Off Limits

by Vanessa North

  “Tell me,” she says simply, turning a pencil end to end on her desk.

  I lift my hands, helpless. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Her face softens. “At the beginning is usually good.”

  “Vertical Smile started as a thing to do with my friends. I missed singing—I used to sing in the church choir, if you can believe that—and it turned into something more over time.”

  “How does something you do with your friends turn into a regular gig in Bay Ridge?”

  “How did you—?” I start, but her raised eyebrow cuts me off. “Teri has had a crush on the bartender at this place for years. She got us the gig, I think because she was trying to get in Farrah’s pants.”

  Astrid blinks at my frankness, then smiles. “And it never occurred to you to mention it to me or anyone else in management, to run it by us?”

  I swallow, fighting back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill out of my eyes. “I was scared what would happen if you found out. I never even told Xavier.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh and crosses her arms over her chest. “The concierge is the face of the club. I know how hard you work, Natalie. I know how much this club means to you, and I’m frankly shocked that this has been going on.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words rip from my throat, and I blink hard, but a tear slips out the corner of my eye and slides down my nose.

  She cringes. “I need to know which is more important: your job? Or Vertical Smile? I don’t want an answer today. You have three weeks of accrued vacation. You’re going to take two of them now. Paid or unpaid, it’s your choice, but I want you to take the time you need to make this decision, and I want you to have space and perspective.”

  “Please just—” I start, but then stop, realizing she’s not firing me. She’s giving me a choice. I nod. “I’ll take the time paid. Thank you.”

  “Let Priya know, on your way out. I don’t want to sway your decision either way, but I want you to know that we at the Thorns do think of you as family.”

  I stand, not sure how to respond to that but feeling dismissed. “Okay, thank you.”

  “Call me when you’ve made your decision.”

  Seventeen

  Bex

  * * *

  I need to get out of the city. Can I borrow your place in LA for a week? Better yet, can you come with me?

  I stare at the text from Angie, not sure how to take it. It’s not like Angie to leave her shop for a week. And I haven’t heard from Nat yet—is she still in her meeting?—so I don’t want to commit to a week of coaching Angie through whatever existential crisis is sending her scurrying off to the West coast.

  What’s going on? I text back.

  Girl trouble. I honestly can’t talk about it without crying. Are you in or out?

  Shit. I want to be there for Angie, but Nat needs me too—at least, I think she does. But with everything going on at the Thorns, maybe she needs me to stay away?

  Can I let you know later today? I’m having some girl trouble of my own.

  It feels like a lie. Because nothing between me and Nat feels like trouble—no matter what our relationship looks like from the outside. She could lose her job and her financial security if anyone finds out we’re together, and something tells me she wouldn’t accept a loan from me to see her through a rough patch. But when she looks at me like she’s got a whole desert worth of thirst, I’ll do anything to quench it.

  I risk sending her a text.

  How’d it go this morning?

  I immediately feel guilty. If she’s at work and someone sees it, she could get in trouble. When she doesn’t answer right away, I figure she’s busy. When she doesn’t answer after an hour, I start to worry. When it’s late afternoon, and I still haven’t heard from her, I give in and text again.

  Nat? Is everything okay? Call me?

  This time, the answer is immediate.

  I’m sorry. I need some space. We’ll talk soon.

  My whole body recoils, and something in my heart does too. Space. It’s not like I’m not used to people asking me to give them space. Between my parents and my exes, I spend half my life flying back and forth across the country to give people space. But I didn’t expect this from Nat.

  I pick up the phone and call Angie.

  “Bex!” She answers on the third ring, all breathless, and I imagine her dashing from the front of her shop back to the office to grab her phone. “Are we going to Californicate or what?”

  I laugh. Thank god for Angie. “I’m booking plane tickets tonight. Bring a bathing suit and any carbs you can’t live without.”

  Nat

  * * *

  I wake in the middle of the night, clutching my chest and dripping with fear-rancid sweat, the feeling of handcuffs closing over my wrist sending a shudder through me.

  A dream.

  Not arrested.

  Not fired.

  Yet. Part of me wants to call Bex, to beg her to let me come over and bury my fears in her body. To lose myself in her kisses and distract myself in the safety of her arms until dawn.

  But a glance at my phone tells me it’s 2 a.m., and I don’t want to wake her, no matter how comforting she’d been after my first panic attack. I know Jacks and Ritchie are both probably awake—stoned, but awake—but I’m reluctant to interfere in whatever quiet they find together.

  They’re family; they won’t mind.

  But the club—they’re family too. Astrid even said so. And how can I tell Jacks and Ritchie that Astrid has given me a choice? How can I begin to make a choice like this without them and without Teri?

  I pull the pillow over my face and groan. Something’s got to give. I’ve never worked anywhere else but the Thorns. I don’t even know how to look for a job.

  I need my job.

  I need my family.

  I really fucking need a good night’s sleep. I scream into the pillow, which feels amazing for about three seconds before the guilt sweeps in.

  Dropping the pillow to the bed, I get up and start the shower.

