Giggle Water

a short story

I, LIKE THE STUBBORN GIRL I AM—the only downside to being an otherwise exalted Taurus—invited Paolo Temple early for drinks. The party wouldn’t start for another three hours and the caterers were still setting up in my mauve Brownstone on West 82nd, the one with the pastel stoop and gold metal frames around the windows. Easy to find, hard to forget. Paolo snuck in through my open doors, following the design team dressed in blacks and carrying boxes of specialized glassware and napkins to the kitchen, where I was hurriedly going through the menu with Clive, a pencil of a man and a voice to match.

“Miss Bell Brown,” Clive stopped me mid-sentence, a rather brave move. “It seems you have an early visitor.”

I felt a twinge of regret even before snapping my head to Paolo, already knowing I had moved from generosity to cruelty. Why did I even entertain him? Or was it my entertainment at this point? Still, I flashed a surprised smile, lowering the clipboard that I was gripping mercilessly in my hands: “Paolo! God, did you text me?”

“Couple times. Figured you were busy,” said Paolo, gesturing to the chaos around us. He was dressed exactly the way I had imagined: a white sweater snugly fit around his chest and arms, a smart pair of dress slacks, and dark hair parted in the middle and swooping down over his brown, contemplative face. He carried a grocery bag with a wine bottle sticking out the top, the silver foil signifying my favorite brand.

“I’m so sorry, yeah, it’s been crazy—” I handed the clipboard to Clive. “Can you just—? Thanks.” He slipped out of the kitchen and I turned my full attention back to Paolo with an exasperated laugh. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“It’s okay, it’s your party.” Paolo’s eyes took me in for a second too long. “I can help, y’know? Roll my sleeves up?”

“Stop. You’re my guest,” I replied, moving to him. “That’d be pretty fucked, to put you to work.”

“Yeah, it would be.” Paolo slid his hands around my waist, pulling me into a tight hug. My arms found themselves around his shoulders and a giggle escaped me. Ew. He smelled like pine, his grip strong as a tree, and I felt him sigh into my neck, taking his good ol’ sweet fucking time. Jada, get out of there! My head screamed but my gut was a different story. And then Paolo said the one straight-guy thing that snapped some sense back into me: “Hey you.”

“Hey?” I pulled away with a look. He knew I didn’t play that cringy shit. “If you don’t just get your ass to the backyard.”

Paolo smirked, giving me one last squeeze before obeying, meandering around the caterers in the kitchen. I watched him go, resisting a shiver. Why did I invite him over early?

The party wasn’t really for a particular occasion, just an excuse to get some old and new friends together. I had meant to throw a celebratory gathering after signing my last book deal, one of many, and perhaps the quickest turnaround from a New York Times bestseller to a television adaptation on HBO. This one was called Giggle Water, some Roaring 20s romp I had been developing for a minute. Time got away from me, so it’s old news now, but I thought it’d still be nice to get some people together before the heat of summer wore off. A few of those people included a group of eclectic college friends that I hadn’t seen in a while: Paolo Temple, Mikey Harrison, and my ex-bestie Christine Cho.

Paolo. Where do I begin?

In terms of people-to-pay-attention-to, he kind of went under the radar in college until I learned that we could nerd out about a lot of things together. He was always good-looking, I guess, a short king or whatever people wanna call that. I was, and still am, an avid writer and he was an artist, so we’d often get high and watch cartoons from our childhood in his barren, boyish apartment. He became a creative director for an indie video game company while I published novel after novel, coming back together over the years to heatedly discuss topics such as stylization, storytelling, the decline of media literacy. It was grossly specific, but I think it was mostly Paolo’s mind that kept me hooked. Paolo and I briefly courted in school, before he disappeared into another relationship. The day after he broke up with her, we fucked. And it’s been on and off ever since. For some reason, I could never feel good about myself long enough to officially cut him off, even though his crippling “needy to be needed” energy—developed over his years of romances with small white girls—was a pathetic vacation from my loneliness. I could have anyone in the world, so says my therapist, and I continue to mess with him for messing with me.

