We’re pulling into the driveway of Moon’s parents’ home when I realize that I haven’t gotten Kelsea a gift for her birthday.
“Ah, it’s alright,” Moon says.
I ask them if they think that Kelsea will prefer a song over a present.
Moon grins. It’s Valentine’s Day, and although I hadn’t anticipated it, I’m single again. I didn’t want to spend the weekend stuck on campus, so I was glad when my friend Moon invited me to join them on a weekend trip down to Charlotte for their best friend Kelsea’s birthday. We have plans to go to World—a nightclub hosting an anti-Valentine’s Day event aptly titled “F*ck Love.”
I watch Moon tap in the code on the house’s front door before pushing the door open, warm light illuminating their short, tousled hair.
We walk right in—down the long hallway, past the parlor and stairs, into the living room.
Their home is tidy. Plenty of family photos, Christmas cards and commemorative vacation magnets on their fridge. A painting of one of their cats, by Moon, hangs on the wall near the stairs.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous meeting Moon’s parents. Their parents sit on the couch—the mother under a blanket, the father playing some video game on the TV. I glance at the screen, instantly recognizing the Lego likeness of Johnny Depp.
Lego Pirates of the Caribbean. That’s awesome, I tell the father. I give him a soft smile, one that I practiced in the car in the rearview mirror.
He grins at me. The mother is stern. She doesn’t smile when I introduce myself. She cuts right to the chase, asking Moon where their friends would be sleeping that night.
Over her shoulder, my eye falls on a cross on the wall. Moon vaguely mentioned growing up in a religious environment—the mother is the daughter of a pastor—but I hadn’t given it much thought.
Suddenly becoming self-conscious, I look down at the pink top I’m wearing, which is certainly much too revealing. I go to button the top of my cardigan to curtain myself. My hands, slick with sweat, clumsily fumble around with the black plastic button before securing it.
“I set up some beds,” the mother says. “I hope it’s enough blankets.”
I follow Moon up the stairs, a cat-toy fish on one of the steps. I peek my head into the spare room by their bedroom and, sure enough, four mattresses have been made up, on the floor, for us all to sleep in that night.
Then we’re in Moon’s room. The wall next to their bed is plastered with posters—I feel the eyes of Taylor Swift, David Bowie and Led Zeppelin judging me as I place my bag at the end of the bed.
Infinite photos of Moon with high school friends appear everywhere—on the wall, on the shelf, on the dresser—friends that I can’t recognize.
In fact, I can barely recognize Moon in these photos. There’s a photo of Moon and Kelsea at prom. Moon’s hair is long, blonde, curly. They’re wearing an elegant, beaded black dress and heavy eyeliner. Undeniably feminine—and undeniably so, so different from the Moon I know now.
There’s an almost-gone candle sitting on their dresser. I sniff it. The scent is called “Man Cave,” and it smells stereotypically masculine. An itch rises in my throat, and I push it down. Next to it is a cup with two rainbow flags in it.
I sit on the bed next to Moon. I gesture at a Joan Jett figurine sitting on their shelf.
Huh. You sure like Joans, I tell them.
Moon laughs the way they always do when I say something. Their laughs always come out as quick, high-pitched bursts, which they always try to hold back, resulting in a ridiculous yet very endearing, part-snort, part-squeal.
“Ha-ha-ngh!”
The mother appears in the doorway. I didn’t hear her come up the stairs. My instinct is to stand when she enters the room—as if she’s Madam President—but she stays lingering in the doorway.
I thought she came up for something serious, but instead, she begins to tell me about some drama with the local fire department. Oh, what a good surprise! Gossiping, from my experience, is the primary way women bond with each other.
“And they’re married,” she tells me, with a serious nod.
I respond with an overemotive gasp.
The edges of her mouth slightly curl upwards. She slightly shakes her head, and I watch her red, shoulder-length hair shake with it.
That’s the best I can do—but it makes me feel proud. The mother is surely a stern woman. I’m touched that she wants to talk to me, even if it’s somewhat trivial gossip.
We’re just wasting time before Kelsea and her friends arrive.
***
Returning from the bathroom, I throw the door open into Moon’s room. The floor is a mess of legs—five pairs to be exact—and I climb over them to sit on the bed next to Moon.
“Nobody throw up tonight,” says Daylah, Kelsea’s friend.
