Thighs Wide Shut

Chapter 1

It feels like an unnecessarily cruel joke that my welcome back to Boston, the city where I fell in love for the first and only time, is the rhythmic pounding of my upstairs neighbor’s sexual exploits.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“I feel like I’m being forced to listen to porn,” I whisper, leaning into Jo’s ear as we stare at the popcorn ceiling of my brand-new-to-me-but-actually-quite-old basement apartment.

Jo nods seriously. “I’ve always said, anything can be audio porno if you imagine hard enough.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“You’ve literally never said that. Also, there’s no imagination needed.”

“Oh! Yes!”

“It’s like we’re being serenaded,” Jo says, matching my whisper.

“It’s a Welcome to Boston fanfare. An unwelcome fanfare, actually.”

“A venereal salute.” Jo chuckles at herself. Even at this volume, my best friend’s laugh echoes through my apartment, bouncing from yellow stucco wall to cardboard box to grimy laminate floor, but doing nothing to block the carnal clamor.

“Well,” Jo says, shrugging as she turns back toward me. “Hearing your upstairs neighbor’s banging is a rite of passage. Macy and I got a noise complaint once. I consider it one of my greatest personal victories.”

“Absolutely did not want to know that,” I mumble. “This sucks.”

Jo lets out a half laugh, half snort, then winks. “Yeah, it certainly sounds like someone sucks.”

Thump. Thump. “Oh, god! Yes!”

We tilt our heads toward the ceiling as the thumping increases in tempo and volume. This ceiling is either as soundproof as a piece of linen or the woman above us is moaning with impressive gusto. Probably both, actually.

“We have to do something about it,” Jo says, whispering again. She pulls her hair into a ponytail so aggressively that I think the months-old red box dye might rub off on her hands.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m begging—”

Before I can finish, Jo lets out a horrifyingly inappropriate moan and starts banging her hand against a moving box. A loud THUMPTHUMP calls out in response.

At the ripe age of twenty-seven, I should be laughing this off; instead, embarrassment courses through my body. It’s hard not to feel self-conscious listening to cries of ecstasy when I myself have the sexual experience of a sacrificial virgin.

Am I trying to change that? Absolutely. Since graduating from college, I’ve let friends set me up on blind dates (bad idea). I’ve tried Hinge (worse idea). I’ve even let my mom connect me with one of her co-workers’ sons (The Worst Idea). But when your body makes it difficult to jump into bed with someone, it’s tough to get past date two or three. That’s when your date starts issuing invitations, and that’s when things get complicated.

ThumpthumpBANGthump.

Jo glances upward with raised eyebrows before continuing, her voice raised. “OH GOD, PLEASE! HARDER!”

“I am begging you to stop,” I hiss, but before Jo can acknowledge me, or, more likely, keep moaning, the thumping pauses. “Wow, I didn’t think that would actually—”

THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

Jo and I both groan (non-sexually). “Fine,” I mumble. “I’ll tune it out.”

I rip open a moving box, and I’m greeted by a “Ms. Rogers” nameplate, a gift from a middle school English student. My former middle school English student. It has beautiful cursive lettering, and I feel bile and the taste of fast-food breakfast rising in my throat. I toss the nameplate back in the box. It’s time to celebrate new adventures, not rehash old failures.

Leaving my hometown of Tampa, Florida, and moving to Boston, the city where I went to college for four brief and painful years, was supposed to be my fresh start. Cross that—it is my fresh start. Who cares that this basement apartment is probably going to be one singular degree Fahrenheit in the winter, or that my upstairs neighbor is already making me want to rip my hair out? I’m here, living in the same city as my best friend and working at my best friend’s coffee shop. Not that we’re codependent or anything.

Jo saunters up to my side and plucks the nameplate out of the moving box. I taste fast-food breakfast again. A honey butter chicken biscuit and bitter coffee from Wendy’s. I’m never going to eat there again.

“Keep this out,” Jo says. “You can put this on the counter when you’re working. That way everyone will know who their barista is.”

I reach over and attempt to slap it out of her hand, but she has faster reflexes, so she ends up slapping my hand before I can slap her hand, and then we end up in a catfight that ultimately results in the nameplate being knocked back into the box, thus accomplishing my goal.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

“Isn’t that what name tags are for?” I ask. “I mean, this has apples and yellow pencils on it. How is that relevant to coffee, exactly?”

“Maybe we should start selling branded pencils,” Jo says, squinting as she thinks. “Or apples. Or apple-flavored coffee?” “That’s a fall drink.”

She points at me, eyes wide. “So true.”

“Did your parents never do seasonal specials when they ran the coffee shop?”

Jo nods, shrugging. “Like . . . maybe? But I’m pretty sure they were just putting a pump of peppermint syrup in drinks and calling them seasonal. We can do better. Remind me tomorrow to start brainstorming a list of seasonal specials.”

“You’re biting off more than you can chew,” I say, eyeing her. “Again.”

She flips me off, even though we both know I’m right. She has a tendency to jump five steps ahead of where she should be, get excited, and then forget about steps one through four. Case in point: She should be focused on learning the basics of operating her parents’ coffee shop—sorry, her coffee shop—not daydreaming about seasonal specials for three months from now. Bills have to be paid and paychecks have to be signed before she can move on to taste testing flavored syrups.

I suppose seasonal specials could draw in more money. But what do we know? We both have teaching degrees, not business degrees. Which is perhaps why Jo didn’t know how difficult it would be to run her own business.

ThumpthumpTHUMPTHUMP.

“Ahhhhh,” Jo moans, thumping her hand against a box.

I stare at her, silently willing her to stop. She stares back.

“I’m putting you in time-out,” I say.

“While I’m already in time-out, I have a question.”

“You don’t get questions during time-out.”

“Have you texted him?” she asks, a sneaky grin crossing her face. I clear my throat, coating my voice with a mask of innocence. “Have I texted who?”

THUMPTHUMP. “Oh! Yes! I’m close!”

“Harri—”

“YOU’RE IN TIME-OUT!” I yelp. There’s a loud thump, and I lower my voice. “And now you’re in double time-out for asking questions you know you shouldn’t.”

“Fine,” she hisses. “I know I swore not to say his name, but I will break that pact if you’re going to be annoying.”

I gasp, and it’s only half in jest. “You wouldn’t.”

“All I’m saying is if you call him, we could go on a double date. You two. Me and Macy, when they move back to Boston,” she says, a pang of sadness crossing her face so briefly it’s barely visible. She smiles at me reassuringly. “Just like old times.”

“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s literally never happened. We have literally never been on a double date.”

“That’s not true. The four of us used to get dinner at the dining hall all the time.”

“That doesn’t even remotely count.”

“Plus, I heard from a mutual friend that he works near here.”

I narrow my eyes. “A mutual friend?”

Jo blinks several times, then has the good sense to look guilty. “Okay, he told me himself. A few months ago.”

I freeze, my hands buried in the depths of a box labeled Emma’s Random Shit <3. “Wait—you still hang out with him?” Jo opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Why didn’t I know that?”

“I don’t hang out with him. I just get coffee with him, like, once every three to four months.”

“You get coffee with him? I used to get coffee with him. That was my thing.”

“Coffee can’t be your thing, dumbass. That’s, like, ninety percent of the adult population’s thing.”

I stare at her, brows furrowed. “My point stands.”

Thumpthump thuthump BANGTHUMP.