The music thrummed so loud that Janelle felt the vibrations. The beat pulsed through the walls and into her bones. As lyrics pierced her brain, she wondered when club music changed. In college, the DJs espoused that “tonight’s the night, and there’s no other night but tonight.” Since then, the themes simplified. A robotic voice listed drugs and their euphemisms, followed by a generic call to urgency. A command to “get down” or “dance,” as if she didn’t know what to do at a club. Or in this case, a house party. 

With the coffee table pushed to the side, attendees separated into factions — those who danced and those who did not. A bio-tech founder took a shot of clear, hard liquor, then cut his way onto the floor. Professors-to-be swayed, their hips gracing each other. 

From her spot in the kitchen, Janelle saw Olivia taken by the music. Today, Olivia turned 30, meaning they had been friends for over half of each other’s lives. 

As tracks shifted from hyperpop to afrobeat, Olivia’s movements became more fluid. You would think she was a dancer, not a scientist. Olivia spent most of her days at the lab, training AI to identify cancerous tumors. In her post-doc, she realized the full potential of the technology. Uninspired people called upon the same tools to write emails or generate glossy deep-fakes. Janelle was used to marveling at Olivia’s brilliance, whether that be her social acumen, beauty, or overwhelming knowledge. 

The whole scene was incredibly Cambridge. The average attendee was like Olivia. They held PhDs, likely from Harvard or MIT. Janelle had completed a Bachelor’s eight years ago. She studied marketing at a school across the river, known more for its wealthy students than the prestige of the curriculum. All those years ago, a room like this one would have hit a deep-seated insecurity. But, as her best friend climbed the academic ladder, Janelle learned to navigate and enjoy the experience. 

She missed nights like this in her Bay Area suburb, attending dinner parties where everyone worked in tech. Success was narrowly defined, involving salaries in the hundreds of thousands. Opportunities were taken based on lucrative outcomes. Everyone, Janelle included, sold out for the prospect of a rented home with one to two children. 

Well, she tried to, anyway. She had the job and the husband. With a PCOS diagnosis and suspicions of infertility, Janelle worried that the picture would never be complete. Perhaps, her choices would not pay off. In that emptiness, she tortured herself with the memories of a life left back east. Sometimes, Janelle convinced herself that she would be happier here with Olivia instead of painstakingly building a life in their hometown. 

“You should go dance with her. She would love that.” 

Vivek refilled his glass, then took a spot beside her against the kitchen counter. The music pounded. The pair leaned in, their voices carrying over a shorter distance.

“In a bit. I’m just enjoying observing,” she said.

Vivek was Olivia’s newest roommate, meaning Janelle was just starting to figure him out. Prior to this weekend, everything she had learned about Vivek had been revealed secondhand. He had moved to Cambridge from the U.K. for a PhD in anthropology at Harvard. He had been a teacher. He had, until recently, been engaged. After a few months of depressive heartbreak, he adopted incredible levels of chav behavior, with heavy drinking, occasional weed, and near-daily one-night stands. 

What Janelle had not expected was his allure. He was an unsuspecting lover boy in a lithe package, bespectacled and simply dressed in well-fitting basics. He loved obscure post-rock music and Renata Adler. He found Damien Chazelle overly pretentious. He could indulge in a half-hour conversation about the Muppets. 

Vivek was clearly smarter than her but approachable. Conversations showed that he never took himself too seriously. He revealed just enough about himself to build intimacy but not enough to complete a heuristic about who he actually was. 

Janelle mirrored this tendency. She knew her next trip to Cambridge was months away, so personal details did not require confidence. I’m getting an infertility diagnosis, she would say. Seeing my friends with their babies hurts so much that I want to throw up. Chemistry without stakes. Messiness without consequences. 

That morning, Janelle expressed anxiety over a lingering bout of sadness. She worried about ruining the mood when she saw her friends. Instead of opening up, she listened to the biggest pop album in the cultural zeitgeist. She would side-step “how are you” with a well-formulated argument on the record’s mediocrity. 

Vivek said if they had met on a first date, he would have thought she was insane. They both smiled. 

If she were single, she would have fallen in love. 

“Everyone here is so interesting,” Janelle said while looking at the crowd. After a moment, she continued, “Can I tell you a secret?” 

“Absolutely.”

“I moved to the suburbs a few years ago, and I’m terrified that I’ll become boring.”

“I don’t think you can really become boring. Some people are inherently interesting.”

“It’s just… My friends from college — they move away from the city, and a few years pass. They get married. Babies. And, I don’t even know what we have in common anymore. They’re just kind of a shell of what I remember. That scares me.”

“Counterpoint, you haven’t done that.” 

“Yet,” Janelle said. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I want to blow up my life just to be interesting.” 

“I blew up my life. My ex and I ended our engagement — long distance didn’t work out. I don’t recommend it.” 

