It turned out Erika and Sam had gone to Barnard—Victor, who had gone to Columbia with Nilay, had met them in an art history elective he took senior year—and they had just finished dinner and were about to meet up with a few of their friends, and then they were all going to head to a loft party in Bushwick, and would the boys like to come with? And thus, three hours later, Mack found himself making out with Erika on a worn velour couch, a familiar position even if the exact surroundings—a makeshift bedroom in a loft overlooking a noodle factory—were a little shabbier than he was used to. An hour after that, he was in a cab with Erika, Sam, and Victor (they had somehow lost the other three guys along the way); half an hour after that, Erika was pulling him into the back bedroom of a fourth-floor railroad apartment in the East Village and shutting the door. She had kicked off her shoes and proceeded to take off his pants and his shirt, so he took off her dress, and then he took off her bra, and then she had whispered, “Do you have a condom?” And, well, yes, he did just happen to have a condom—not that he necessarily made a habit of keeping a condom in his wallet, but he had, lately, figured out that it was always better to be prepared than, well, not. It took him a couple tries to get the condom on his penis, which was not really as hard as he would have liked, but Erika was lying on the bed, eyes closed, and kind of moan-laughing, and then she reached for his dick and with a couple of strokes had not only gotten him legitimately hard but also managed to slide the condom on, and then she guided him into her. He remembered she had surprisingly large breasts, big, fleshy orbs that lolled to either side of her body and jiggled manically as he thrust into her, and when he flipped her over—his preferred position to finish in—they’d almost touched the bed.
Early the next morning he woke up with one of the worst headaches he had ever had—ugh, absinthe—and Erika was still asleep, so he found his boxer-briefs on the floor of her bedroom and tiptoed into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water and saw, through the open door to the other bedroom, Victor and Sam, both lying on top of a patchwork duvet completely naked, and he drank the water in one gulp and tiptoed back into Erika’s bedroom and pulled on the rest of his clothes and left. He’d gotten a text from Erika later that day—come back soon ;)—and meant to respond, but forgot. (He did, however, remember to add her to the list of women he’d slept with since moving to New York that he kept on his phone. She was number thirty-nine.)
That was—fuck, that was almost two years ago! Did he even keep condoms in his wallet anymore? He took his wallet out and looked into it: just a few singles and his credit cards and driver’s license. No condoms. Just one more thing he was going to miss about Isabel.
From his office he could just see Isabel’s desk. She was talking to Oliver from sales, who was leaning over her shoulder and pointing to something on her computer screen. He saw her laugh. His stomach felt hollow. Allow yourself to feel at peace, his meditation app always said, but how the fuck were you supposed to feel at peace when the world was conspiring against you?
10
The Hustle
KATYA YAWNED AND stretched and gave herself a minute before rolling out of bed. Victor lay curled almost against the wall next to her, still sound asleep; he probably wouldn’t wake up for another couple of hours. It was seven thirty in the morning and she was wearing only a pair of black lace boy shorts, and so when she opened the door of her bedroom and stepped into the living room, she almost screamed when she saw Janelle sitting at their two-person table, her phone set up on a tripod, an array of beauty products in front of her. Janelle’s head whipped around when she heard Katya, and then she sighed. “Damn it, Katya, I almost had it.” She looked Katya up and down. “And you need to eat a sandwich.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” She stood there, hip jutted out, not covering her chest. Janelle had seen her naked before—it wasn’t like Katya’s skinniness was any surprise to her. And, actually, it was kind of rude to tell her to eat a sandwich. She didn’t even like sandwiches. “What are you doing up so early, anyway?”
Janelle gestured toward the windows. “The light in this place is best in the morning. I gotta get this video up before I leave for work.” This was Janelle’s latest attempt at “building brand awareness,” or, as Katya thought of it, “trying to become famous.” She was posting videos to Facebook and her YouTube channel, Black Girl Beauty. “This is ‘the easiest smoky eye.’” She batted her eyelashes. “See?”
“Mmm,” Katya said.
“Oh, by the way, I asked around about your invisibletechman. No one knows who it is.” Janelle picked up her phone. “But he’s kinda funny. Like look at this one.” She held out the phone.
Founder: pats my hair I like the new ’do! Me: quietly casts voodoo spell on him.
“Like, that is real.” She shook her head. “You know that your founder or whatever he is patted my brother on the head?”
“Who, Rich did that?” Katya said. Janelle nodded and rolled her eyes. “Well, he probably just doesn’t know any better.”
“Well, that’s because he hasn’t made it his business to ever be around black people before.” Janelle had a point, Katya had to admit. Trevor was one of two black employees at TechScene; the other, Kiana, worked in sales. “And guess what, it’s not my brother’s job to teach him how to behave. So I don’t hate this invisibletechman, whoever it is, if it makes the Rich Watsons of the world stop petting my brother like he’s some zoo animal.” Janelle sighed. “Anyway. I need to see how this new lip gloss looks on camera.” She turned her phone around to look into the camera, pursed her lips, and snapped a photo.
Katya stared at Janelle. It was way too early for all of this. “The lip gloss is pretty. Um…I’m gonna take a shower.”