The two of you had fallen into this routine in the past few months. After she had helped you the first time, you had been mortified to stand at her doorstep asking for help again, but she had ushered you inside without a word. Now, the relief you felt far outweighed the shot to your pride that asking for help was.

If all went well, you would end the night passed out on her couch, one arm hanging over it, forgotten in your sleep spell.

It worked like hypnosis. The two of you followed an exact routine, each act was the swing of a pocket watch. Sometimes, by the first swing, sleep had already consumed you. Amanda would turn on one of her favorite movies—some times a pleasant and fantastical film about witches, other times a gripping thriller of a woman getting revenge. She would sit beside you on her decadent corduroy couch and wrap a heavy quilt blanket over your relaxed form. You’d relax on her side and she’d run her hands through your hair. Slowly and quietly, she would speak through the movie, talking about her thoughts on it, or even just about her day. The steady rise and fall of her body against yours was all you needed some nights. Before this, when you were on your own, you had tried all kinds of rain sounds and whale noises, none of which worked. But Amanda’s voice sent calm waves through your mind. You would never forget the time you drooled a bit on her shoulder and horridly awoke to wipe it off. She had laughed so suddenly she threw her head back and pulled you in closer, reassuring you it was fine.

Tonight, by the end of the movie, you weren’t any closer to falling asleep. Watching Double Jeopardy, a movie in which a woman kills her husband twice, you were still wide awake by the end of it. Amanda had told you she expected you would be, she just couldn’t help showing you one of her favorite movies.

“We could just hang out during the day, too, you know?” you joked as your stretched during the credits. If anything, you felt more awake.

“I don’t want you to get sick of me,” Amanda replied while she rubbed circles on your back.

“That’ll never happen, trust me. Plan B?”

If the movie didn’t work, the second pocket watch swing was a walk. You watched Amanda check her reflection in her mirror beside her front door. She turned back to you to check if you were ready to go. You had learned that it was best to wear you pajamas under you coat to achieve maximum sleep efficiency (which is a term Amanda joked you should get trademarked) so that all you had to do was pull off your boots, throw off your coat, and collapse on the couch if sleep came to you.

Once, tiredness had overtaken you so suddenly in the middle of the walk that you asked Amanda to leave you on one of the park benches along your path for a while. She obviously said no, but offered to carry you back to her home. You assumed she was joking and laughed it off. Luckily, the mental image of Amanda carrying you in her arms woke you right up.

You had grown accustomed to the path around Amanda’s house from the walks prior, but still enjoyed the tour she gave you. Because of the late hour, she kept her voice quiet. Her low whisper helped ferry you to sleep, but you also loved the passion in her voice as she talked about her little neighborhood with pride. After ten minutes, Amanda stopped walking to look out at the pond that shouldered the path from below a small hill. Her face turned to surprise, and she waved over to you. When you followed her gaze, you gasped quietly.

“I think we interrupted a duck HOA meeting,” you said, watching the oddly busy pond given how late it was.

“Ah, or a secret duck rendezvous,” Amanda offered.

“Or a duckling soccer game. Look at all the babies!”

Ducks bobbed about the pond, many accompanied by their fuzzy little ducklings trying to keep up behind them. They swirled in slow patterns, ruffling their wings and dipping their heads in the water.

“Maybe if we’re quiet we can see them closer,” you whispered.

“Be careful there’s—”

You made a move off the trail. Amanda tried to pull you back but it was too late, you splashed into a deep mud puddle that was invisible in the darkness. You winced, pulling your shoe out slowly. You turned to check Amanda and was thankful to see she hadn’t been caught in the crossfire before looking down and seeing the damage on your clothes. Both of the legs of your pajama paints were splattered by polka dots of mud. You felt the cold wet seep into your socks and shook your feet in a futile attempts to shake the chill that had soaked into you.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Amanda said while trying and failing to hide a laugh.

“The worst part is,” you groaned as the two of you made your way back to Amanda’s house, the squelching of your shoes obnoxiously loud in the quiet night, “I’m wide awake again.”

“We should add a hot shower to the sleeping regimen,” your voice was muffled as you dried your hair clumsily with a towel.

“I would have ran you a nice bath, but you had some serious scrubbing you needed to do,” Amanda was busying herself in her kitchen pulling two glasses from her cabinet.

You could only imagine the luxurious bath Amanda was sure to arrange. Flower petals and milky bubble bath, it would be heaven. Your eyes drifted shut at the thought. The shower you had was wonderful, too. It felt so strange to be in such an intimate place of another person, using her fragrant body wash and soft washcloths.

