I spent a week with my cheeks constantly flushed. And all notifications on my phone turned off. And every moment with Nicholas, including me coming my brains out, I ferociously regret. That’s a first for me, regretting an orgasm. Even when the lover was lacking in other departments, the thought of really good sex never seem to be on trial. Until now. What’s worse is deep inside of me, I wasn’t for certain that, if Nicholas solicited me again, I could say no. Nicholas had been an amazingly good lay, and my body responded to him instantly - knowing what each other was thinking. And when he came all over my tits, the lustful look in his eyes told me that it had been as good for him, if not better. So, I know I should never talk to him again, but I felt a deep pang from my sternum to my thighs that this is one toy I could not... should not have. Which made me want it all the more. As soon as I saw the paper, I call Beatrice to apologize and ask if dad had gotten wind of it. I was so scared I can’t breathe. In her perfect way, Bea tells me that she convinced Dad that this was all stemming from one photo of me being tricked by a reporter at his inauguration. I couldn’t believe that was all - but suddenly my lungs remember how to get air. All in all, despite the fact that there was an article written by man who made me come three times just hours before going to press, no one seemed to be taking it that seriously. Phew. And then a niggling thought entered my brain… Does that mean it’s okay to call him? No. No! Well… NO. I was invested in my own internal monologue that I barely hear Bea insist on me joining her at Charles’s dinner party that evening. I penitently quickly issue a yes before realizing what that sort of commitment would look like. What it meant hobnobbing with THOSE people. And immediately, I regret not being a pariah any longer… and wonder if it’s possible to get that status back. I’m just not that interested in the stuffy types. The food and wine is always okay, oh, who am I kidding? It’s amazing. And with the invention of Uber, you can get sloshed on the really really good stuff without an ounce of remorse. Fuck you Charles, yes, let’s open your 50 year old scotch. But, you wind up seated next to people who really love to tell you about their latest golf school, or a book on 19th century horseback riding that just held no substantive conversation. Come to think of it, I think Charles owns horses. I definitely was going to be roped into horse talk. You know who’s hung like a horse? My brain queries in a sing song. N-I-C-H-O-L-A-S. I shake my head to make those images dissipate for just a few seconds to think straight. Then I remember… who am I kidding? I’ve been cooped up all week. I’m beyond horny. …and out of batteries. There is nothing sadder than being a horny woman with a whole phone out of booty call phone numbers and a vow of abstinence than a vibrator low on batteries. Oh god, I wonder. Can I do this? Can I go to this stupid dinner and not flirt? Not make out with hot wait staff? Or… steal some of Bea’s batteries from the utility pantry I stole my last pack from? Can I be good? Fuck yeah. Why not? I’m Kat Barcas. I can do anything. Probably. I flitter through my closet of dresses and suddenly feel that I would be much better off with Chainmail than whatever I pick out. My body ached from a vigorous gym workout, my punishment for sleeping with reporters, and all of my body-hugging club wear felt like being a sore, encased sausage. Additionally, I’m not sure Bea is really ready for all the sequins. Closet full of clothes. Nothing to wear. Of course! Despite the additional exercise and pacing my apartment I cannot wear down the anxiety brimming inside of me. So I have some bourbon. It makes me feel full sturdy enough to think about sit among Beatrice and Charles’ friends. Then I have another reward myself for finding the dress. The dress. The one that I had been meant to be wearing the day of daddy’s inauguration. It was lying lonesomely on an ironing board I had banished to the corner of the living room. The dress stares perkily up at me waiting for its day in the sun. Chanel white and purple with artistic flowers stitched along the hem. The fabric is soft and kisses my skin as I slip it on. I toast myself in the mirror: this fake Kat in her fake dress, eyes already shining from the booze. I’m still playing dress up with my 27-year-old sister. Ugh. The alcohol sloshes in my stomach as I Uber to my sister’s house. I sit outside with the driver for a good five minutes, feeling the heat and clamminess