  The hot spray of water bites into my back as I stand under it, bringing another wave of anguish along for the ride. Choking back a sob, I reach for the shampoo bottle and read the ingredients list until the ache in my chest fades, replaced with a fatigue that makes me think maybe, just maybe, I can sleep again.

  I’m late for work. I wake with a jolt at the sunlight streaming in my window, but then I remember. I’m not going to work today. I might not ever go to work at the Thorns again. I turn that thought around in my head like I’m touching a toothache with my tongue, wincing from the pain of it but unable to leave it alone. I’ve never been the type of person who could solve a problem just by thinking about it. X had always talked things out with me until I felt better about them. After his death, the other members of Vertical Smile had taken over that role. But I can’t talk to them about this. It’s not like they could be impartial. What would X do?

  I text Bex.

  Hey, want to get lunch or something today? Astrid insisted I take two weeks off to find myself or whatever. Lmk

  Her answer is a punch to the gut.

  At the airport—giving you the space you asked for. I’ll text you when I get to LAX. I hope you find what you need.

  At the airport. The space I asked for? I scroll up to our exchange from the day before, trying to read it through Bex’s eyes.

  Bex with the outward confidence and awkward, self-doubting soul. Bex who wants to make everyone happy and is the first to apologize at any hint of conflict. Bex who tries to stand up to her family but ends up doing whatever they want anyway.

  And I told her I needed space.

  Goddamn it.

  Bex

  * * *

  Angie and I settle into our seats in first class, and she lets out a happy sigh. “Thank you so much for this. I already feel like a huge weight is off my shoulders.”

  I smile, even though I don’t feel like it, and I reach out to squeeze her hand.
“It’ll be good. Just the two of us, hanging out like old times. A girls’ week.”

  I switch my phone to airplane mode and read over the text from Nat again. Had she been planning to break it off over lunch? Always best to end a relationship in public, right? Messy emotions kept in check by social convention.

  “Okay, what was that noise?” Angie pokes my arm. “That epic sigh? What’s going on?”

  I can’t tell Angie. I have to tell Angie.

  “You know the concierge at the Thorns?”

  “Day concierge or night concierge?”

  “Day.”

  “Skinny, vaguely butch, stick-up-her-ass, butter wouldn’t melt?”

  I’ve picked exactly the wrong moment to take a swig of water because it all comes out my nose. It’s not that Angie’s description of Natalie, the act Nat plays at work is so wrong. But that’s not Nat.

  Angie gives me a firm thump on the back.

  When I’ve collected myself, I say “I’d go with slender, androgynous, gorgeous, and actually awesome when you get to know her, but then, I have gotten to know her.”

  Angie’s face grows serious. “When you said you were having girl trouble, did you mean—?”

  I nod miserably. “It was a crush—at first. I didn’t know she worked at the Thorns. It’s not like I spend much time in New York.”

  “Wait. You didn’t know? Where did you meet her?”

  “She sings in a punk band. I know that’s not your scene, but it is mine. And I thought she’d be a great date to the GScholars party—an openly queer musician and so on. So I went to one of her shows, hung around after, and invited her.”

  “Hold your lily-white horses.” Angie’s Southern accent grows more pronounced. “You’re telling me that the prissy concierge from the Thorns fronts a punk band?”

  I roll my eyes. “Keep up.”

  Angie flicks one of her curls over her shoulder and gives me a look.

  “Anyway, to make a long story super short, we’re fucking, she’s about to get fired so she asked me for space, and I think I’m falling in love with her.”

  Stunned silence follows my announcement. Angie closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, her lips moving as though she’s praying—or counting to ten. When she finally opens her eyes, the temperature in the first class cabin seems to drop ten degrees.

  “You’re fucking.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t interrupt.” She holds up one finger. “You’re fucking someone who could lose her job for it.”

  I cringe and nod.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” She slaps my arm. “You couldn’t fuck some movie star? I hear the girl from Harbinger is queer. No, you want who you want and to hell with her job, her financial security? I bet you didn’t even stop to think about it.”

  “I did!” I protest. “Hey, it takes two, you know. And if she does get fired, it’s not because of me. We’ve been keeping it on the downlow. The Thorns found out about her band. I feel like I should do something, though. To help.”

  “Rebecca Horvath, I love the shit out of you, but you are so out of touch with what reality is like for the other ninety-eight percent. “

  It hurts to hear, but I know Angie’s right. “I could help her. If she loses her job, I could loan her money, or help her find something new.”

  Angie shakes her head. “That woman has her pride. You can’t shit on a woman’s pride. Just because the two of you are fucking does not mean she wants your charity.”

  “It’s not charity if you love someone.”

  Rolling her eyes, Angie grabs the inflight magazine and fans herself with it. “Lawd, child. This is how I can tell your parents didn’t raise you with Jesus. Charity is love—the purest love. Giving selflessly. It’s a lot purer than romantic love. But you aren’t selfless—you want to keep fucking her consequence-free and to hell with what she wants or needs.”

