Page 79 of Empire State Enemies

“Do people actually ever fully delete them though? Feels like a lifetime subscription. Like, ‘till death do us part, or until I get bored and reactivate my account.’”

I can’t tell if she’s joking. It’s depressing.

“Anyway, now that we’ve done anal, I assume we’re exclusive, right?” She turns to me, giving me a serious look. “I’d be disgusted if he was still trying to hook up with other girls.”

I almost spit out my drink as she gazes at me with innocent eyes, like she didn’t just drop a bomb on us. “No, I’d expect you have rite of passage now.”

“Justin’s definitely more daring than my usual type,” she muses. “Makes me feel like such a prude in comparison. Have you ever tried anal?”

“Not unless you count that one time with an enema,” I quip weakly. A prude? My sex life is dead compared to Kayla’s.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I add, “What’s it like?”

“Intense. A little painful. Uncomfortable at first. Feels like you gotta take a dump, but you don’t.”

I suck in a sharp breath, clenching my cheeks instinctively. “But do you actually enjoy it?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I think so.”

Mom’s living precariously through me and I’m living precariously through Kayla, it seems.

Having no experience with anal to share, I decide to be productive and signal the bartender.

The bar’s buzzing with the energy of office people celebrating their temporary freedom from spreadsheet purgatory.

And I must admit, it feels good blowing off steam. Even if it means playing an extra in Connor and Willow’s made-for-TV romance.

I’m mid–drink order when a Wall Street Ken type shoulders me aside. “Four Macallan, neat.” Oblivious as his chunky Rolex smacks my bag on the counter.

My bag spills its guts—lip gloss, tampons, you name it, now decorating the floor. Great.

Fucking moron.

I bend down, fuming, to pick up my things, and the dress tightens around my chest, squeezing my lungs. Suddenly desperate for air, I inhale deeply into my stomach and hear the sound no one in a zipper dress wants to hear.Rrrrripppp.

This can’t be happening.

Oh, but it fucking is.

Full-on full frontal wardrobe malfunction.

I jerk upright.

“Shit! My dress!” I shriek in dismay.

The tiny teeth are mangled out of alignment, never to reunite again. Half the dress splits dramatically down the middle, exposing way more torso than appropriate, barely held together over my breasts by a flimsy zip, holding on for dear life.

I frantically try to hold it together but it’s too late. The damage is done. This isn’t just a wardrobe malfunction, it’s a wardrobe apocalypse.

Kayla’s eyes are saucers of horror as she takes in the scene.

“I can see everything!” she squeals. She’s got that look, like the kid fromThe Sixth Sense, except she’s seeing way more than dead people.

“A little help here?” I hiss through clenched teeth, fumbling to bring the rebellious zipper ends together.

“You’ll have to go to the bathroom and put the dress on the other way or something.”

“I can’t walk to the bathroom like this!”