You always brought your own pajamas to Amanda’s house. It was usually a pair of pajama pants with some cartoon animal on them you had found on sale and the same t-shirt with the logo of a baseball team on it you had never even seen play (but man, was it soft). After the mud disaster, Amanda had gone into her bedroom and picked out a pajama set she thought would fit you best. The set was so delicate, with little buttons on the shirt and sewn cuffs on the sleeves and pant legs. Amanda had put them in her dryer to warm them up while you showered and she slipped in the bathroom to place them folded by the sink. Putting them on felt like an embrace. You weren’t sure you could sleep in anything less, now.

You sat in one of Amanda’s dining chairs and folded the wet towel behind you. For better or worse, you were still awake. It was time for the third pocket watch swing.

Amanda sat down a glass in front of you.

“Way less alcohol in this one than usual. I’m trying something new.”

“I’m sure my liver is thankful,” you lifted your glass to get a better look.

Your nightcap at Amanda’s house was usually a swig of something strong. It did the job as the final one-two punch to put you asleep. This, though, looked much different. The color was still dark, but more berry-like in hue. There was a squeezed lemon slice and a stout stick of cinnamon floating in it. As you swirled the glass, you saw what looked like spice along the bottom.

“It’s my spin on a Hot Toddy,” Amanda sat in the chair in front of you and took a slow, cautious sip. Her mouth bloomed into a satisfied smile, “Not too bad.”

“You could call it a ‘Hot Mandy’”, you joked and then immediately wanted to fall over and die. Amanda laughed and you hid your blushed face by taking a big drink from your glass.

It was delicious. It had a fruity flavor, but herbs and spices whirled through it. Underneath it all was the fierce burn of whiskey calmed by tongue-coating honey. More than anything, it was warm. Your shoulders sagged and your blinks slowed until your eyes were closed.

Despite the calm sensation it had draped over you, the light bulb of your brain was still on. You felt relaxed, but not ready to sleep. You opened your eyes to see Amanda still sitting in front of you, her head rested on her hand, one leg draped over the other. She was watching you curiously.

“What do you think?”

“Very good, but I think I need one last push,” you yawned, “to really fall asleep. Time for plan—what are we on—D? What more could we possibly do.”

“Funny you say that, I think I have one last idea.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. One that I’ve had since the beginning.”

You watched Amanda rise from her chair. She held out her hand to you and you accepted.

“I think the reason you aren’t sleeping,” Amanda said in a low voice, “is because you’re trying to do it on that couch. Maybe,” she led you by the hand into her bedroom, “you need somewhere nicer.”

“I couldn’t take your bed from you, Amanda,” you turned to her, “I could never do that.”

“Who says I’ll be going anywhere else,” she ran her hand along your shoulder.

“Well,” you smiled, “In that case...”

That night, instead of sleeping on the couch, Amanda joined you under the smooth covers of her bed and wrapped you in her arms. She enveloped you in every way. Her body was so warm and the the gentle air of her breaths on the shell of your ear were soft as moonlight. It worked instantly. Your brain had been pushing sleep away and Amanda let it in for you. She was a guide, deciding what was best for your mind.

As the night went on and you two entered into the pillowy rhythm of sleep and shifted around, you found you slept just as well with her in your arms as you had with her around you. Holding someone so precious to you, not only because of the help she so happily gave, but for how much tenderness you truly did hold for her.

I tried to write something 2k words or less, which is agony for someone like me: a chronic rambler.

Plucking any lint from your ink blue sweater and swiping your hand down your pant legs to flatten the creases. You looked down to your bare feet. Should you put house shoes on? What do house shoes say about a person? Maybe the fun fuzzy cat slippers Amanda had gotten you as a gag gift all those years ago to celebrate the two of you making the big move to California? Or maybe just leave your feet bare. Would it read as effortless? Oh, how funny. I forgot you guys were coming today! You shook your head at the idea and threw on some socks as a compromise.

You shuffled down the steps of your condo, down to your kitchen. Beside it was your living room that led to your front door. You had scrutinized your downstairs countless times today to spot anything you didn’t want your guests to see. You knew your place was nice—you had worked your ass off for it—but your design taste was sorely lacking. You just bought whatever you liked and put it wherever there was space. You just hoped your guests would find it endearing.

Your next inner argument was music. That alone was a fifteen minute internal battle on what to play. You settled for a R&B CD you had burned for yourself, with little drawings scribbled on it in colored Sharpie. It was juvenile, but made you happy. It reminded you of your teen years, burning CDs with songs you had organized yourself to give to the boy who sat in front of you in World History. You would draw swirls and stars on the disc in his favorite colors and fold a piece of notebook paper around it to keep it safe, slipping it into his backpack when he left it alone beside his desk. You stopped a few weeks later when you found one of them in the classroom’s trash can, nestled below pencil shavings and empty potato chip bags. None of that mattered now. You scolded yourself for even thinking about it. These were friends coming over (or “soon-to-be” friends, if all went well). The music wouldn’t be on for long, just until your four guests got situated.