“Miss me?” Paolo asked after we had settled on my back deck. Oh, did I mention he was a narcissist?

I poured myself a glass of the chardonnay he brought and tried to suppress a laugh. “Not as much as you did, apparently. You came all the way from Cali to see me.”

“Not true.” Paolo squinted up at the orange sky above the courtyard that connected the backs of my neighboring apartments. “I have an event tomorrow, a sort of investor thing for Sony. Just so happened that you planned your party at the same time I was in town.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

“Who else is coming?”

“You know, the crew.” I don’t know why I said that. The ‘crew’ was more like a bunch of people with shared semi-traumatic experiences who had grown apart but only popped back in to see if they were doing better than one another. “I apologize in advance for all the book snobs. But I think Christine was gonna stop by. Mikey, too.”

“Jesus,” replied Paolo. We were both surprised by that response and he quickly added, “No, I mean. Yay.”

I raised my eyebrows. “That was rough.”

“Are they…together again?”

“Hell no. Christine’s been in the city. Mikey…I don’t know where he’s been. Touring, probably.”

Paolo nodded, sipping his wine. “The crew.”

“You still talk to them?”

“Well yeah, Chrissy, like every few weeks. She literally has to put me on the calendar with her clients just so she doesn’t forget. Mikey, not really. He was in San Francisco in the fall so we got drinks then. What about you?”

We had all been really close like ten years ago. It was now all touch-and-go. I decided to avoid the question. “It’ll be nice to see them again.”

By six, with still an hour to go until the party, I was already tipsy. Everything in the apartment had mostly been set up, with the caterers taking smoke breaks outside before the guests arrived. Hors d’oeuvres were stationed in the library and dining room, a petite wet bar placed in the hallway connecting them; everything gleaming and pretty and Instagram-worthy. I had worked very hard on securing the luxuries of this Brownstone, of living the life I wanted, and by God, was I gonna show it off.

At six-thirty, another glass of wine in, Paolo and I were in my bathroom, pressed against the sink, his hips locked between my legs. Luckily the pre-party playlist downstairs drowned out our moans, except for a brief pause when Paolo pushed inside me with a deep, “Fuck, Jada.” He came during a song by The 1975. I didn’t.

At seven, a couple of people had shown up, but I knew we were looking at a seven-forty-five go. Paolo went downstairs to greet them and I finally got my fit together for the night: a plum, curve-hugging ribbed dress with an open back, my curls slicked back into a bun at the back of my head. My gold hoops were almost as big as my palm. Giddy from wine and the promise of food, I made my way down the spiral staircase to the foyer, just as the party really began.

Mikey Harrison got there at seven on the dot, which was charmingly on-brand for him. He was renowned in the dance world; you know the type: skinny white boy who fancied the line between cute and wiry, a wealthy neutral-leaning liberal but never really speaking on it because he knows I’d eat him alive. In college, he was deemed one of the “nice guys,” a term I don’t believe in, but we got along. Our paths intersected often and his presence at the party would definitely be a talking point. I thought it was funny that Paolo acted like they were estranged when they buddied up at every outing. Of course, people are fake, but I didn’t know how he had the patience. Paolo and Mikey were the unconventional “bros,” and they easily talked over me while being served sashimi bites.

“Dude, that’s what I was saying! It was out-of-bounds!” Mikey was already talking about sports, a profession I’m very sure his father would have rather had him pursue.

“Watch that replay, Mikey.” Paolo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re trippin’. It was totally out.” Mikey nudged me with his bony elbow. “You watch the game?”

I grinned. “You know I didn’t.”

“Isn’t your brother in sports?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t play football so I don’t watch it.” I was already tipsy and combative. I reeled it in a little. “Switching to something more interesting, how’s the tour life been? I heard you were invited to some gala in…what? Prague?”

