The morning after seeing Nash again came on the same day as the apocalypse. No floods full of dead marine life. No falling skies. No ground opening up and swallowing me whole. That would be too easy.
Ben leaned forward to kiss me, his nose nuzzled into the nape of my neck.
He whispered words of platitude. “Kiss me, Durga.”
When he leaned back, it wasn’t a faceless avatar I saw, but pitch-black hair and cruel hazel eyes.
Nash.
“Pathetic,” he drawled out, tracing my collarbone with the tips of his fingers.
I panted.
Needy.
Desperate.
Craving him.
Wetter.
He flicked my nose and tutted. “You don’t come before I do.”
Nash was straddling me, a leg on each side, not bothering to hold up his weight. He pulled himself out of his jeans and jerked off onto my chest. He was as long as I remembered him, thick with two veins I yearned to lick running down the sides of his cock.
Long ropes of cum shot onto my face and breasts, and I came with him, crying out his name as if I owned it.
“Nash!” I screamed it out, like I’d had a nightmare.
When I opened my eyes, I laid alone in the closet. Dark. Empty. Heaving for breaths. No Nash, just me and a brand-new stain on my tattered sheets between my legs.
Hunger whipped a hurricane in my stomach. Dizziness pinched at my vision until I coaxed myself back to sleep.
Two more hours until the meeting. You can do this, Em.
Two more hours to go without food. Maybe there’d be a breakfast spread at the meeting.
My plan had been to eat the crackers I’d stolen from the party, but Nash had taken them all, along with my wallet. Ironic, considering Nash used to be the person to feed me when Mother refused to.
“And so the savior becomes the villain,” I whispered to the dark room.
The Polaroid of stars in my wallet was the one thing that reminded me of Dad that didn’t immediately make me hate him.
The golden tiger on the back was supposed to be me.
A warrior.
A survivor.
A fighter who never backed down.
But after a slew of death threats post-Winthrop Scandal, I’d written, “ride me” in angry bold letters on the bottom, a reminder that the tiger wasn’t a warrior.
The tiger was ridden.
By Dionysus.
By Durga.
Dionysus and Durga were the god and goddess.
They were warriors.
And the tiger? Nothing but a glorified pet.
The pictures of Reed and Teddy Grieger’s card served as untainted memories of my childhood. Snapped in Polaroid, a series of smudged ink and blurry pixels. Moments I didn’t know were valuable until they’d already become faded memories.
On the days I felt small, I looked at those pictures and reminded myself that I might be one person, but I was also a thousand memories, a million feelings, and infinite love.
I was immeasurable.
Now someone owned the Winthrop Estate, which meant someone owned all my memories.
And Nash had stolen the only ones I had left.
I didn’t know who was worse.
The faceless monster or the monster I knew.
ON TOP OF THE fucked-up wet dream starring some warped hybrid of Nash and Ben, I woke up a second time to a piercing hangover and an email from Mother. One I actually replied to—the second sign of the apocalypse.
I idled around, flicking lint off the blanket, looking up unique words on my dictionary app, refolding some shirts in my worn cardboard box, replaying memories of Nash in the elevator, and sewing up the hole that had formed on the curve of my Converse.
Anything to put off reading it.
I caved after twenty minutes and pulled up my email app, already knowing I’d hate whatever she had to say. I always did.
Subject: Exciting News
Emery,
I am writing to request your presence at brunch on the fourth of July weekend. I have happy news to share, and I would like to do it in person. The country club has reserved a table for us. I expect you to be there exactly at noon. Do not be late. I will not have you embarrassing me again.
I realize you possess an aversion to Eastridge, a weakness that has never sat well with me. It’s time you get over yourself and think about others. Your Uncle Balthazar has been dying to see you. He asks about you often.
The other women at the club whisper about your absence. It makes me look like a terrible mother. We both know I am not. You have become a stain on my reputation. You can make it up to me by showing up on time, dressed appropriately for brunch—and for goodness sake, do something about your hair.
I can have Darynda ship you a brush if the need arises, or you can simply accept poverty is as disgusting as it sounds and dip into your trust fund. I’ll allow it if you follow my conditions. Return home, find a suitable husband, and stop embarrassing me.
In case you decide to be selfish, remember I know all your secrets, Emery Rhodes. If you do not show up on the fourth, I have every intention of revealing your new name to the press. I look forward to seeing you soon.
With love,
Virginia, Chairwoman
Eastridge Junior Society
Why did anything regarding Mother make me feel like I’d been dropped off in a jungle to fend for myself, armed with a designer handbag and six-inch heels?
I scraped my teeth against my bottom lip, pretending it was food. Maybe my stomach would get the message and swallow me whole. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, wondering how to reply to the email.
The threat.
I didn’t think she would dox me, but Virginia Rhodes also wasn’t a fan of idle threats. Even if my poverty and unkempt hair embarrassed her, she would rather suffer Eastridge’s rumor mill running rampant about my new name and appearance than not have her way.
