Miriam hops down, scowling but unperturbed. “Benny, want to narrate? I feel like as a performer, you’re the natural pick to narrate.”
The fourteen of us gather in a circle, and Sasha passes around a hat with slips of paper inside. “If your paper has an ‘X’ on it, you’re the killer!”
Alex is beside me, and when he pulls his paper out of the bowl, he twists away so I can’t see. I grab mine and do the same; sadly, I am not the killer.
Next, Miriam hands out our character cards, which have lines that we’re supposed to playact with every other character.
“Does everyone have a beverage?” Benny shouts. “I’m going to get started.”
“Wait, dim the lights!”
“I need more vodka!”
“I’m still confused. None of us are dead.”
“The death is an omnipresent human manifestation.”
“What the literal fuck does that mean?”
“Disco is a person. Disco is dead.”
“Everyone shut up!” Benny shouts.
We quiet down, settle onto chairs and against walls. Benny dims the lights, then strolls back in front of the TV. There’s a performative smirk on his face as he holds our unwavering attention. His script is nowhere nearby, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he already memorized it.
“This,” he says, tone low and dramatic, “is everything we know so far about the night disco died.”
* * *
An hour later, I’m certain I’ve got the killer.
“I know it’s you, Freddy.”
He props his feet on the ottoman and smiles at me. “Did you get what you wanted for your birthday, Casey?”
“My name isn’t Casey. It’s Gloria. And what I want is to put you away for murder.”
“You watched a lot of CSI growing up, didn’t you?”
I narrow my eyes. “I did, actually.”
Freddy laughs. Across the room, Ellie 2 shouts at Alfred, “If you had just told me you like to dress up as a woman, then none of this would have happened!”
Alfred blushes, fumbling for his script.
“I think someone assigned the character cards wrong,” Benny grumbles.
Miriam throws up her hands in exasperation. “It was mostly random!”
Cop Hector strolls past. His detective notepad is taking a bath in his cocktail glass. “You’re all under arrest,” he slurs.
I point my finger at Freddy. “I need another drink, but when I get back, I will get you to admit that someone who has had, say, thirty perms in their life would know showering risks deactivating the ammonium thioglycolate.”
“Please.” Freddy winks. “Everybody knows that.”
Alex comes out of the bathroom right as I reenter the hallway. I scoot up to him and slap the wall beside his head. He freezes, amused.
“Is it true you stand to inherit the club now that Doctor Disco is dead?” I ask.
“Disco was like a brother to me,” Alex says. “Sure, we were business partners, but I’d never off him. You, on the other hand…”
“What?”
“The bouncers overheard you and Disco fighting.”
I gasp theatrically. “We never fought!”
Alex consults his script, then goes rogue. “You were mad he wasn’t giving you enough stage time. Disco said you were pitchy.”
“He did not. That’s not on the script!”
He rasps out a laugh and grabs me by my waist, pulling me against him. “I guess you’ll have to sing something to prove you’re not the killer.”
“Alex, the stakes are too high, you have to take this seriously!” I cry.
But this feeling—this giddiness I can say with 100 percent confidence I’ve never felt so intensely—swallows us both up in a feedback loop of wanting and being wanted. The days apart are demanding an end, and my free hand comes up behind his neck, and I let him tip me back a little, and—
“Ha!”
My drink tilts, sloshing out of the glass. Alex and I both twist to see Benny staring at us, mouth agape.
“Fari, you owe me five bucks!” he shouts, running off.
I groan in exasperation, and Alex hums against my throat, “You said I didn’t have to stay away from you if I wasn’t the murderer.”
“Did you just give yourself away so you could kiss me?”
“Yes,” he says, tilting my face toward his, and rumbles, “I’m done with games.”
* * *
We slip away when the party winds down—the murderer still at large due to an admittedly botched investigation—and head back to the West Village, where cold air and wind and lights revive us from the edge of sleep the Uber ride sank us into.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask Alex when he comes out of a bodega and hands me a Gatorade. “And why didn’t you get the nipple-top bottles? They taste better.”
He slants his head, looking down at me with amusement. The blue lights of the neon sign above us paint his face a dreamy glow. “They definitely taste better, but they were out. And my birthday is Christmas Eve.”
“What?”
“For real.”
“What are your Christmases like?” I ask, then bite my tongue. If Alex doesn’t even spend Thanksgiving with family …
“When I was a kid,” he says, putting a hand against my waist to steer me in the direction of his street, “they were full of miyeokguk and experimental skin-care products my cousins would invent. They’ve upgraded since then and now co-own a skin-care line that they operate out of LA and Seoul, where each of them lives. I think I have some of their face masks at home, if you want to try one.”
I chew on my lip, peering up with pure intrigue at the man beside me. “Were your aunt and your mom close?”
He nods. “They were best friends growing up. Aunt Jane has tons of old stories about my mom she tells me whenever I stay with her,” Alex says, smiling. “Just yesterday, I went to dinner with her, and we spent three hours talking. She was sad when my mom decided to move us to Seoul, but apparently, she also thought it was the right call for my mother’s happiness.”
“To get her away from Robert’s vicinity?” I ask.
Alex frowns. “I guess so. Though Aunt Jane doesn’t think Robert is so bad, mainly because her own husband was worse. He bailed on his wife and kids about eight years ago and never looked back. At least Robert didn’t vanish.”
“That’s true,” I say. “Robert did not vanish.”
Alex’s hand on my waist slips to my free hand, and he doesn’t let go as we climb the stairs of his place. Still doesn’t let go as we stroll silently toward his bed. He puts both of our bottles on the dresser and pulls me close. Tilts my head back with the tip of his finger.
“Tell me what you want for your birthday,” he whispers. “And I’ll give it to you.”
I kiss him. I ache for this now. The feeling of his lips on mine. All the time.
He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth, traces the marks he left behind with his tongue. I lift myself toward him, pressing our bodies flush. We kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Just standing there.
He’s hard against me, and I make him sit so I can straddle him. Alex moves my body against his, and we just keep kissing, like neither of us can stand to move on from this. My dress rides up eventually, and he lifts it over my head. I peel off his shirt, let my hands roam over the contours of his chest. He massages my breasts, thumbing over the fabric of my bra. Under it.