Page 54 of Whiskey Splash

Instead, the cold wood of the raised patio is wet and hard and perfectly grounding. I look out at the darkness, the city dim, but still sparkling from its drenching of rain. The bay is no longer tossing with waves and the resort looks small and miniature from way up here—far away.

Exactly where it needs to be.

Far, far away.

I want everything to stay dark with the ocean wafting softly in the moonlight after the breaking storm, the sky starless. I want everything to be muffled and safe, protected from the bright harsh reality that I’ll have to face in the morning. The girl that I am now. The truth … revealed for all to see on the internet, if what Desmond said doesn’t pan out. Even if there are no pictures and nothing is uploaded to the internet, I know who I was tonight with him. I know the shameless unreproachable woman he let out. The girl I’ve hidden for years, who foolishly wanted to trust someone with her body, her desires. Who dodged a bullet, despite her carelessness.

Tonight was a warning. A reminder of what happens when I let someone get too close, of when I let down my guard. A reminder that I will never be my sister, because we may have the same face, the same body, the same voracious desire … but I’m the one who gets destroyed in the fire.

* * *

The next morning, I call in sick and scour the internet for anything—

Any news about Desmond.

Any paparazzi photos from Hawaii.

Any gossip surrounding his film or the crew in Waikiki.

But there’s nothing.

Thank God there’s nothing!

Around noon, I break down and call Arie, because I can’t handle this alone. She comes over immediately and I tell her everything, and I mean everything. I tell her about the zipline and the thrill of excitement, the make-out session on the beach, about my insatiable desire for Desmond, and the adventure of being someone else, someone who is bold enough to go back to his room. I tell her about the intimacy between us, the lightness and fun of it, and then the heat of the unbridled woman who lay beneath him and came in a way I’ve never come before. Arie hugged me then, like this was something she’s been hoping for me for a long time.

But then, of course, I have to tell her about the reality that ruined it—the photos, the flashes of light, the cold possibility of everyone knowing who I was with Desmond—of everyone having an opinion about who I am.

“That’s the hardest part,” I say to Arie, who now sits on my couch, with me swaddled in a blanket. “The judgement. Other people thinking they know me.”

“You mean the security officers and the people at the resort?” Arie asks softly, her normal sassiness holstered for the afternoon.

“Yes them, but also everyone on the internet, whoever would see these things.”

“First, no one has seen anything. And second, you don’t know any of them even if they did,” Arie says quietly, leaning against my legs as we both sit on the couch.

“I don’t have to know them for them to judge me,” I say, looking up at my ceiling where my dreamcatchers and hanging plants all seem to intertwine together into a complicated web of confusion. “They can still call me names and think I’m some slutty whore who fucks anything that moves.”

“Just because they think that doesn’t make it true,” Arie says, drawing lines against my kneecaps with her finger.

“Isn’t it true?” I look over at my sister with her ruby hair draped over my knees and she narrows her eyebrows at me.

“No!” Arie sits up straight and tosses that red hair back. “Because you just told me what happened. Hello, you’re a beautiful, gorgeous woman who shared a hot, wonderful evening with a guy she likes.”

I shrug, not convinced.

“And let me be clear,” Arie says, finger-snapping in the air for emphasis. “Slutty whore ismypersonal title and you’re not allowed to have it!”

I crack a smile for the first time all day, and Arie sits up and points at my flash of teeth.

“Good! See! There is a sense of humor still in there,” Arie says triumphantly. “I need to see more of that!”

“We have the same chromosomes,” I say, shaking my head at her. “You’re biologically required to say nice things to me. You’ll love me no matter what.”

“What about Desmond then?” she asks carefully. “Because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think you’re my previously mentioned personal title, that again, you’re not allowed to have.”

“You sure about that?” I counter. “He’s famous. I don’t know him. Maybe he does this all the time.”

“That makes him the slutty whore,” Arie shoots back. “Not you!”

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