Subject: Please use lube next time you decide to fuck me in the ass…
My dearest, most-beloved Mother;
Excuse the typos. I’m finding it hard to see straight through the pain. Next time you fuck me in the ass, please consider using lube. I’ve attached a link to my Amazon wish list. On it, you will find my favorite brand of numbing lubricant. Please keep your brush and ship this to me if the need arises.
Thank you for inviting me to brunch. I have plans to stay at home and memorize the lyrics to Beyonce’s “Lemonade,” so the next time it plays, I can impress my new coworkers.
However, because you’ve been such a great inspiration in my life, I’ve decided to put my plans aside and spend the Fourth of July at the country club with you and all of Eastridge’s finest patriots.
(I heard the Mercer family managed to pay zero taxes on their fifty-million-dollar income last year. They’re living the American Dream. I aspire to be them.)
Please assure the women at the country club I will be there. We wouldn’t want you to look like a terrible mother. I’ll be wearing my black sundress with the wilting roses. Remember that one?
I wore it to Easter mass. You pulled me to the side and told me, in front of all my classmates, that even the Devil wouldn’t take me in that dress. What charming memories we share. I love walking down memory lane. Don’t you?
Speaking of memory lane, I absolutely adored our family trip to Hollywood, where you returned with two ccs of lip fillers and a new butt you swore came from hours at the gym. I feel it prudent to remind you I know many of your secrets, too… including the tummy tuck scar you’ve managed to convince the Housewives of Eastridge is from a C-section.
With so many hugs and kisses…
Your favorite daughter,
Emery
Demon Spawn
– Sent from Beyond Virginia’s Uterus
Darynda, my mother’s assistant, filtered through her emails. Sweet, pearl-clutching, pumpkin-spice-cereal-eating, Prada-obsessed, God-fearing, serial-gossiper Darynda. She had the mouth of a hippo. Always open. Always spilling secrets. Always spreading rumors.
I would love to see my mom explain her way out of that email.
A text from Mother came through my phone a few minutes later. An actual text, which was how I knew I’d entered the apocalypse. Virginia Winthrop didn’t text. She sent emails, wrote letters, and spoke on the phone, but she never texted. Texting was for millennials and the Tide Pod generation.
Mother: Emery, I raised you to behave like a lady, not some untamed animal. I expect you to treat me with the respect and dignity I deserve as the woman who raised you. Darynda will reach out with details for brunch. Kisses.
She followed up with:
Mother: Oh, and honey, you’re old enough now that calling me Mother just sounds silly. Virginia will do.
See?
Apocalypse.
REED CALLED BEFORE I could fixate on the fact that my mom wanted me to refer to her by her first name; I slept in a six by eight closet; my boss had kept today’s meeting from me; and I’d been stuck in an elevator with Nash Prescott, who had torn apart my clutch and stolen my wallet, food, and dignity.
“I need your help.” The first words out of Reed’s mouth as I answered the call.
I flipped onto my stomach and toyed with my sheets, the ones barely holding it together. An accurate metaphor for my life. My bodyweight on my stomach made it feel more hollow, its growl filling the air.
Again, I thought of my trust fund before reminding myself it was blood money.
“What do you need?” I asked, voice low and raspy, knowing it couldn’t be any good after the morning I’d had.
The third sign of the apocalypse, no doubt.
“Why are you whispering?”
Because I don’t know if any stragglers remain in the building I am currently squatting in.
I didn’t say this, of course.
“My neighbors finally finished having morning sex, and I’m afraid if they hear me, they’ll ask me to join again.” The lie slipped out so easily, I felt very much like a Winthrop in this moment.
“Again? As in you’ve joined in the past?”
“Again, as in they’ve invited me in the past. I said no.”
I pictured my imaginary neighbors, a rail-thin rock-star with a two-inch goatee and a redheaded plus-sized model he couldn’t get enough of. Harlan Felt and Alva Grace, in case Reed asked.
He didn’t.
“I swear, the weirdest shit happens to you.”
Probably because I make half of it up, so you don’t worry about me.
“That’s the life.” I fought off the sudden surge of homesickness when Reed laughed. Clearing my throat, I asked, “What did you need?”
“Ideas.” His ragged breathing filled the line. “I want to propose to Basil.”
I switched the call to a video call, so I could see his face as I asked, “Are you sure?”
What I really wanted to do was scream, “What the fuck!” and check him into an involuntary psych hold.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and tugged at his hair before staring at me. The poor lighting made his hair darker. He laid in bed, the silky strands flying in several directions. For a second, he looked so much like Nash.
My stomach flipped with stupid butterflies, and my fingers hovered over the red button, so close to ending the call before Reed asked, “Am I sure that I want to propose or am I sure that I want my best friend to be supportive and give me ideas?”