“Yuh, that shit is crazy!” Mikey leaned back in his chair, dangerously close to the wall. “Same show every day, but it’s fun. Prague is gonna be wild. We’re going to an ambassador’s suite or something. Really high-class event.”

“How does that even happen?” Paolo asked.

“I don’t know. I just take the check,” said Mikey. “Oh, Jada, by the way, my girlfriend might be stopping by tonight if that’s okay. She had a matinee but really wants to meet you.”

This was news. I heard Paolo discretely choke on his food beside me. “Yeah, that should be fine. Who’s your girlfriend?”

“Katerina Novotný.” His smug expression said it all. “Prima ballerina for the Czech National Ballet.”

“So that’s how you got to Prague,” whispered Paolo. I hit him.

“She’s a huge fan of your thriller series.” Mikey continued. “If that’s okay, of course. I can tell her no.”

“No, no, that’s fine! I’m happy to meet her. She’s incredible.” As I said those words, I wondered about warning Christine. Mikey and Christine had dated for a really long time back in the day, even when I counseled her against it, and I still don’t understand why. But as soon as Mikey booked a dance company out of town, it all just unraveled. Christine insisted that she be the bigger person, although that somehow meant remaining friends with him. That didn’t go well either. But just as I decided it’d be better to let things be, Christine Cho arrived at the door.

“Chrissy!” Paolo exclaimed, arms wide.

Mikey offered a half-hearted wave. “I’m grabbing a beer.”

Christine looked amazing, as always, lean and fit in a floral sundress. Her long, dark hair was in a half-updo, flowing past her shoulders like an island princess, the setting sun outlining her silhouette in gold. She entered my apartment with eyes glued to her phone, nails furiously tapping away. Within the past decade, Christine had become one of the city’s most sought-after personal trainers, from celebrities to millionaire athletes to politicians. She taught pilates during college and moved through the ranks to make bank in private sessions, and I think she liked it. She was always busy. Too busy to be my friend, at least.

“Paolo, are you effin’ kidding me?!” Christine looked up from her phone, gasping. “It’s been so long!”

They embraced, rocking back and forth, and I stood back awkwardly with a frozen smile. Over Paolo’s shoulder, Christine noticed me for the first time. “Wait, hold on, I have to hug the host!” She broke away from him and squeezed me so hard, I thought I’d pop. God, she’s strong. “Jada, thank you so, so much for inviting me!”

“Of course, girl,” I replied, holding her at arm’s length. “We live in the same city, it was about time you came over to my place. You still in Brooklyn?”

“In Dumbo, yes. Just got a new loft space for my studio. Gorgeous, really. Oh my God, you simply have to tell me everything about your life! It’s been forever.” She was talking so fast. “And you too, Paolo! Mister-Never-Leaves-the-West-Coast!”

“Well, grab a drink and let’s catch up.”

“I need a drink bad.” Christine’s phone buzzed and she gave it two hard taps with her finger. “Geez, people won’t leave me alone. It’s the weekend.”

Paolo ushered us back into the mahogany living room, weaving through the gathering guests. “Clients text you directly? You don’t have a whole system for that?”

“No, it’s not—” Christine then shot a weird glance at me, so quick I almost missed it, but I didn’t.

Paolo was oblivious to the tension. “What?” But he keyed in: “Who?”

“No one important.”

“Then show me.”

“Paolo—”

“Is it a man?”

“Christine, you want a cocktail? Beer?” My mind was miles away from the conversation, melding into the blaring music and the swift movement of the bartender’s hands as he made the beverages. Christine moved beside me, setting her phone down, face up.

“I might get another drink myself.” Paolo’s hand brushed my low back. “I’ll let you ladies catch up. Hopefully Mikey hasn’t scared off any of your dignified friends.”

I leaned back into him, smirking. “No one here is dignified, I assure you.” Christine’s phone buzzed again.

Paolo gently kissed my neck. “Not me, that’s for sure.”

“Go away.”