Famous last words. Daylah takes a plastic bottle—the water replaced with vodka—out of a bag. She pours a shot of it into a tall can of Four Loko.
Kelsea runs a few fingers through her hot pink hair. I’d seen her last at a party on New Year’s Eve and was happy to see her again. She’s a fun girl to hang out with—chic but authentic, assertive and, to put it plainly, very attractive.
“Eeek! I’m so glad to see you again,” she tells me.
Me too, I tell her. We hug, and I sit right back down.
It’s a good cast of characters tonight. Kelsea’s surrounded by a lot of love—her childhood best friends Moon and Kaitlyn, her friend Daylah, her co-workers and friends Tori and Jack—and then me.
Of course, I was invited along, but I feel like an outsider not knowing the lore of the group. From what I can deduce, basically all of them had a thing with Kelsea once—which, to me, could mean anything from an innocent one-sided crush to a full-blown relationship. If you knew the girl, you’d understand.
Still, I can’t help but slightly zone out whenever the occasional archaic reference to an ex-girlfriend slips out of one of their mouths. I’d rather not know anyway. Curiosity killed the cat—or rather, curiosity killed the queer woman.
The girls are already inebriated and want to take a Lyft. They try to get the ball rolling on the arrangements. I offer to book it from my phone as long as everyone sends me $8. It’s Valentine’s Day, so the rates are atrocious.
I tell Moon that the biggest car can only take five people. They shrug, not concerned.
“The driver’ll probably let us squeeze in,” they say.
Are you sure? I guess. Okay, I respond. I schedule it.
***
Kaitlyn, Moon and I get to World at 12:30 AM. The Lyft driver, as I’d worried, did not let us squeeze in. The group split into two.
We stayed behind and waited for another ride. Then we spent 25 minutes in a black SVU, Moon’s hand just barely grazing my thigh while the car’s speakers muttered “We Belong” by Pat Benatar.
Getting out of the car, a cold rush of air hits my exposed shoulders.
We begin the march down the street—crowds of men and women packed against each other, as for warmth, in this long, long line wrapping down the lawn. Moon walks next to me, the carabiner on their belt loop jangling against my hip with every step.
We hear the reggaeton music already, the familiar boom-ch-boom-chick rhythm, our shins shaking from the reverberating bass as we get closer to the entrance.
Kaitlyn spots a familiar head of pink hair in the crowd. The group reunites. We huddle together as the line slowly lurches forward—the wind blowing in our faces, strands of hair sticking to our cheap lip glosses.
We get in at 1 a.m., just an hour before closing. We beeline down the short hallway, straight to the mob of people on the dance floor.
At least 600 people are packed into the building. We push into the crowd, which sucks us in as eagerly as it will spit us out.
All I can see is flashing lights and skin on skin—so much skin, we can’t avoid rubbing up against at least four strangers at all times, everyone’s bodies thrashing wildly against another when the DJ drops into a familiar song by Karol G.
The air is dense—thick with the masculine musk of cologne mixed with sweat mixed with vaporizer.
There are women and men grinding on each other everywhere, getting downright disgusting on the dance floor. I accidentally back into one of the couples, ruining their groove. The man curses at me, sweat wicking from his shiny bald head.
I look up, craning my head for fresh air. There are huge heart-shaped balloons suspended from the ceiling, the Mylar glistening, illuminated by the bright light beaming from the stage where the DJ bumps his head to his mix, holding one headphone to his ear.
Then he plays a Charli XCX remix. We lose our damn minds—we jump on each other, flailing frantically.
I make eye contact with a dancing man—he looks like a young, brunette James Spader. He comes closer and we grab each other’s arms, screaming the chorus in each other’s faces and jumping up and down.
James Spader yells something to me, but I can’t hear it. He keeps trying to tell me something, grabbing my elbow, but I catch none of it. James Spader grins and throws a wink at me. He tugs my elbow again, and I yank it away. Then, the stranger disappears into the ocean of skin—never to be seen again.
We push further into the crowd, all the way up to the barricade. The songs melt together in the loud mix, switching quickly, but all to the same dembow beat. We cheer when they play Rosalía. We cheer more when they play Bad Bunny.
Moon grabs my hand, and we dance close, cheek to cheek—like friends would? My stomach sinks. This can’t happen. It’s too much. It’ll ruin everything.