Sitting on the windowsill beside the stereo, your cat eyed you, aloof.

“You should like this song, she's where you got your name.”

Janet Catson licked at her paw in reply.

Earlier that week, a popular romance reality show had announced its season finale. Amanda had talked about the show constantly with you and you listened politely. It wasn’t like the show didn’t seem interesting to you—you had found an unapologetic delight with other trashy televised disasters similar to it in the past—you just could never seem to find the time to watch it. If you weren’t working, you were sleeping. Any time you got to do anything else, you tried to be around other people. Margaritas with Amanda at your favorite local restaurant were the only things keeping you from going stir crazy. Even if those lunches mainly consisted of absorbing trashy reality TV through Amanda’s impassioned retelling. Soaking up third-hand gossip like osmosis was still better than sitting alone in your condo and idly playing solitaire or listening to NPR with your head in your hands. At least that’s what your therapist says.

At some point in these lunches, when the fishbowl-sized margaritas had done there worst, Amanda would broach the subject you dreaded the most.

“So,” Amanda sang resting her hand on her chin, “Have you met anyone?”

“On my drive from work to home and back again? No, Amanda, I have not,” You replied in good humor.

In all honesty, you didn’t mind Amanda’s inquiries. It felt reassuring to know dating was still something you should be worried about. You weren’t a dinosaur, just a year older than Amanda herself, but you were starting to feel like your job was spreading you thin. Many people had told you that you were in the “prime of your life”. You weren’t sure you agreed with them.

The only time Amanda’s prying on your dating life had been unwelcome was her attempt of introducing you to someone. You had met up with her at a club one night per her request, thinking it was a normal night out for the two of you. A normal night being you holding Amanda’s martini and pretending to not know her while she belted an ABBA song into the bar’s karaoke microphone.

That night, however, Amanda had met you outside. A green jacket you didn’t recognize was slung around her shoulders. The smile she gave you made you hesitate but she pulled you into a hug. Your face rubbed into the jacket and you inhaled its smell. It smelled like cologne, but not the kind most men your age wore that tended to smell like a cigar box. This smelled youthful. Fresh and woody, with something invigorating running through it. Was it lemongrass? Maybe bergamot? When the two of you separated, you began to ask where she had gotten the jacket, but she drew you in close in a side hug and spoke low.

“You know I love you, right?”

Your brows furrowed in suspicion. The two of you were blocking the bar’s entrance and Amanda led you in while still holding you tight to her.

“I just, well,” She began, “I was at work, you know?”

You nodded. You had a faint idea where Amanda worked. You knew it was a creative job – one where Amanda could do the things she always wanted – which was great. The details of it, however, were lost on you. You knew it had something to do with a company online, which wasn’t really your thing. You had thought it wasn’t Amanda’s thing either, but you were glad she found joy in it. What that job now had to do with you, however, you had no idea.

“Well,” Amanda sang out, “There’s someone there I thought you might… get along with.”

“Get along with?”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t drag you here if I thought there wouldn’t be a spark.”

“Are you setting me up on a date?”

“No, no. Okay, yes, it is a date,” Amanda sighed and stopped walking as the two of you passed the coat room and entered the club, “But be honest, if I had told you about it or organized it ahead of time, you would have never agreed. Or you would have pretended you were sick and canceled.”

“You’re not wrong,” You huffed, “but this is still ridiculous. I mean, look at me! My shirt has Snoopy on it, for fuck’s sake!”

“You look fine! This guy’s heard plenty about you. There’s no surprise for him. He’s seen pictures of you.”

“So it’s just a surprise for me, then?”

“Look” Amanda removed her arm from around you and faced you head on, “I need to know you have someone. It’ll give me piece of mind that you’re not on your own all the time.”

“I have Janet!”

“Do you hear yourself? She’s a cat!”

“Fine, then… I have you.”

Amanda sighed. She looked to the club’s ceiling, collecting her words.

“You know I plan on starting a family. What happens when I don't have as much time anymore?”

Your eyes fell. She was right. It was a thought that had plagued your mind many times.

“I’m sorry–”

“No,” Amanda interrupted, “I’m sorry. For springing this on you. I just– I’m trying to help.”

“I know,” You sighed, tugging at the hem of your shirt, “Though, I don’t know how good this will go with this damn shirt.”

Amanda smiled and led you to the bar of the club. You had never been to this place before. That should have been a clue in hindsight. It wasn’t better or worse than where Amanda and you usually haunted, but it was more modern. Young couples danced close, a DJ bounced up and down on stage, tables of friend groups cheered and took pictures with the flash of their phone cameras blinding them.