Christine’s phone buzzed itself off the counter and both of us quickly moved to stop it from falling. The screen flashed with a notification—several, all texts, from one person.

DAMIEN (heart emoji)

I stared at it, stomach dropping. Christine snatched her phone back but the damage had already been done, and I was swirling into rage that was a decade old. You bitch. Of course, you fucking bitch.

“Did that say Damien?” My mouth moved faster than my mind, but I was ready to come at this bitch.

Paolo urgently pulled me back from the bar. “Uh, hey, let’s go over here for a second.”

Christine wasn’t good at lying so she didn’t seem to try too hard, her narrow eyes full of fear. “Hey, I’m here to celebrate you, right? We can chat about that later—”

“What’s there to chat about, girly-pop?” I laughed. “There’s no discussion here. Why the hell are you still talking to Damien?”

“Jada, come on.” Paolo tugged me into a corner of the library, away from where curious eyes had begun to investigate. Christine turned her head towards the bar as if someone had called her, doing everything but physically removing herself from the situation, and then the crowd blocked my view. I was so close to seeing red—I was on a seven in terms of alarm, bright pink—but Paolo gripped my arm, trying to make amends: “Jada, hey, let’s just calm down a bit, yeah?”

“Calm down, are you—?” Then, the realization dawned on me. “Did you know?”

He sighed. The wrong answer.

“Fuck, Paolo!” I glared at him with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. “You asshole! Sorry, but are you actually being serious right now? Damien?!”

“Maybe he’s changed—”

“I will fight you.” I said lowly. “Like, I will seriously fuck you up if you say something like that to me again. You know what he did to me, what I went through. Having trouble dealing with that ten years ago is one thing, but now? Damien with a fucking heart emoji! Are they dating?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, cutting his eyes back to Christine. “All I know is that it’s complicated.”

“Sure it is, he made me want to kill myself and now they’re togeth—” Paolo interrupted me with a half-hearted shush sound and I hit his arm impulsively. “You don’t think she invited him, do you? That’d be crazy, right?”

“Damien, my dude!” Mikey shouted, loud enough to cut through the music and laughter, as my front door swung open to reveal him: a light-skinned menace, still kinda handsome, weird with his hands, with a vague smile that made people forget that he was horrible at social interaction. Likable enough that even I, in my nightmares, thought that maybe he was just clueless, just dumb? But no, the man knew what he was doing and his emotional immaturity was less natural and more practiced. The sight of Damien absolutely nauseated me and Paolo squeezed me hard, knowing that words were not enough to quell this situation. The monster had entered the party.

What came over me next was some strange desire to take off my heels and dig them into the softness of his eyes. He’d be dead before dessert. Let his white mama collect his body and curse me out as the wild Black girl she always thought I was. I laughed aloud at the ridiculous thought, at the fact that Christine had invited him into my house, and I charged into the kitchen, pushing past caterers, Paolo hot on my trail.

One of my editor friends, a stylish Caribbean chick named Iliza, immediately recognized something was wrong as I crossed the room, swinging her head so fast that her massive bamboo earrings bounced against her chin. She caught up to Paolo and I and got between us. “Ah ah, I know you’re not bothering her again, Paolo!”

Paolo made a face. I shook my head. “No, not yet.”

Iliza wasn’t convinced. “Then why you running like you got somewhere else to be?”

I hesitated to dump all of it on her, but thank God she was already there. She shooed away Paolo and we moved to a quieter area of the kitchen, in a pocket of muffled, melodic conversation. “Thank you for that.”

“I can’t believe you’re still messing around with that nerd.” Iliza giggled, trying to lighten the obvious tension.

I smiled softly. “We’re nerds too.”

“Yeah, but you’re also a bad bitch and he can not keep up with you.”

“I appreciate that, I do. But…it’s something else.”

“Oh, word?”

“It’s…” I hated even saying his name, afraid it would bring back too many feelings I couldn’t keep down. “Him. The one I had a breakdown about a few years ago. He’s here.”

