Page 61 of Roses in Summer

Seraphina

Ripping open the heavy metal door, I stumble inside, holding onto the doorframe as I step over the threshold and close the door behind me. Sucking in a deep breath, I will my body to cooperate as I walk down the employee corridor and back through the side door that leads into the main room of the restaurant.

Once I clear the door, I hurry to the women’s restroom, not surprised to see a line and a crowd of women in front of the vanities. Bringing my thumb to my mouth, I gnaw on my nail, impatiently waiting for my turn in one of the full-sized stalls. Trying to stave off my impending freak-out, I listen to the conversation buzzing around me: boys, booze, bitchy friends, and professions of beauty fill the space, and I let the voices lull me into a false sense of peace.

As soon as the accessible stall opens at the end of the row, I race forward, probably looking crazy to the women in the room. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I brace my hands against the small private vanity and look in the mirror. Other than swollen lips, there’s nothing physically changed about me. I have the same dark eyes, thick hair, and a slightly bumped nose. My skin isn’t flushed, though I’m sure I was burning in the alleyway with Lincoln moments ago, and my breath is no longer labored.

But despite the lack of physical alteration, I feel changed. Cosmically. Seismically. In the last five hours, I’ve gone from elated to terrified to resigned, to angry to so incredibly pleasured I nearly forgot my name. My emotional state is frayed, and while I’d love to blame Lincoln and his fingers, mouth, and tongue, I can’t.

“Pull yourself together,” I tell myself, staring at my reflection as though the turmoil in my eyes will dissipate with a few simple words. Running away from Lincoln was a last-ditch effort to regain some form of composure before I found my sister and told her, under no uncertain terms, that I was getting an Uber and going home. Could I have handled my escape with less hysteria? Probably.

When Lincoln’s arms were around me, when his mouth was on me, everything was drowned out. The only thing I could focus on was the need I had for him. But as soon as the orgasm faded, everything else came back.

I shiver at the thought of Gemma. Despite how she acted toward me last weekend, I know that losing a man like Lincoln Simmons is painful. To lose him when you were intimately involved must feel like a small death, one I’m not sure I would be able to recover from.

Turning on the faucet, I run my hands under cold water before bringing them to my neck, hoping the cool temperature will calm my racing mind. Technically, I owe nothing to Gemma. They broke up, and he’s free to do whatever with whomever. But thinking like that is callous and dangerous. Regardless of our former friendship and my omnipresent lust, they were together for a long time, and to pretend they weren’t is delusional.

There was love, or like, or at least mutual respect.

God, I think I’m going to be sick. Shutting my eyes, I lift my head to the ceiling and focus on the cold hands clasping my neck and the hum of voices beyond the stall. It doesn’t alleviate the nausea, but it at least distracts me enough that I don’t feel like I’m about to be sick in the middle of an upscale New York City establishment.

Knocking on the stall startles me, and I whip my head toward the door. “Hey, you okay in there?” an unfamiliar voice calls out.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a minute,” I croak out, mortified that a stranger is checking up on me. I have no idea how long I’ve been in here, but apparently, it’s been long enough to cause concern. Or suspicion.

Turning off the faucet, I grab a hand towel from the dispenser and dry my hands, clutching the disintegrating fiber before tossing it in the trash. With a deep breath, I unlatch the stall door and walk into the still-crowded bathroom.

“Are you okay?” the same voice calls, and I look to my left, a beautiful blonde staring at me with concern in her eyes. There’s something about her that seems familiar, though I’m sure I’ve never met her before.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just overheated.” I can feel my cheeks flush, lending credence to my words. She doesn’t respond to my explanation, just stares at me as though she’s studying my face.

“Are you related to Ava Gregori, by any chance? You look just like her.”

“Oh, uh, yes. She’s my sister. I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, both surprised and confused by the compliment. While West Elm isn’t far from New York, I didn’t think my sister was a frequent patron of Garganello’s.

“I’m Katie, Dante’s sister-in-law,” she responds with a kind smile. “My wife, Francesca, and I own this place. CeCe, Ava, and Serena come to our apartment frequently when they want to escape their men.” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Can’t say I blame them. I never cared much for men.”

I smile at her, unsure of what to say. She must detect my unease because she asks again, “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need me to go get someone or call a car for you? We have a driver on retainer; I can have him bring you home?”

“No, really, I’m okay. I’m just leaving now, but thank you. It was lovely meeting you and everything.” My voice sounds awkward to my own ears. I don’t miss how Katie’s smile drops, replaced by a concerned frown. Belatedly, I realize that I didn’t give her my name. “I’m Sera, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sera. Please, take care of yourself, okay?”

Nodding my head, I squeeze past her, knowing that my behavior could be regarded as rude, but also knowing that I need to leave as soon as possible. My original plan was to find Bianca and tell her I was leaving and make sure she was aware of my location. Now, a text will have to suffice.

Pulling out my phone as I walk on the fringes of the dance floor, I keep my head down and order an Uber before navigating to my texts. Clicking on my thread with Bianca, I type out a message.

Seraphina: I called an Uber, and I’m heading home. Where are you? Do you want to leave with me?

I watch the text bubbles pop up immediately as though she was waiting for my text.

Bianca: I was just texting you to see where you were. Why are you leaving? Where did you go? I’m by the bar, and we’re doing shots. Come hang out.

I shake my head. I may have promised my sister I would go out with her and be a buffer between her and these girls, but I can’t do it. Everything in me tells me that I need to go home. I’m running scared; I know I am. But it doesn’t change the fact that I need the sanctuary and solitude of my bedroom.

Seraphina: I’ll see you at home, B. Be safe and have fun. If you need a ride, call me and I can come back and get you. Dante’s sister-in-law is also here and seems nice. Be careful, okay? Don’t leave by yourself.

Bianca: You mean like you’re doing?

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