“Hey, you!” You heard Amanda call and looked forward to see a young man leaning casually against the counter of the bar.

“Hey, yourself,” He smirked. His eyes moved to you and he watched you curiously.

“Want your jacket back?” Amanda asked, taking it off her shoulders.

“No, I’m good without it,” The man replied, still looking at you. His eyes were a blazing amber and as they met yours in an unbreakable grasp, they lowered in a feline satisfaction.

“Well, I don’t want it,” Amanda huffed, “I’m putting it in the coat room.”

The man only nodded and Amanda left your side to go check the jacket in. Your mind had gone blank. You had been expecting someone older, duller. More in your league. Saying the man in front of you looked like a movie star was selling him short. His curls fell in perfect tight ringlets. Even leaning over, he had a dancer’s posture. He looked like a piece of artwork that would be studied for centuries, with people coming from all over the world in hopes to see him from across the room, veiled in spotlight.

He seemed to realize you weren’t going to be the one to break the ice and pushed himself off the counter to come closer to you.

“I’m Chanse,” He held out a hand.

“Chanse? Hello,” You replied, returning the handshake. You were surprised as he grasped your hand firmly and pulled you closer. He started walking backward into the throng of moving bodies.

“Can you dance?”

There was perspiration on Chanse’s forehead. He had already been dancing. You knew there was no way you could keep up with him. Your answer came out as a small groan. He stopped walking, still grasping you hand.

“You didn’t learn a little 'two step' when you went to prom?” Chanse smiled.

“I hardly think this is the place for prom dancing.”

“Relax…” Chanse placed his hand that wasn’t holding yours on your shoulder, “No one here cares about us. I promise.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“All clubs are the same,” Chanse chuckled, “How long have you known Amanda?”

“Oh, a long time,” The conversation on common ground helped you relax a bit, “Since our early twenties. We both agreed to move out here for work. Very different career paths, though.”

“She told me you’re in finance,” There was no question in Chanse’s voice. He spoke like he had everything figured out.

“Yes, I do. But not in the ‘finance bro’ bitcoin kind of way, I promise.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t look like one of those types.”

The hand on your shoulder drifted closer to the collar of your shirt. One of Chanse’s fingers traced up your neck. It was a ghost of a touch, but your head instinctively leaned into it. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been touched. You placed your free hand flat against Chanse’s back. Your chests grew closer together. The dancers around you swayed the two of you like you were caught in the ocean’s tide. Chanse relaxed his head to your chest.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” He said. You could feel the grin of his lips against you.

“I haven’t danced in so long. It’s the exertion.”

You felt Chanse’s head bob against you as he laughed. You looked up across the club and saw Amanda at the bar giving two ecstatic thumbs up. You huffed out a laugh.

“So, Amanda thought we’d be a good match. Enough to set this up,” you thought aloud.

“Mmhm, she’s been setting this up for weeks. It was very hard to find a night to do it.”

“You’re a busy person?”

“Very,” Chanse sighed, “Work, live shows, dinners, personal projects; and it’s always someone’s birthday.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you felt more winded just thinking about it.

“It is, but it’s rewarding. I’m sure you feel the same way about your work.”

“I do. You seem like you would have a lot of friends…”

You felt Chanse laugh again.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I guess, I just… How do you do it? Make time for all those things and keep friends on top of it.”

“I try to pace myself. You’ve lived out here long enough to see how bad people burn themselves out. It’s tempting to push yourself to the limits for the gratification of getting things done, but making time for others can help you remember why you’re doing everything in the first place.”

“That’s… a nice way to put it, yeah,” you worried your surprise came through in your tone.

“What? Are you shocked we’re actually getting along.”

“I am, if I’m being honest.”

“You would never guess it. I’m pretty mature for a twenty-two year old, aren’t I?”

“Twenty-two?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chanse tilted his head back to meet your eyes, “Twenty-three in May.”

With your head bent down, his cheek brushed your nose. His playful eyes were even more golden in the pulsing lights of the dance floor and he smiled widely.

Your body grew rigid. You pulled your hand from Chanse’s back like it had touched an open flame. You backed away from him, dropping his hand. You knew he looked too young. You should have trusted your gut. He looked confused, but didn’t advance towards you. Dancers quickly filled the space between the two of you, muffling anything Chanse might have said.

All you could do was hope your face was apologetic enough. It wasn’t his fault, and you had been having fun. In a place you didn’t know, with music and people you didn’t know, he managed to make you enjoy yourself. That moment was brief, and it had passed.