Iliza’s wide eyes narrowed, moving past shock to absolute conviction. “Oh, so I’m gonna have to beat some ass tonight?”

“I’m not exactly against it.”

“Wait, so how’d this happen? How’d he know about this party?”

“I think it was Christine—”

“Hell no!” Iliza didn’t have a filter, just like me, and her outburst turned some heads. “Not to be that person, but you need to start taking people for who they are, Jada.”

“I know.”

“Like, I get it, y’all were friends but Christine showed you who she was when all that shit went down. Maybe she really doesn’t care what he did to you.” Iliza’s tone touched on something real, something I didn’t want to face tonight, but she quickly pivoted: “Okay. How much have you had to drink?”

I blinked. “What? Like, a little.”

“Have another,” Iliza said slowly, “then we’ll figure out what to do. He’s not staying.”

Wouldn’t that be a miracle. Damien’s whole thing was to stay—stay the night, stay hidden, stay in power. He never knew how to leave. Back in college, in the decrepit duplex I shared with Christine, I remember him lounging in my living room after classes, feet kicked up on the hand-me-down ottoman, probably thinking I would drop to my knees at the sight of him. Our situationship wasn’t notable: often tangled in his Twin XL bed, hooking up in the band practice rooms, fingering me in dark alleys on the way back from parties. I acted out my pleasure in the way that I thought eighteen-year-old girls should—and also Damien never closed his eyes, so I was a pro at faking it. But after a while, he got weird: cold yet invasive, somehow starving me of attention but showing up everywhere, telling me not to do or say things. There was a night where I woke up not sure if we had had sex or not, but I lost a lot of memories to alcohol and depression that I was afraid of following that thread. By the end of the year, I realized that I was simply a social experiment for Damien. How exotic are Black girls? How tough are Black girls? How much can a Black girl take? It became evident that this repressed mixed guy from the Midwest had only one idea of me, and when I did not fill it, I felt how generations of Black women could be made to feel: unlovable, unconquerable, bitter. But even when we ended, it did not end.

Damien hung out with my friends, because in their eyes, he could do no wrong. He showed up to my duplex in following years, playing board games with my roommates, laughing loud enough to penetrate the walls of my bedroom. Overwhelmed by his presence, I’d get sick and lay flat on the shag carpet of the bathroom, staring up at the gross yellow lights. I’d create bruises that I’d swiftly cover because I still had to keep up appearances. I lost three more months of memory. And when the monotony of junior year had gotten tired of itself, life threw a curveball, when Christine, my best friend, told me she was fucking my abuser. She sat on my bed on Halloween night and sobbed. I remember being in a fuck-ass blonde bob as Violet from Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and saying nothing.

Iliza was right. I needed to start taking people for who they were. And though it had been too long to enact justice, I could shed some dead weight tonight. My success was not an excuse for them to celebrate their negligence. Jada Bell Brown did not entertain fiction in real life.

I turned my head slightly back towards the bar, where the gathering crowd of writers, editors, actors, artists, and likewise egos congregated. I saw Paolo fervently talking to Christine by the window—Christine talked with her hands, her phone dangerously close to thwacking someone on the head—and Mikey was still all up in Damien’s personal space, beer bottle locked in a desperate grip. There were so many moments where I should’ve let these people drift from my life, mindful of the lessons they taught me, but I hadn’t. That’s my own pride at work. When I returned to Iliza, she had two shots of tequila in her hands and limes. I blinked, unable to react fast enough for her to order: “I’m all for bad decisions if it means making something good happen. Down it, bitch.”

“Damn,” I snorted, taking the shot and lime. “Aggressive.”

“You’re already on the edge, I’m just pushing you,” replied Iliza. “Ready?”

I dabbed a line of salt on the curve of my thumb, prepared the lime, and held the shot by my nose, staring her directly in the eye. Iliza followed suit and three, two, one—we licked, downed it, brown liquor warming our throats, and popped in the lime. Like a jolt of electricity, it stirred my senses, the party sounding louder and the lights were brighter. I must have looked wired, because Iliza burst into laughter. We moved into the maw.