  “That’s not—” I start, but pull myself up short. This is Angie. I can lie to myself, but not to Angie. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. My parents raised me with Jesus.” She snickers, but then grows serious. “She would always wonder. Always. Let her handle her career, Bex. If she wants your help, she’ll ask for it.”

  “What if that means it’s over?”

  She sighs heavily. “Then you move on, honey. That’s how the world works.”

  I close my eyes tightly against the tears threatening to fall. It’s not fair.

  Eighteen

  Bex

  * * *

  I love California the most after spending time on the East coast. Not because one is necessarily better than the other, but because the contrast between the two makes me appreciate each more. This time, it’s different.

  Angie and I stretch out poolside at the Rose, with intent to gleefully soak in the sun with a pitcher of margaritas. In contrast to the mugginess of an Indian Summer in New York, the dry breeze kissing my skin should be a delicious pleasure—but as much as I take a hedonistic joy in basking in the sun, I’ve left too much of myself in New York to be fully present in that joy.

  “Oh my word, would you stop twitching like that?” Angie rolls onto her stomach and frowns at me. “You act like you’re at the beach with sand in your hooha.”

  “My hooha? What are we, seven?”

  I can’t actually see her eyes rolling behind her sunglasses, but I know it’s happening.

  “Y’all couldn’t wait for me to start the party?” Mom’s bag hits the ground by my chair as she settles in on my other side. “Hello, Angela.”

  “Good morning, Miss Tammy.” Angie lifts her sunglasses and throws my mom one of those winks. Mom has always liked Angie. They’ve long bonded over Southern accents and larger-than-life hair. I close my eyes and listen to them patter back and forth—Angie’s design work, Mom’s role in the Harbinger series, everything except the upcoming wedding. I know Mom is dying to ask me about it but won’t in front of Angie.

  Sure enough, as soon as Angie excuses herself to go to the bathroom, Mom sits up.

  “I know you ain’t sleeping.”

  I take off my sunglasses and peer up at her. “What do you want to know?”

  “Are they going to send me an invite?”

  I grimace. I should have known this was coming. Invitations were sent out two weeks ago, and she’d have noticed the absence. “Mom. The wedding is four weeks away. Do the math.”

  “So that’s a no. Fine.” She lies back down. “What are you wearing?”

  “A vintage Dior cocktail dress.”

  “Please tell me you aren’t wearing black to a wedding. I raised you better than that.”

  I roll my eyes. One quirk of Mom’s Southern upbringing is an adherence to bizarre fashion “rules” no one actually cares about. No leather shoes in the evening, no white between Labor Day and Easter, and never, ever black at a wedding.

  “The dress is green.”

  “Good, good. Who’s going to do your hair? Your hairdresser is here in LA.”

  “I’ll wear it down or do it myself. Why are you so worried about this?”

  “Because I won’t be there, and—” she sighs. “It’s important to you, and it’s important to Benjamin. I want y’all happy.”

  A lump forms in my throat. After all these years, all the nastiness and bitterness between them, my parents can still surprise me.

  “Mom?” I roll toward her. “Can I ask you something, and have you be totally honest with me?”

  She picks up my margarita and takes a long drink. “Shoot.”

  “How would you feel if I sold my house here and spent some time in New York?”

  “Because of the singer?”

  The question surprises me, because of course Nat is part of why I want to stay in New York, but it’s bigger than that.

  “I’ve spent the last twenty years feeling like a ping pong ball, back and forth between California and the east coast. Summers on set with you and the rest of the year in boardi
ng school and then college. Holidays with Dad. I’m still doing this back and forth thing, and I honestly don’t know if it’s out of habit or what, but I want to stop. I want to stay somewhere and build something.”

  “I see.” My mom is a master at keeping her emotions off her face, but her hands shake slightly. “And you don’t think you can do that here?”

  “Dad and Karina are having a baby. That baby is going to be my sibling. I want to be a part of their life, and not bounce in and out of it. And yes, my girlfriend is in New York, however long that lasts. And Angie—my best friend. Mom, I love you, but—”

  She holds up a hand. “I get it. And you’re right. You do need to be part of their lives. And I can always fly out to New York to visit you.”

  Relief swamps me, and tears flood into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, sunshine, why are you apologizing?” She squeezes my hand. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. You’ve never liked Hollywood. You hate that big ol’ house. I always wondered why you bought it.” Her eyes get really wide, as if she’s realizing something for the first time.

  “It was a loyalty thing, wasn’t it? When you stopped practicing law and moved back here?”

  I shrug. “It felt wrong doing Dad’s contracts when you were the one who raised me. Like I was taking advantage. Of what I don’t know. His guilt at not being around?”

  “I always thought you figured law was boring and decided to plan parties because that was more fun.”

  “Well, there’s that. Contract law is dull as shit, and parties are more fun. But I went to law school thinking I would help people, and it turns out I can help more people by milking my Hollywood connections and throwing parties. But I have connections in New York too.”

  “And you should use them. You’re doing good work, sunshine. I’m proud of you. Of course, I’ll miss this.” She gestures between us. “But you need to follow your heart.”