Amanda spotted you heading her way from where she sat on her stool at the bar. She was smiling excitedly, but it dropped when she saw your face. You shook your head and without a word left the club. You desperately hoped your favorite Thai restaurant was still open for take out. All you wanted to do was stuff your face and listen to the gloomiest music you knew. You turned back one last time to the dance floor. Chanse still stood where he had, watching you leave. His face was unreadable, but he gave you a small wave. You returned it. It was more than you deserved.

Amanda waited until the next morning to call you. You opened a box of girl scout cookies and sunk down into the engulfing safety of your couch before answering. Your disappointment and embarrassment had subdued, thankfully, but you were still confused and bone tired.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Amanda replied, “are… you mad at me?”

“Yes.”

“Right, okay, fair. Aren’t you at least a little happy you went?”

“No.”

“Am I only going to get Magic 8 Ball answers from you? Are you that upset?”

“Ask again later.”

“That’s not funny,” you heard Amanda puff out an exasperated breath.

“Okay, Okay. I just want to know,” You took a moment to bite a cookie in half, “what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was just trying to help,” Amanda groaned. Her voice was muffled like she was still laying in bed.

“By setting me up with a twenty-two year old? Am I supposed to be a sugar daddy or something?”

“Twentyt–, wait hold on,” You could hear Amanda sit up, “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes…”

“And you fell for it?”

“I–wait…is he not?”

“No, he’s not twenty-two! Add ten years to that.”

“Than why would he say–”

“As a joke! He’s a comedian, remember?”

“Ah… right,” you closed your eyes and tilted your head back. A second wave of embarrassment hit you like nausea. You stood up and grabbed the takeout containers strewed about the coffee table.

“See? A little misunderstanding. Do you want to meet him again?” Amanda asked, a hopeful note in her voice.

“No, Amanda,” you cut her off before she could protest, “This was clearly a sign we wouldn’t work out.”

“You seemed to like him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I could never keep up with him,” you threw the containers in your kitchen trash along with the bottle of whiskey you had polished off last night while dancing with Janet.

“You’re not dead! How would you know if you don’t try?”

You sighed and slouched back down onto your couch. Janet curled herself onto your lap and you reveled in the comfort it brought.

“He asked for your number,” Amanda said quietly, “He liked you. I won’t give it to him without your permission, of course.”

You scratched behind Janet’s ear and exhaled deeply. Your first date in years had gone just as badly as you thought it would. All you could do was hope Amanda took the hint and left the matter alone. You had a nice home, a good friend, an enviable CD collection. Maybe romance just wasn’t for you. You needed to learn to be okay with that.

“No, Amanda. Don’t give him my number. I just want to forget about this.”

A year later, and Amanda had gotten far enough back on your good side to convince you to agree to this spontaneous watch party. You checked the time on your wall clock and felt your heart plummet. They would start arriving any minute.

It was a small group, only four people in total, but you already wished you hadn’t let Amanda talk you into it. Especially after she had asked if it was okay Chanse was coming.

“He’s still a work friend. If I don’t invite him—”

“It’s fine, Amanda.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am absolutely positive. I barely remember that night, anyway.”

You grabbed your bowl of fruit from the center of your dining table and carried it into the kitchen. If you knew one thing about social gatherings—and you really only knew one thing—nothing brought people together like a fruit plate. You pulled down your cutting board from its hook and set it on the small space of your counter. You then placed a kiwi on top of it, but before you could begin cutting your doorbell rang.

Amanda had arrived first with a bottle of wine in each hand and a bright smile that melted those insecurities of yours.

“I just love it here. So cozy,” Amanda exhaled.

She knew your place well enough to grab five wine glasses from your cramped kitchen and returned to the living room. She bobbed her head to the music playing as she situated everything on your coffee table. There was something about her comfort in your home that made you feel pleased.

“You think it will be alright?” You asked, “Am I missing anything? It’s not to late to call it off if–”

“Oh, would you stop it,” Amanda walked over to you and placed her hands on your shoulders, “You’ll love Court and Angela; and you know Chanse.”

The mention of his name made your breath hitch.

Court arrived shortly after. You heard their faint greeting through the door and opened it to see their arms weighed down with brown paper grocery bags.

“I might’ve got carried away,” They said, tufts of their blond hair the only thing visible behind the bags, “–just wanted to make a good first impression.”

“You did, trust me,” You lifted one of the bags from their arms and placed it on your coffee table, “but you really didn’t need to do all this.”

Court waved a dismissive hand and you smiled. Amanda was already lounging on your sofa, one long leg pulled over the other and a glass of wine perched in her hand. Janet Catson oversaw the gathering from her windowsill, her tortoiseshell fur looked sleek, as though she had groomed herself for this very occasion.