I didn’t know who I wanted to humiliate first as the bass tunneled my vision. I crossed the room in what felt like three seconds, the crowd swimming around me, toasting, praising, worshiping my empire that had built this space. Christine was the first one to see me coming, and immediately presented herself in a pleasant manner that I was ready to receive as hostile. Paolo stayed where he was, but withdrew into himself. Iliza orbited nearby. Mikey was eager to turn whatever pointless conversation he was having to my attention, which gave Damien barely enough time to prepare himself for my wrath.

“You lost?” I asked Damien, and I heard Iliza wheeze.

Damien blinked a few times, as if his eyelashes could lift him up and away from the room. I’m sure he wanted them to. He looked at Mikey for help, then Christine, and—because women do everything—she stepped up:

“Jada, I should’ve told you in advance. This is your celebration, so that’s absolutely my bad. But he was gonna be in the area to pick me up so—”

“So go?” I pursed my lips. “Bye.”

“Look,” Damien sighed, “I don’t want any trouble—”

I ignored him completely. “Christine. Back patio.”

She stared at me with wide, terrified eyes, as if I were grounding a child.

Paolo squeezed between us, ushering Damien in the opposite direction. “Let’s step out for a sec.”

Iliza, my goddess, kept the party pumping in the rest of the house, leading the guests into some kind of line dance. The revelry and bass made the room spin, a pinwheel of laughter, liquor, and colors as I barreled through to the back deck, snatching my gifted chardonnay off the counter. The fresh evening air baptized my lungs, the noise finally being snuffed out when Christine closed the door behind us. She waited, holding her stomach like she was ill.

I let out a shallow breath. “You know I would never do this to you, right?”

She remained silent.

“I make a lot of mistakes, Chrissy, but I would never go out of my way to hurt you like this. My trust was already broken when we were friends and now…I don’t know why I thought you’d be better than this.”

“What if…” She sounded so timid, just like in school. “What if he’s worked on himself?”

“That’s not my business.” I shook my head. “All I know is what he put me and countless other women through. And you brought him to my house? Violating a special moment in my life all these years later because what? You hate me?”

“Jada, I…” Christine’s gaze traveled everywhere on the deck but me. Watching her scramble like this simmered my anger until it was just resolute sadness. There was no malice in her heart. She just didn’t care. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night, I promise. He was supposed to wait outside and…”

I smiled wryly. “And you still can’t apologize?”

“I’m sorry, I am—”

“Because I asked.”

“No, I am sorry, Jada. I wasn’t thinking. And that doesn’t excuse the past either, but he…he’s been doing better. At least with me.”

I laughed but the humor failed to join us, sitting down heavily in one of the iron chairs. “Well of course he is, you’ll just keep forgiving him.”

Christine wrung out her hands. “Damien didn’t…hit you, did he?”

Jesus. I stared at her incredulously. “No. Why?”

“Okay, just making sure,” she said.

“Making sure of what?”

“Cause that’d be a different story.”

“There’s more kinds of abuse than—” Why the fuck was I explaining this to a grown-ass woman? “Are you being for real?”

Christine fell quiet again, but her concerns were loud and clear. They were never about me. That’s when the joyous chorus inside my Brownstone filtered through the windows and into my hummingbird heart. I wasn’t getting answers or retribution or resolutions out here. Everything I had built since college—my friendships, my career, my home in New York City—the foundations and lessons of which I built my new world around was already here, already strong. I was so hung up on justifying the wrongs of my past, that I was missing out on the rights of my present: Iliza, merrily calling for more shots. My mentors, marveling over the newly published editions of my novels. My parents, eagerly awaiting pictures of the event from their North Carolina homes. My diverse array of new friends and colleagues from different corners of my life, all mixing together to support and celebrate me. That love was already here, so why was I chasing after someone who would never understand?

