winter, and it’s barely May.
“I am a connoisseur of television that requires neither thought nor commitment. I decided to see what all the fuss was about and rented Game of Thrones my first semester and got so addicted it’s a wonder I didn’t get booted out of med school. Now I watch only mindless fluff that I don’t have to keep up with week to week.”
“And there you go,” I say. “The reason you’re smart enough to be a doctor and I’m not.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “I would have just given up television all together.”
He narrows his eyes at me, obviously not certain if I’m praising him or insulting him. Finally, he settles for an affectionate “bitch” and hooks his arm around me as he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.
As far as I can tell, the plan is to eat our way through the day. At least that’s what it looks like to me, because Brayden went out earlier and returned with a bag of bagels, some cheese danish, a half-dozen blueberry muffins, and a tub full of whipped cream cheese that is approximately the size of a shoebox.
I’d given him grief at the time, but I’m now enthusiastically into the idea of carbohydrate overload. I’ve already finished a bagel, and am now picking at what is arguably the best blueberry muffin in the history of the universe. In fact, I’m about to suggest that we put in a call to Guinness World Records and have them investigate the muffin when I’m waylaid by the ring of the doorbell.
Since this is a security building, it has to be a resident or someone on staff, and I figure the least I can do to earn my keep around here is answer the door.
It’s Clive who works part time at the security desk in the lobby. His sister’s an aspiring actress, so we’ve spoken a few times since I’ve moved in. Now he hands me a fancy envelope made out of thick paper in a color that I figure would be called ‘buff’ in a stationery store. It’s addressed to both Ms. Hart and Mr. Kline and the envelope is so fine and the calligraphy so precise that my first thought is that we’ve been invited to someone’s wedding.
“What’s that?” Brayden asks, as I take it back to the couch and start to slide my finger under the flap.
“Not sure, but it looks fancy. Which means I already know I have nothing to wear.”
He holds out his hand just as I’m pulling a thick card out of the envelope. I pass it to him, then move in close so that I can look over his shoulder.
The owners and staff of Dark Pleasures invite you to visit us for drinks, appetizers, and conversation.
“Dark Pleasures?”
“It’s a private club,” Brayden says. “My dad’s a member, but I don’t think he ever goes, but that must be how they got my name.”
“But how did they get mine?” It’s weird, frankly. I’m not even officially a tenant yet, as Brayden hasn’t gotten around to having the condo management add me to the mailbox or do any of the official new-roommate stuff.
“The invitation’s for tonight at eight. We should go,” he says.
“I thought you had your study group tonight,” I counter. I swore to myself when I moved in with him that I wasn’t going to let the fact of my proximity mess with his studying. And that includes keeping him from doing stupid things like going to fancy clubs when he’s supposed to be studying gross anatomy or brains or dissecting a cadaver or something equally doctorish.
“All the more reason to go tonight. We get to scope it out, but the commitment is limited. So if they try to get us to join up and fork over some exorbitant membership fee, we can honestly say that we have another engagement and will have to get back to them. Come on,” he presses. “The timing couldn’t be more perfect. And if nothing else, I bet the drinks are first rate.”
I flop back down on his sofa and pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t know.” I’m feeling oddly reticent, which is weird because going to a private club is about as New York as
“I am a connoisseur of television that requires neither thought nor commitment. I decided to see what all the fuss was about and rented Game of Thrones my first semester and got so addicted it’s a wonder I didn’t get booted out of med school. Now I watch only mindless fluff that I don’t have to keep up with week to week.”
“And there you go,” I say. “The reason you’re smart enough to be a doctor and I’m not.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “I would have just given up television all together.”
He narrows his eyes at me, obviously not certain if I’m praising him or insulting him. Finally, he settles for an affectionate “bitch” and hooks his arm around me as he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.
As far as I can tell, the plan is to eat our way through the day. At least that’s what it looks like to me, because Brayden went out earlier and returned with a bag of bagels, some cheese danish, a half-dozen blueberry muffins, and a tub full of whipped cream cheese that is approximately the size of a shoebox.
I’d given him grief at the time, but I’m now enthusiastically into the idea of carbohydrate overload. I’ve already finished a bagel, and am now picking at what is arguably the best blueberry muffin in the history of the universe. In fact, I’m about to suggest that we put in a call to Guinness World Records and have them investigate the muffin when I’m waylaid by the ring of the doorbell.
Since this is a security building, it has to be a resident or someone on staff, and I figure the least I can do to earn my keep around here is answer the door.
It’s Clive who works part time at the security desk in the lobby. His sister’s an aspiring actress, so we’ve spoken a few times since I’ve moved in. Now he hands me a fancy envelope made out of thick paper in a color that I figure would be called ‘buff’ in a stationery store. It’s addressed to both Ms. Hart and Mr. Kline and the envelope is so fine and the calligraphy so precise that my first thought is that we’ve been invited to someone’s wedding.
“What’s that?” Brayden asks, as I take it back to the couch and start to slide my finger under the flap.
“Not sure, but it looks fancy. Which means I already know I have nothing to wear.”
He holds out his hand just as I’m pulling a thick card out of the envelope. I pass it to him, then move in close so that I can look over his shoulder.
The owners and staff of Dark Pleasures invite you to visit us for drinks, appetizers, and conversation.
“Dark Pleasures?”
“It’s a private club,” Brayden says. “My dad’s a member, but I don’t think he ever goes, but that must be how they got my name.”
“But how did they get mine?” It’s weird, frankly. I’m not even officially a tenant yet, as Brayden hasn’t gotten around to having the condo management add me to the mailbox or do any of the official new-roommate stuff.
“The invitation’s for tonight at eight. We should go,” he says.
“I thought you had your study group tonight,” I counter. I swore to myself when I moved in with him that I wasn’t going to let the fact of my proximity mess with his studying. And that includes keeping him from doing stupid things like going to fancy clubs when he’s supposed to be studying gross anatomy or brains or dissecting a cadaver or something equally doctorish.
“All the more reason to go tonight. We get to scope it out, but the commitment is limited. So if they try to get us to join up and fork over some exorbitant membership fee, we can honestly say that we have another engagement and will have to get back to them. Come on,” he presses. “The timing couldn’t be more perfect. And if nothing else, I bet the drinks are first rate.”
I flop back down on his sofa and pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t know.” I’m feeling oddly reticent, which is weird because going to a private club is about as New York as
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