Point taken.
“Well, Basil likes big gestures.” Huge, ridiculous, ostentatious gestures. “Maybe take her to Hamilton and have the cast weave your proposal into the play? Like, a local version, because I doubt Broadway would do it.”
Perhaps Wicked. I’m sure Basil will identify with the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Can’t do Hamilton. Basil’s dad thinks Hamilton is a bastardized take on American history with too much diversity.”
And that’s the family you want to marry into?
I bit my tongue until I tasted copper and flipped the phone off video call, so I could talk without worrying Reed would discover I was living in a closet like a less-glamorous version of Harry Potter. Only, I was a Muggle, and life couldn’t get much more fucked-up than that.
“How about a helicopter—”
Reed cut me off, “No helicopters. Basil refuses to ride in one that isn’t manufactured by her dad’s aerospace company, and you know he hates me.”
Forgetting why I’d been whispering in the first place, I pushed my face into my make-shift pillow of shirts and screamed.
“What was that?” Reed asked.
“I think Alva Grace just screamed into her pillow.”
“Is that your neighbor’s name?”
“Yep.”
“Must be some sex.”
“Yep.”
“Any other ideas?”
“Not off the top of my head. I’ll think about it,” I promised and hung up.
Reed and Basil. Married. I no longer loved Reed like that, but I still thought he could do better. Nash’s escort perhaps, because at least she was willing to work for money.
I dragged my bottom lip into my mouth, wishing I could get full off lies and unfulfilled dreams.
I’d never starve again.
THE FOURTH SIGN OF the apocalypse came when I snuck down to the fifth floor, our makeshift design office, at exactly eight in the morning on the dot. Chantilly sat on the couch, watching The Titanic.
She paused on the scene where Rose pretends there’s no space on the debris she’s laying on and Jack dies. When Chantilly turned and saw it was me, she pressed play on the remote without a word.
If I’d surprised her, she didn’t show it. Maybe she hadn’t left me out of the email chain on purpose. And maybe that overweight bird I’d seen flying like a drunkard outside the window was really a pig with wings.
Chantilly ignored my existence and continued watching the movie, a tear trailing down her cheek as Rose’s selfishness kills the man she supposedly loves.
“Gets me every time,” Chantilly whispered to herself, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Murder?
“Umm… okay,” I drew out, wondering where everyone else was. Ida Mae had told me eight sharp. “Where is everyone?”
“The meeting was pushed back an hour. Not my decision.” She swiped at the mascara trailing a path down her cheek. “Shit. I need to fix this,” she informed me as if I cared.
I whipped my phone out, typed out a message to Ben, and waited for everyone else to show up. I considered telling him I’d had a wet dream about him, but I decided to go for something PG, especially because I’d pictured him as Nash.
Durga: Would you shoot your best friend in the arm for five million dollars?
Fair question.
Rose had sacrificed Jack, and Reed currently sat pretty high on my shit list. Marriage? To Basil Berkshire? The girl who’d filled my locker with Tampax the day after I’d gotten my first period in the middle of gym class.
Thankfully, the clothes I’d stained were gym clothes. I’d also dipped the tampons in red food coloring-laced water and left them in her locker, because “rise above” was not in my vocabulary, and my pettiness reached acceptable levels, in my opinion.
(Reed once informed me I was made of 99% pettiness and 1% white cheddar mac ‘n cheese, but he loved me anyway. I’d kissed his cheek and called him my best friend.)
Benkinersophobia: I don’t have a best friend.
Naturally.
Ben had the personality of a porcupine in heat, pricking every surface of your skin with a voraciousness I personally reserved for hating people. He once told me our friendship was nothing short of a miracle. I had taken it as a compliment, but I wasn’t sure he had meant it as one.
Durga: Color me as surprised as a cheerleader being chased down by a man with a machete five minutes into a B-grade horror flick.
He didn’t answer for a while, so I sat on the couch, shoved my hands into the pockets of my black zip-up hoodie, and lifted my Chucks onto the coffee table. Because I was bored and enjoyed dishing Chantilly’s cruelty back to her, I sped the movie and hit pause at the part where Rose dumps the expensive necklace into the ocean instead of donating it to charity.
Benkinersophobia: I’d do it for twenty million.
I gave an unladylike snort that had Chantilly scrunching up her nose as she walked back in, and I swore, if I died before meeting Ben, I will have died having lived an incomplete life. Reed held the title of best friend, but Ben was Macaroni noodles drowned in Vermont White Cheddar cheese. Comfort food for the soul. The person who always knew exactly what I needed to hear to feel better.
I might have lost my family, my belongings, my future.
But he’d helped me find something important.
My smile.
AND FINALLY, THE fifth sign of the apocalypse occurred after Hannah, Ida Mae, and Cayden had arrived—when Nash Prescott walked into the room and pretended he didn’t know me.