I rolled my head back to peer at the stars in the spaces between apartment buildings. The trees were already beginning to turn. I, too, could shed some dead leaves.

“You should go.” I took a swig straight from the wine bottle. “Don’t forget to take the dog out.”

Christine processed this for a moment, her little brows furrowing. “I am really sorry, Jada. I came here to support you and catch up, put all that mess behind us—”

“We will put it behind us. Just as soon as you leave. There’s gift bags at the front, too.” I stood. “Thank you for apologizing, Christine. But what happened then, now, it doesn’t make a difference. That kind of betrayal doesn’t heal without accountability. And clearly, you chose a side. I just hope you’re happy with that choice.”

“Jadaaaaa!” Iliza then swung half her body out from the backdoor, holding a flute of bubbly. “Come on, we gotta toast!”

A private solace calmed my soul as I brushed past Christine into the kitchen, the emotions now rising to my throat. Tears began to blur my vision—not sad, not happy, something in between. Iliza watched Christine wordlessly snake around us and then approached me, her hand finding mine. “You good?”

Little Jada wanted to know why. I couldn’t deny her. Why did people feel the need to hurt her? Why did they not think of her as easily as others? Why was her pain less notable? Was it because of her accomplishments? Was it because she was quiet, and that quiet left room for speculation? I swallowed thickly, wiping a tear that had escaped. It wasn’t for me to know. I had to keep pushing to the other side. I was already on the other side. Iliza was patient, squeezing me. “It’s okay, girl. You’re okay. There are so many people waiting to honor you. A lot of love in there. Don’t let them diminish that. You deserve it.”

I nodded, letting her words settle. “I know, I know.”

“Jada, you have a fucking book deal! You’re hot shit—”

“Okay, I hear you!” I pulled away with a giggle, blotting away runny mascara from the corners of my eyes. Iliza’s beaming face was like a chandelier, lighting my way home. “Can a bitch cry for a sec?”

“That’s what I’m here for!” Iliza retrieved her glass again and led me back to the riotous library. “But first—”

It was even louder than when I had left it ten minutes ago: the crowd had formed around a small metal cart with a magnificent cake placed on it, butter-yellow icing glowing under a set of lighted candles. Someone had unfurled a life-size print of my book’s debut article, Giggle Water, by Jada Bell Brown: A New York Times Bestseller in bold lettering. Flutes of champagne were passed around and the music lowered so you could hear yourself think. I ventured to the center of the crowd, right behind the cake.

“This is crazy…” I took in each and every person’s phosphorescent face. My heart swelled. “Thank you all so much for coming out here this evening…” As I continued, I barely caught Christine and Damien as they slipped out the front door. Mikey didn’t notice, fully occupied by a tall, lustrous blonde I assumed to be his ballerina girlfriend. Paolo shut the door behind them and then turned his attention back to me, allowing me the intimate, reassuring gesture of a bowed head. He wasn’t perfect, but he’d do for now.

The rest of the night fell away from my lips, as we all raised our glasses and toasted to dreams fulfilled and dreams to come. I rode so high, my cheeks bursting from hours of smiling, and when the crash came, I was ready for it. Iliza and I ate cold pizza on a Turkish rug in my bedroom, talking and crying and howling until four in the morning. By the time we fell asleep—oversized shirts, silk bonnets, and all—I felt like I had lived multiple lifetimes in that one night. But as I grew older in the city, more and more nights felt like that. A wayward text could change everything, that last minute decision to hit another bar, sudden inspiration to send in the story that’s been sitting in your drafts. They were different plotlines, branching out into interesting experiences with new characters. No one can say my life was boring, not in the least. I couldn’t help but hug myself a little tighter that night, knowing Little Jada would be so proud seeing her prayers play out. Because past the trials, here I was, in my mauve Brownstone on West 82nd, breath in my lungs and gratitude to spend it on.

It was all worth it.

I was worth it.