One Night With My Best Friend's Uncle

Elaine practically flew down the long, silent corridor. The thick carpet muffled her frantic footsteps, but the pounding in her chest was a deafening drum against her ribs. She rounded a corner and jabbed the elevator's down button with a trembling finger.

The numbers above the brass doors lit up, descending with agonizing slowness.

35... 34... 33...

A faint noise from down the hall-a door opening?-made her jump. Her heart leaped into her throat. She didn't look back. She couldn't.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open. She lunged inside, her back hitting the far wall as she frantically stabbed the 'door close' button.

"Close, close, close," she whispered, her voice a raw, desperate prayer.

The doors seemed to mock her, inching together with infuriating leisure. Through the shrinking gap, the hallway remained empty. Finally, they sealed her in. She let out a shuddering breath, her body sliding down the cool, mirrored wall until she was crouched on the floor.

Her eyes lifted to her reflection.

The woman staring back was a stranger. Her face was ghostly pale, her mascara smudged into dark, raccoon-like circles around her eyes. Her expensive blowout was a tangled mess, and her lips were swollen and bruised-looking. She looked cheap. Used.

A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over her. Fumbling in her purse, she found a packet of wet wipes and began to scrub furiously at her face, trying to erase the evidence of the night. The friction was harsh against her sensitive skin, but she didn't care.

She ran her fingers through her hair, wincing as they caught on the knots. The sharp tug on her scalp was a small, grounding pain in the sea of her panic.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. An elderly couple, dressed for a day of sightseeing, stepped in. The woman's kind eyes widened slightly as she took in Elaine's disheveled state.

Elaine immediately looked down, her face burning with shame. She pretended to be searching for something in her purse, her hair falling forward to hide her face. She could feel their curious, pitying gazes on her.

The ride down to the lobby felt like an hour. When the elevator finally chimed its arrival, she shot out of the doors before they were even fully open, muttering a clumsy apology.

She kept her head down, her gaze fixed on the polished marble floor as she hurried across the vast, sun-drenched lobby. The click-clack of her heels, which she'd apparently had the foresight to put back on before leaving the bar last night, echoed in the cavernous space, drawing what felt like a hundred pairs of eyes.

“Just get to the revolving door. Just get outside. Don't look up. Don't meet anyone's eyes.”

She was almost there. The promise of the anonymous Manhattan street was just a few feet away.

Then, her peripheral vision caught a familiar flash of color in the lobby lounge area. A flash of Chanel pink.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. She tried to swerve, to change direction, to become invisible.

Too late.

"Elaine? Oh my god, is that you?"

The voice was bright, cheerful, and utterly horrifying.

Elaine froze, every muscle in her body tensing. Slowly, she turned.

Courtney was walking towards her, a coffee cup in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated surprise on her face.

"Courtney," Elaine managed to say, her voice cracking. She forced a smile that felt like it would shatter her face.

Courtney's eyes, wide and perceptive, did a quick, merciless scan. They took in the wrinkled dress, the still-damp hair, the scrubbed-raw face. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose towards her hairline.

"Honey, you look like you've been through a war," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her gaze then locked onto the base of Elaine's neck, where the collar of her dress had slipped. "And it looks like you lost a battle, but maybe won the war?"

Elaine's hand flew to her neck, clutching the collar of her dress. Too late.

Courtney's expression shifted from surprise to gleeful curiosity. "Okay, you have to tell me everything. Who is he? Don't you dare tell me it was Brenton. Did you two finally...?"

"No!" Elaine's denial was too quick, too sharp. "It wasn't Brenton."

"Good," Courtney said, relieved. "So, a new man? Spill. Was he cute? Where did you meet him? He must have been something special to get you to break your celibacy pact."

Elaine's mind was a frantic, white-noise buzz. She needed a lie.

"It was nothing," she stammered, avoiding Courtney's piercing gaze. "Just... a guy from the bar."

Courtney wasn't buying it. "A 'guy from the bar' doesn't leave a mark like that. That's not a hickey, Elaine, that's a brand. Was he an artist? A musician? Please tell me he was a starving, tortured soul who lives in a Brooklyn loft."

The image was so far from the reality of Alaric that a hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up. Elaine swallowed it down.

"Something like that," she mumbled, seizing the idea. "A painter. Very... intense."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Elaine asked, desperate to deflect.

"Morning tea," Courtney said dismissively, waving a hand towards the lounge. "My uncle has a permanent suite here for when he's in town. I was supposed to meet him, but he's probably still sleeping off his jet lag."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Elaine.

The air in her lungs turned to ice. She grabbed Courtney's arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

"We have to go," she said, her voice tight with a new, more urgent panic.

"What? Why? I haven't even gotten the good details yet!"

"I'm late," Elaine lied, glancing at her bare wrist. "For work. A big meeting."

She started pulling Courtney towards the exit, her movements jerky and desperate.

"Whoa, slow down!" Courtney protested, digging in her heels. "Elaine, what is going on? You're acting really weird."

"We'll talk later," Elaine insisted, practically pushing her friend towards the revolving door. Her eyes darted nervously towards the bank of private elevators at the far end of the lobby. She imagined Alaric stepping out of one at any second. The thought made her feel physically ill.