Page 8 of Severance

I’m sweaty and feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, and although the idea of a hot bath and a warm bed is wonderful, my sense of adventure prevails. The blue-eyed mystery man probably has a lot to do with that.

“I swear I’m never taking a shower again!” Jess squeals, ignoring the fact that half the club can probably hear her. Somehow, I believe that was her intention all along. She’s one of the few chosen ones touched by Devin Monroe, and this will probably be in the Twittersphere for weeks to come.

“Eww.” I try not to laugh while my eyes jump from one head in the room to another, searching for the prince in the leather jacket. Now that the high of the show is beginning to fade, images of him invade my mind. I’ve never had a guy look at me the way he did.Like he was trying to communicate something to me.But sadly, he’s nowhere to be found. Neither is the rest of his group.

“Devin fucking Monroe touched me!” Jess’s high-pitched squeal drowns out the thoughts in my head. “Devin fucking Monroe, Alana!”

The main floor is still packed as people patiently wait for the Black Rose guys to make an impromptu appearance.

“I was there. Remember?” I say, checking the time on my phone. My father’s expecting me home by midnight, which is ridiculous, considering it’s Friday.

“Did he touch you too?” Jess looks at me expectantly.

“I don’t want to be on your Twitter,” I warn her, scanning the main floor.

We watch the road crew breaking down the stage until it becomes obvious the band is taking the rest of the night off. The security guards start hustling everyone out into the buzzing lobby.

“You wanna stay over at my place tonight?” Jess asks.

“You know how my dad is.” I roll my eyes. “He said to be home by midnight.”

“You two really need to renegotiate.”

“Let’s get t-shirts.” Ignoring her comment, I pull her in the direction of the merch booth.

“I’m serious. What are you? Thirteen?” Jess snickers as we go to the end of the line.

“Yeah, well.” I blow out a heavy sigh, not sure how to explain to my best friend that trying to change my parents’ viewpoint on partying late isn’t an easy undertaking.

“I’m surprised your dad doesn’t come to check on you when you sleep over at my place.”

“Maybe he does.” I shrug, laughing. The image of my father hiding in the bushes in front of Jess’s house with binoculars amuses me to some degree. The only reason he ever lets me spend the night at my friend’s house is because her father regularly donates to the church we attend. I’m not sure that actually qualifies Jess’s dad to be a suitable chaperone, if not the opposite. The Tillers are gone a lot on business, including some of the weekends I spend at their place. But my father doesn’t need to be aware of that.

“That would be totally creepy!” Jess agrees, her mouth twisting.

“I know.”

“Soo,” she drawls like she always does when things are about to steer into serious talk territory. “I found this one apartment downtown. The landlord said she can waive the credit check if my parents co-sign.”

A little rush of unease flows through me. I haven’t been able to bring up the moving out discussion to my parents. My father insists I live at home while I’m in college. Maybe because he wants to make sure his money doesn’t go to waste.

It’s sad he still doesn’t trust me.

“I haven’t looked for another job yet,” I confess. A partial reason for my procrastination is that I like working at Anna’s Pastry. I’ve been helping the owner, Mrs. Kaminski, ever since I was fifteen. My guess is that the only reason my father allowed me to work for her at such a young age is because she’s also Polish. And while my pay is miniscule and my boss can be unreceptive to my Instagram and other social media marketing ideas, I feel happy there. The thought of leaving the bakery gives me anxiety.

“I told you to look when summer gets here,” Jess scolds me. “No one’s hiring in the middle of the holiday season. I fucking hate Christmas.”

“What’s wrong with Christmas?”

Unlike Jess, I haven’t mastered saying the F-word outside the privacy of my room as well as she has. My biggest fear is that if I say it too often, it will one day slip out of my mouth in front of my father and he’ll decide not to pay my tuition anymore.

“Sorry.” She rolls her eyes dramatically and moves ahead as the line inches forward. “You know I respect your parents, but you need to get out of that house before your dad sends you to some convent because you’re too fucking nice to tell him no or stand up to his bullshit.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and somewhat hurtful. They sting because that’s what the truth does—it makes you feel really crappy, especially when it comes from your best friend.

“Just think about it, okay?” Jess goes on. “We’ll be perfect roommates. We can do something cool in the kitchen. Like a permanent set-up where we can take sick photos for your blog. Or we can do videos.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I let the idea settle in my mind. Moving downtown is a big deal. Jess and I have been dreaming of living together since we were kids. Will my father still be okay with me driving the Prius? Will he still pay my tuition? Will he still give me spending money?

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