Page 27 of White Lights
“Excuse me,” Dez says, trying to slip out the door.
“Come back. Don’t be such a prude. It’s past time for introductions,” the woman in the gold scarf says, nodding at her two playmates. “Felipe, Kitty, this is my new roommate, the world-renowned twat-swat Desdemona.”
Roommate?
“I’m not—” Dez starts to say.
“Oh, yes, you are,” the woman says, coming forward to stand in front of Dez. “Very much a twat-swat, and unfortunately, also my roommate.” She sighs. “I’m Yael.”
Dez rubs her eyes. “I thought someone was hurt in here.”
“Seriously?” Yael says, frowning. “Oh, you’ve never been properly fucked before, have you?”
Dez stares at Yael’s translucent golden scarf, feeling more like a loser than she ever has, which after last night should have been a challenge. She reminds herself Yael knows nothing about her.
It’s not anybody’s business that Dez has slept with enough people to know how to ask for what she likes. But it’s true that no one’s ever made her scream like Yael was just screaming. No one’s ever made her kick a bedpost while upside down.
“I’ll leave you guys to it,” she says, backing out of the room.
“Too late. I’m already untied.” Yael follows her into the room with the couch where Dez woke up. “I want to know more about you, Dez. Your fascinating life. How ever did you find yourself here with us?”
Dez looks around the room, her mind still hazy about last night.
“I don’t mean here to this room, which I’m sure you don’t remember. Simon and I had to carry you up the tower after the ski lift.”
“I took the ski lift?” Dez says, incredulous. “Who’s Simon?”
“Your other roommate and your competition,” Yael says, and Dez hears how Yael relishes the doubled-edged nature of the situation. Silk and switchblade, sugar and spice. “He’s a first-year, like you.”
“And you’re …”
“I’m a last-year.”
“Got it,” Dez says. She doesn’t. “Are there years between those two?”
“Lifetimes,” Yael says crisply. “I’m a legacy. So in a way, I’ve always been here. Every suite on campus houses a mix of first- and last-years, unfortunately—”
The front door opens, and a gangly, raven-haired man about Dez’s age walks in chewing a large and fragrant croissant. He wears a topknot and has dark, less-than-perfect skin, and his baggy gray flannel shirt smells strongly of patchouli. He carries a violin strapped to his back like he’s a traveling minstrel singer.
“Simon,” Yael says, gesturing at Dez. “Look who’s up.”
When Simon clocks Yael’s lack of attire, his eyes widen and he staggers backward. “Nice scarf,” he says like he’s choking.
“You like it?” Yael purrs, and strokes the fabric.
Struggling to look away, Simon turns to Dez, nods a greeting, and then, holding his croissant in his mouth, puts out his hand.
“We met last night, but you probably don’t remember.”
“It’s kind of a blur,” Dez says.
“Well, don’t worry, you already told me all about yourself.”
“I did?”
Simon takes another noisy bite. “Saint of a mother, rascal little brother, dead-end job—”
“What?” Dez says, her chest constricting as her hand glides over the bulge of the pill bottle in her pants.
