While Hutton slept, Cat was perched in a makeshift toilet at King’s Landing, the cramped bar around the corner from her apartment, using her keys to snort cocaine out of a tiny blue plastic bag she’d found in her closet. Sigrid leaned over the sink, reapplying a matte red lipstick. The walls that surrounded them were made from plywood sheets recently hammered into some two-by-fours; the door was a ribbed panel of plastic roofing with a large hole drilled for a handle. Swedish house music shook the room.
“I totally fucked it up,” Cat was yelling. “Hot Cop looked so sad when he brought me home. I don’t know if he believed me, you know? That it was an accident.” She sniffed, tasting cocaine on the back of her throat.
“I almost don’t believe it either, that you managed to get high from beauty products, but I know you. You, Catherine Celia Ono, get high on purpose,” Sigrid said, blotting her lipstick on a square of toilet paper. “Either way, that’s fucking hilarious.”
Cat offered up a little pile of cocaine on a key. Sigrid pinched a nostril and huffed it back with a practiced snort.
“What do you think is going to happen to the bag of product from Bedford Organics?” Sigrid asked.
“Uh…nothing?” Cat replied hopefully. “Fuck. I don’t know.”
“Tell him you want to be anonymous.”
“Right?” Cat agreed. “I gave him my bag of awesome free drugs. The least he can do is make it anonymous.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want to get you in trouble. He totally likes you,” Sigrid said confidently. “Send a cute text.”
“I texted him twenty minutes ago and he hasn’t texted back,” Cat admitted, frowning.
“What’d you write?”
“Just, thanks for taking me home, you’re sweet. do-over?”
Sigrid pinched her other nostril and took in another little stack of cocaine off Cat’s keys. “That’s not time-sensitive. He’ll write back tomorrow. Don’t worry. He’s probably asleep.” She passed the bag and key back.
Cat dipped her finger into the coke and rubbed it on her gums. “Thanks for coming up here. I was just feeling so mortified. And I was way too high to go to bed.”
“Girl, I don’t give a shit. I had a second audition today for that series on the CW and I completely fucked it up. Whatever, I’m too fucking old anyway to play a teenage lesbian.” She wiped excess lipstick from the corner of her mouth with a practiced flick. “Let’s get wasted.”
Cat rinsed her hands in the dirty sink and wiped them dry on her jeans. She’d at least had the good sense to strip off her starched white dress. Now, clad in a pair of heavily ripped 501s and equally shredded black T-shirt, Cat was ready to throw the entire evening down the toilet. Sigrid was too—she wore a crop top screenprinted with the emojis for “I love roosters” over her usual high-waisted black cigarette pants and Bensimon slip-ons.
They squeezed out of the bathroom together and marched over to the narrow bar top. Two tattooed, bearded men in identical leather jackets and Buddy Holly eyeglasses were sitting at the corner of the bar, drinking neat whiskeys. They both had motorcycle helmets hanging under their stools and gave off a general aura of handsomeness, although it was difficult to assess how much was natural and how much came from their tough-guys-who-went-to-art-school costumes.
Sigrid turned to Cat and lowered her voice. “Place your bet: let’s call it twenty bucks. I’m going for carpenters? Maybe fabricators. They went to SAIC or RISD. I bet they’re in that studio around the corner that makes giant fake astronaut sets for Moncler and shit.”
“Deal. Because you’re wrong. I’m thinking…menswear, the two straight guys in their class at FIT, raw Japanese denim, and at least one of them is named Jay,” whispered Cat.
“Let’s find out.” Sigrid stuck out her butt and leaned over the bar top, greeting the bartender with a kiss on the cheek. “Callie, can we get two of whatever those guys are drinking?” She winked at the two men, who immediately stood up and walked over.
“I’m Dave, and this is Jay,” said the one with the Nazi Youth haircut as he pointed at the one with the man bun. Cat felt Sigrid laughing over the invisible tin-can telephone of their friendship. They all shook hands, the type of warm and friendly greeting that signaled the beginning of a group adventure—the kind you exchanged on hiking trails or ski lifts.
“Did you guys see those tires burning outside in the empty lot?” asked Sigrid.
“It’s supposed to be an art installation. Some kids from RISD. It’s bullshit, though.”
“Kids from RISD are bullshit?” Cat pretended to be offended.
“We went there, we’re allowed to say that.”
That took all of forty-five seconds, she thought. “Oh yeah? When?”
“We graduated last year,” said Man Bun. “How about you two? Let me guess: Pratt…” He squinted and pointed at Cat first. “You’re majoring in industrial design, and you’re obviously in fashion design.”
Sigrid looked at Cat. Play along, or tell the truth? Cat gave her a smirk that said walk the line.
“Not bad,” Sigrid said, pretending to be impressed. “Well, what year do you think we are?”
“Seniors, you’re definitely seniors,” said Nazi Youth. The two men had a focus like a laser beam, their pure and unadulterated youth aimed directly at Cat and Sigrid.
“That sounds fucking great,” said Sigrid. “Let’s go with that.” Their whiskeys arrived on the bar and Cat and Sigrid raised them simultaneously, knocking the shots back and signaling for another round.
Five hours later they’d closed down Pillow Fort, a bar three blocks away where everyone always seemed to get roofied. James, the obscenely handsome bartender, had locked the front door, and he and Cat took shots off the bar top. Nazi Youth, Man Bun, and Sigrid were all making out in the corner.
“I’m just saying, I really just want to be on the sea, you know? I’ve been building boats all my life. It’s time to really commit.” Shot.
“You should totally fucking do that. Follow your dream! If you think you are a boatbuilder—”
“Shipwright,” he interrupted. Shot.
“Right, shipwright, that’s just who you should fucking be.” She pulled out her pack of cigarettes. “Can I smoke in here?”
He nodded enthusiastically and pulled out a lighter. “Only if I can have a drag.” His blond hair fell down over his face.
Cat climbed up on top of the bar, crossing her legs. He sat across from her and took the same seat, their knees touching. She held up her cigarette for a light, and he lit it before reaching over and pressing his forehead to hers. She held the cigarette to his mouth and he inhaled, their foreheads still touching.
“You’re going to find your truth, James,” she said, really meaning it. “I just know it. You belong in the sea.”
“Cat, you’re the best.” He had the same youthful, sincere energy as Man Bun and Nazi Youth.