“Isn’t it gorgeous in here?” Amanda asked Court, taking a sip of her wine.

“It is. I’m totally stealing some ideas for my own place,” Court replied, pulling a box of assorted cookies from one of their bags. Amanda winked at you.

As the two first guests got themselves situated, you busied yourself. You tended to pace when you were nervous and tried to mask the behavior by straightening and dusting things along your path. The last thing you wanted was for your guests to see you pacing in front of the door like a nervous dog, but the two had already started talking about the show you all were going to watch.

“Fingers crossed Amy leaves that guy,” Amanda declared.

“Mike? Oh my God, I know. He hasn’t listened to her speak once since they left the pods.”

“Yes! He obviously just wants more screen time.”

“She should do it at the alter! Or is that too mean?”

“After how he embarrassed her when he met her family? That’s not mean enough!”

The two of them laughed and turned to you to get your opinion. You gave a firm nod, skewing your face in sympathetic rage for Amy while mentally trying to remember which person on the show that was.

Your head shot back up when you heard laughter in the hallway. Walking to the door, you heard the tail end of a conversation. One of the voices you didn’t recognize, but the other was all too familiar. You felt a pang of guilt for trying to listen to what they were saying and swung the door open.

Your brisk movement had caught the two people off guard. The short haired woman of the two leaped back a pace, nearly dropping the large plastic wrap covered bowl in her arms. You tried to course correct by leaning casually on the door, or as casually as you could manage. Luckily, from behind you, Court and Amanda yelled greetings from the couch. The woman at your door physically relaxed and smiled. You finally did what you had been avoiding, and looked up to the man with her. You thought you would be used to it now, but you still felt your mouth run dry.

“Hi!” the woman rushed up to you with as best a side hug she could manage while holding the bowl.

“Hello, you must be Angela,” you chuckle, moving aside for her, “What’d you bring?”

“Meat sauce,” Angela replied.

When she gave no further explanation, you looked to Chanse. He only gave you a shrug and smirk before moving past you into your condo. His cologne surrounded you and you breathed it out before it could overtake your thoughts.

After shutting the door, you turned back to the interior of your condo and tried to see it through your guests eyes. You had tried your best to clean, which proved difficult with your design style bordering on maximalist, but you were pleased to see it looked well kept. It even looked decent, with the dark jewel-tone colored furnishings and amber lights. You only hoped everyone considered your faded, puffy leather couch and mismatched dining chairs as charming instead of cheap.

Angela made a beeline to your coffee table to set down her bowl. Had she really brought sauce? You made a mental note to see if you had any boxed pasta to make for it.

Chanse paused when he walked a few steps in, taking in every inch. Your eyes did the same, hoping he at least found it bearable. Wordlessly, he began removing his green jacket. The same one from that night. Sliding it down his arms to reveal a dark brown tank top underneath in such a slow motion it felt like a tease. As it fell down his arms, he looked over his shoulder at you.

“Nice place. Been here long?”

Your cotton mouth had only gotten worse. Your mouth opened and closed like a trout before you could speak.

“A couple of years.”

“Amanda says you own it,”

“Yeah, it’s mine. I mean, I have to make payments and all, y’know…”

The music from your stereo floated through the room over the sounds of the other guests getting situated. A smooth, slow song with a brown sugar voice singing so deep with love it brought heat to your face. Maybe you should chose a different CD, on second thought. And while you’re at it, maybe turn the thermostat down a couple notches.

Chanse’s jacket finally made its way to the end of his back, the gentle curve of his spine reminded you again of a dancer. His shoulder blades flexed and relaxed as he threw his jacket over his arm. You imagined rubbing a thumb along them, like a sculptor admiring the smooth lines of his sculpture. His skin like glazed terracotta warm to the touch after it had baked in the sun.

Your eyes rose to his face and in horror you realized he was looking at you expectantly. Had he said something? You blanched, scratching the arm of your sweater nervously.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

Chanse smiled big. He turned his whole body to face you and walked closer to you. He could reach out and touch you if he wanted.

“I said, that’s very impressive,” Chanse spoke low, a gravel in his voice, “You must be doing well for yourself.”

“Eh, I got promoted since we last… spoke,” you cringed. If anything could dampen the spark of the conversation, it would be talk of your job. “It keeps the lights on.”

Chanse turned to the rest of the group and spoke louder, “I would be much more conceited if I lived in a place like this.”

The others agreed and you heard Angela attest, “I know right! There’s stairs!”

Chanse turned back to you, his eyes moving down from yours until he reached your chest. He plucked a piece of lint off your sweater that had missed your gaze earlier. You felt as though he had reached through your chest and poked your heart. You breathed deeply through your nose to calm yourself as he looked to you again.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“The pleasure is mine. Trust me.”