At this point, I’m confused and even a bit delirious. Maybe it’s the cologne Moon’s wearing, triggering some psychosomatic mental illness in me, making me think I’m attracted to my friend. It’s Replica Jazz Club—warm and woody, tobacco and rum—and the spicy, boozy scent makes me want to, in Joni Mitchell’s words, drink a case of Moon.
Before I can do that, though, we see the top of Kelsea’s head leaving us. We lace fingers and our group snakes through the crowd, everyone holding on to each other because if we don’t, the crowd might suck one of us back in. A man drags his fingers on my bare back as I pass by.
***
The bathroom is huge, and we’re glad to breathe, even if there’s the ever-present stink of Geek Bars and Billie Eilish vanilla perfume hanging in the air. We congregate by the mirrors, chattering, reapplying lip lacquer and detangling strands of hair with our fingers.
There’s a trio of women in there with us, certainly older than us but definitely still in their mid-20s. They’re scantily clad and don’t look like they’re having much fun.
The blonde one stands in front of the sink, scrolling her phone. The one with a black miniskirt stares at her face in the mirror, picking at a blemish, dissociated. Then, the third woman suddenly bursts into tears. Her friends lock in, immediately going in to hug her.
“Why did he do this?” she cried out, in a pain much too familiar to me.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, baby girl,” comforted the blonde one, petting her hair.
The woman stops crying for a moment, pulls a vaporizer out of her pocket, hits it and goes back to sobbing into her friend’s bosom.
Daylah flops onto a loveseat by the exit of the bathroom. She pulls a trash bin close to the armrest, her head hanging over it, long, shiny black hair falling in her face. Without needing to be asked, Kelsea gets behind her and pulls the hair back.
Kaitlyn, Moon and I squeeze onto the loveseat across from them. We hear Daylah heave, her back thrusting, her shoulders lurching forward. Cringing at the horrid sound, Kaitlyn covers her ears.
Daylah then sits up. She’s okay for now.
“Can we talk about the elephant in the room?” Kelsea asks.
We’re all alarmed at first. What’s wrong? She intentionally takes a long pause before gesturing at Moon and me.
“What is this?” she lightheartedly taunts, laughing a bit. Kaitlyn smiles.
Moon and I look at each other, then back at Kelsea. I tell her we don’t know.
“Yeah, I dunno,” Moon corroborates.
Simultaneous laughter from all of us. It’s funny; it makes us feel less awkward. Moon gives me a smile—one that says, “Whatever’s happening, it’ll be fine.”
And so a weight lifts from my shoulders. The music stops for an announcement. The announcer sounds much too close to the mic, so we can barely make out “Happy Birthday, Kelsea!”
They play the birthday song and we all sing to her. She requests a “birthday kiss,” so I give her one—I go in for a peck but she takes a bite out of me. I’m now officially initiated.
Time to go home. They’re closing soon.
***
It’s almost 3 a.m.. Jack and Tori went home. We drag one of the mattresses into Moon’s room so that Daylah can be close to the toilet. She passes out as soon as her head hits the pillow.
I, too, am exhausted. I grab my tote bag off the edge of Moon’s bed and drag it down the hall, into the other room. Then I return to retrieve the phone charger I forgot.
“How convenient,” Moon says as I unplug it from the wall.
I blow a raspberry at them. I lay at the edge of the bed. String lights pinned to the ceiling reflect off Moon’s corneas. We stare at each other for a long time.
Then I turn onto my back and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. My body sinks into the memory foam mattress.
Let’s never go back to Asheville, I say into the darkness.
Moon laughs. Their hand once again latches onto mine.
I think I want to lie here forever. I want to lie here and never go back to school, never go back to the rest of our friends.
I want to lie here and never owe anyone an explanation, never deal with glares from strangers or judging glances from my ex-boyfriend’s horrid, obnoxiously loud friends.
I can hear those men now—the vile descriptor “bitch” spat from their white tongues. That lousy word falls from their mouths freely, continuously, as if it’s a filler word akin to “um” or “like.”
I want to lie here and not face that.
But the fact of the matter is that the moon will soon fall behind the houses in this neighborhood, the sun will stream in through the window and the Joan Jett figurine on the shelf will be illuminated once again.
We’ll have to go back to Asheville and in the car, we’ll have to talk about this.
We’ll talk about what we both want and make a decision. Then, even if it does work out for a while, indomitably we’ll have to part ways. Life and death and rebirth.
For now, I curl up in the bed, reveling in the warmth. Maybe it’ll be different this time.