my nerves in the booze. "Don’t you want to go inside, Miss?" The driver asks, head resting against his wheel out of impatience. A kind face from the Middle East. Someone’s dad, with gray whiskers, and probably a story I was too nervous to ask about how hard he worked to come to this country just to drive me to my sister’s house. "Just another minute, please," I say, biting my lip. I think I’m going to fuck this up. The driver entertains me with the question, "Who on earth could be mad at you?" "Trust me," I say holding back a nervous giggle, "there are many." He starts to drive. "Where we going?" I ask. "Flowers," he answers, "All house guests bringing flowers are welcome." We stopped at a floor shop three blocks away and I get a mixed bouquet of lilies -Beatrice’s favorite. When he takes me back around I hug the flowers tightly as I get out, giving him a grateful thank you. I’m already 15 minutes late but suck it up and ring the doorbell. Bea instantly opens. But, instead of her furrowed, angry brow, Beatrice grins wide and hugs me, crushing the lilies between us. I processed her embrace slowly, peeking over her shoulder to see if someone is watching us and she felt the need to preform. Beatrice ushers me in, taking the flowers. "Lilies, I love lilies. That’s so thoughtful! Don’t worry," she says, "we’re still waiting on another couple of people. So how is work treating you, Kat?" Is that my sister? Or some robot with a kindness chip installed? Out of surprise, I mutter that I was fine and that my latest copy editing job has kept me housebound and incognito the last few days. "All right," she says, "still at the proofreading job! Good for you!" Puzzled, I take off my coat just as Beatrice says, "I want you to know I’m so sorry about cracking your phone-" She falters and her eyes go to my dress, which now in the bright foyer light, had a far more see-through sheen to it than I had noticed in my own dimly lit apartment three Bourbons in. And of course I was wearing a pitch black bra and panties. The same set from... Oh god. I did it again. "Jesus," I muttered, eyeing the material, "I’m so sorry, Bea, I didn’t realize it was see-through..." Beatrice puts her smile back on and continued what she was saying, "I intend to fix your phone or tell me how much it will cost and I will replace it--" "Should I go?" I offer, "you can just tell everyone I was sick." "Nonsense," she says with a huge smile, the biggest I have ever seen. "The dress looks lovely. You can hardly notice." Beatrice waives me further into the house - passing statement rugs and furniture. A lit fire place in a parlor devoid of any people to appreciate it, except for me, walking by. Is that really all - a walk by aesthetic? Man, I hated places like these. I yearned for take out and a bottle of cheap wine. An 80s movie marathon. Something that felt a little bit more like the girls we used to be. The dining room is no less impressive. Sunken in with teakwood floors, brilliant white paint, gold and black draped curtains. White glittering china, like teeth smiling up at me from the 10 seat table. Charles was at one end, surrounded by men his age, clutching whiskey glasses and animatedly talking about their greatest confidential clients. Beatrice had a couple named Chase and Lacey beside her - newly acquired friends from that country club they go to. And then there is... I didn’t know him - but he isn’t in a pair like the rest. His hair is sandy and unfettered, a kind smile focused on his phone where he covertly is watching cat videos or checking on some sport score. He’s too young for team Charles - he isn’t a bit older than Charles’ junior agent, Lucas, and he is hardly invited to the table. However, his lack of sports coat and super smiling girlfriend on his side hardly made him seem like company for Bea. "Kat, I’d like you to meet Peter." Beatrice swoops in. Peter looks up, and immediately rest his eyes on my chest. I curse my black bra and put on a smile. "It’s nice to meet you." I lean across the table and shake his hand. "Peter is a friend of a friend," Bea says. "He’s a freelance graphic designer." She whispers in my ear. "He’s single." My cheeks flush. "I hope you don’t mind, I’ve sat the both of you together. Kat also works freelance. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about." So this is why my sister had been nice to me. This is why she didn’t flip out, or scream, or call me and tell me I had fucked up. Beatrice is calm because she had a plan and that plan was to get me a man. Fuck her.

Next Chapter: Experimentation - Kat