You had shut off your stereo and pulled a chair from the dining table and set it beside the couch to see the TV. Court fiddled with your TV remote, trying to find the show while everyone else chatted and munched on the array of snacks on the coffee table. Angela yawned with her mouth open wide and slouched so far down it looked like the couch might swallow her.

“Long day?” you asked.

“Long week!” she replied, sliding down even further.

“This week was shoot week ,” Court clarified, “We’re all thankful to finally relax.”

“And shoot week is when you film everything all at once?” you asked, taking the glass of wine Amanda had handed to you.

“Yup,” Angela said, “Sometimes we’re filming so much, by the end of the day we’re delirious.”

“And sometimes,” Court chuckled, “It’s eight in the morning and we have to try and be funny.”

“I couldn’t imagine,” you said genuinely. You couldn’t manage to be funny at the best of times.

“You should have seen Chanse the other day!” Angela laughed.

You looked up and saw Chanse already looking at you. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Angela didn’t seem to notice and continued her story.

“We have a show called Bit City—long story—and the outfits Chanse ends up in are insane!”

“By his own choice, mind you,” Amanda tipped her glass to Chanse in recognition.

“He’s been a sexy chicken, a sexy alien,” Angela counted on her fingers, “Betty Boop, our coworker but with short shorts and heeled boots…”

“I’m noticing a through line,” you smiled.

For the first time, Chanse looked embarrassed. He was the one to break your eye contact.

“What can I say? I’m a creative,” he said into his glass of wine.

“Is that what you call it?” Angela teased.

“Shhh, it’s on!” Court whispered.

The recap of the show’s previous episodes played and it finally dawned on you what was in store for the next hour and a half.

“I just remembered,” you whispered loudly, placing down your glass of wine and standing up, “I started making a fruit plate. Let me go finish that.”

“Hurry!” Angela whispered back.

You were thankful she wanted you to be there with them, but you planned on cutting fruit for as long as possible.

The lone kiwi you had placed earlier sat where you left it on the cutting board. You began your task in earnest while listening to your guests talk over the TV show.

You heard someone join you in the kitchen. Turning to greet them, you saw it was Chanse and felt your words catch in your throat. Wordlessly, he joined you at the kitchen counter and grabbed a knife from its block. He chose a mango from the fruit in front of you and began to slice it with an expert’s confidence, rotating it as he carved around the seed. You found it hard to focus on your own cutting, wanting instead to watch him. When the mango was halved, Chanse peeled its skin and placed the halves down on the cutting board to slice.

“Are you excited for the season finale?” Chanse asked, punctuating his sentence with a small shoulder shimmy.

“I, well,” You looked around you to make sure the other guests weren’t around, “I’ve never actually seen the show.”

Chanse huffed a laugh without looking up.

“Is there a reason you’re letting us watch it here?" he asked, "Besides just being nice, of course.”

“I don’t have guests often, I thought it would be nice.”

“Well, thank you for the hospitality. It’s nice to watch it with no loud roommates or crying babies. Don’t tell Amanda’s baby I said that.”

“My lips are sealed.”

You were sure he could tell you were nervous. it was hard to miss. You wanted to busy yourself with other things, but felt glued to where you stood.

Your eyes guided you down his features. The polished curls of his hair, to his full lashes. The gentle slope of his nose, to his full lips pursed in concentration. The thin golden hoop earring in one ear that matched the gold ring on one of his index fingers. Chanse’s hands were the same brown as yours but looked so much warmer, softer. As he chopped, he hummed to himself a song you wish you knew.

The chatter from the living room had turned to laughter. You could hear Amanda doing her derisive impression of that host she hates. You walked to the archway separating the kitchen from the living room and relaxed against the threshold.

The laughter had subsided. Court peeled back the plastic wrap from Angela’s bowl.

“So, do we just dig in with a spoon, or…”

Angela looked to go into a pitch regarding the sauce, but she was talking too quick and impassioned for you to keep up. Amanda finished off her glass of wine and stretched her legs. She looked up to see you standing in the archway and smiled.

“They’re doing wedding dress shopping right now. It’s pretty boring.”

“It always is,” Angela groaned, “I don’t know why they even show it. That dress is hideous!”

“I think it’s cute,” Court chuckled.

Amanda craned her neck to get a view of the kitchen. You made a show of blocking her, but she got the information she was looking for. With a mischievous smile, she called over dramatically.

“We’re starving over here! If you two aren’t gonna watch the show, could you boil some pasta for this sauce?”

“Yeah,” Court said quietly, “I love you, Angela, but the smell of it is starting to get to me.”

You were rifling through your cupboards as Angela hefted the sauce onto the counter.

“I like radiatori pasta, ‘cause it soaks up the sauce good,” Angela said, “but penne is fine too.”

“I’ve got half a box of spaghetti and half a box of linguine. Take it or leave it.”

Angela grimaced, but left the cooking to you. You pulled out a large pot from below the sink and started filling it. To light the gas stove, you twisted one of the knobs and used a long handle lighter to ignite one of the burners. After placing the full pot on top, you wiped your hands on the pants you had so carefully ironed just a few hours before. It was clear no one here cared, and you were eternally grateful for that.

“You’re not the type to burn water, are you?”

You turned beside you to Chanse. He had finished most of the cutting since you last watched him. Bundles of black cherries and green grapes were surrounded by sliced kiwis, meticulously peeled oranges, and cubes of sunny, glistening mango. You had never seen a plate this professionally arranged, except in those magazines they stock at the grocery store checkout line.

“I’m actually a pretty competent cook,” you replied, “I enjoy it, as long as I can keep it down to two pans max. I hate doing the dishes.”

“I like to cook too,” Chanse smiled to himself. He had begun slicing another mango the same way he had the other. He hands were graceful and exact. He chopped slowly, in a rhythm that seemed to come natural to him.

“I can tell. I mean, with a plate like this, I would think you were a Michelin star chef.”

“It’s just cut up fruit,” Chanse countered, but he seemed pleased.

“When I said I cook, I mean globs of soup and pasta in bowls. Sometimes I just eat it right out the pan, but this,” You pointed at the plate, tilting it slightly under your finger, “This defies physics. We could put it in the MOMA.”

Chanse laughed and swatted your hand away. You moved a step over to the stove and tried to will the water to boil faster.

“I had really hoped to hear back from you,” Chanse said in a small voice. His face was obscured from your view.

You stared into the pot of water for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Chanse. I really am.”

“Don't apologize. I’m just stating a fact, that I wanted to hear from you.”

“We’re stating facts now?”

Chanse looked at you, confused. You moved back to his side and faced your body to him. His arm brushed your stomach as he chopped the halved mango. His mahogany curls tickled your chin when he moved his head.

“You know, I really thought you were twenty-two,”

Chanse opened his mouth in shock before giving the biggest laugh you’d seen from him.

“I’m glad I finally tricked someone with that bit.”

“I’m not really one for jokes.”

“Really? I thought otherwise with that Snoopy shirt.”

“Oh God, I told Amanda that would be a problem,” You rubbed your forehead with your hand.

“I thought it was cute,” Chanse whispered.

After he had finished chopping the mango, he raised a piece to his mouth and placed it on his tongue. His eyes closed, taking it in. He let out a small noise of satisfaction, running his tongue over his teeth. When he opened his eyes, he looked to you like he’d forgotten you were there.

He chose another cube of mango from the cutting board and held it up, pinched between his fingers. He looked up to you with raised eyebrows, asking a silent question. With no hesitation, you nodded, and Chanse brought the fruit up to your mouth. As your teeth bit down on the mango, your lips pressed against his fingers. They were sticky with juice from the fruit. Your tongue brought the fruit into your mouth, closing your lips from Chanse but he kept his hand to you, tenderly pressing his thumb to your bottom lip as you chewed. You thought a moment like this – in all the time you spent daydreaming of it – would send a surge of electricity through you. Instead, you felt as though an ocean wave had engulfed you within it. You were still; and felt you could be forever. You were at Chanse’s mercy and for that brief time you couldn’t imagine anything you’d want more.

'I… won’t marry you, Mike. Not after how you treated me.'

Raucous cheers erupted from the living room. You had no idea three people could make so much noise. Chanse’s hand dropped and he moved to the archway to look out at the group. Where you thought would be a feeling of emptiness from Chanse releasing you was instead a tranquility of contentment. A small voice within you knew this wouldn’t be the last time. Maybe you were just getting started.

'I’m a strong woman and i need someone who sees my worth!'

“Get him, Amy!” Angela whooped.

“Good for her! Cheers!” Amanda called.

The sound of glasses clinking was followed by a chorus of gasps and a “oop” from Chanse. He turned back to you with an exasperated look on his face.

Angela peeked into the kitchen with obvious guilt.

“We, uh, had a little spill on your couch. Red wine,” she winced.

“We can add that the hundred other stains on that old couch,” you chuckled, tossing a roll of paper towel to Angela, “Don’t worry about it, really.”

Chanse laughed, infecting you immediately. Your shoulders shook and Chanse punched you lightly on the arm. Your eyes met like the many times they had before, but instead of a heated stare, Chanse gazed at you with a smile that was domestic and welcoming.

There was so many words caught in your throat, but all that came out was:

“Thank you for coming.”