When Janelle turned to observe him, she noticed a tension that seemed to start at his brow and extend down his back. When she put a hand on his arm, Vivek looked at her. Under the rose mood lighting, her face glowed with an earnest concern. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not the same, but for what it’s worth, I was in a six-year-long relationship that didn’t work out. I had to completely rebuild. It sucked.”

When their eyes met, she pulled her hand away.

“I think I’m still a little broken from the experience. It was really hard for a while. I’ve mostly moved on, but there’s a little bit of pain that stuck around,” Vivek said.

“Kinda feels good to poke it, right?” 

“Yeah, it does.” 

“I feel like that all the time. It’s addicting. You put just enough pressure so the fissure never really heals. Maybe sometimes, you put a little more so it does a bit of damage.”

“And there’s the drinking, and drugs, empty sex — the somehow-more-painful, emotional hookups,” he started.

“Torturing yourself with crushes on the wrong people,” she continued.

The familiar synths of a club classic filled the lull in their conversation. Vivek watched Janelle’s eyes flicker to Olivia on the floor. 

“She wanted to dance with you,” he smiled, “She’s been talking about it since before you flew in. Let’s go.” 

He pushed ahead, and she followed. When they found Olivia at the center of the room, Janelle took her hand. Janelle jumped off beat, while Olivia stayed on rhythm. Hands locked, they bounced in bunny-like oscillation. 

They formed a triangle. While Janelle mostly watched Olivia, she would occasionally glance at Vivek. A few times, they caught each other’s eye. Whether real or perceived, Janelle felt admired. She transcended the maternal turtle neck and skinny jeans for a version of herself she liked better. 

As the party continued, Vivek and Janelle diverged. She kept the beverage pitchers full and helped pass out the cake. He mingled neighbors who stopped by with birthday wishes. She stayed on the makeshift dancefloor with Olivia, while Vivek coordinated a rendezvous with a woman on a dating app. 

After the party ended, Janelle and Olivia drunkenly stumbled out of the apartment. Alcohol and heavy coats insulated them from a single-digit winter. Their laughter leaked through windows as they walked to the park. Janelle climbed the jungle gym while Olivia attempted to make angels on icy, impacted snow. 

In their absence, Vivek led the woman from the internet to his bedroom. He kissed her first. She took her own clothes off. They slept together. In the afterglow, they held each other, limbs intertwined. 

Janelle and Olivia came back to stillness. With lights on, they boxed up leftover food before scouring the common space for dishware and disposables. When the job was not quite done but sufficiently underway, they called it quits. The rest was tomorrow’s problem. 

Janelle finally settled down on the pullout with heightened senses. The slosh of the dishwasher or hum of the freezer caught her attention. She took a deep breath, the scent of spilled beer filling her lungs. When she closed her eyes, the lids always pulled back open to drink in the shelves of tchotchkes illuminated by LED light strips. Minutes ticked by. At 4 a.m., she decided to make a concerted effort to clear her head. 

Now sober, the chill cut through to her bones. Once impervious to the cold, California made her soft. Beyond the fog from her breath, she could see empty streets illuminated by lamps at an hour when all good children were asleep. 

She turned when she heard the patio door creak open. 

“What are you doing up so late?” Vivek asked. 

“I couldn’t sleep. What about you?” 

“I came out for a smoke. Do you mind if I?”

“Please, go ahead.” 

Vivek pulled a cigarette out of the box and held it between his lips. He cupped the Zippo to shield the flame from the breeze before snapping it shut. After an inhale, he tilted his head to the sky, the smoke fuming from his lips. 

“I quit a few years ago, but you know. Post-sex cigarette.” 

Vivek joined her at the balcony railing. 

“Can I have a drag?” she asked.

He chuckled a little. “You don’t seem like a smoker.” 

“Is it that obvious?” She gave him a shy smile. “I’ve smoked two cigarettes ever. I think I just miss the thrill of a bad decision.” 

Their fingers grazed each other as she took the cigarette. With a shallow breath, she let the smoke into her lungs, then exhaled. While Janelle knew she looked awkward and inexperienced, another part hoped that she emitted an understated cool. She watched the fumes dance in the breeze, a trail of grey in the yellow light. 

“You know, all I want to do right now is blow up my life. It’s taking all of my willpower not to just lean over and ruin everything.”

“That’s really flattering — and in some ways tempting — but don’t do it.” 

“You’re probably right.”

When he takes the cigarette back, he steps closer, playfully nudging her shoulder with his own. 

“I need someone to prove to me that it can all work out,” he said.

“That people like us can power through the mess and lead these beautiful, conventional lives?” 

“Something like that,” he replied. “You’re already most of the way there.” 

She turned away from him, then looked back out at the city. 

“I have a doctor’s appointment right after I get back. They’ll start me on meds that will make me ovulate. Supposedly. I should be excited, but I just find myself believing that it won’t work.”

“But it might.”

“But it might,” she echoed.

“And if it doesn’t, something else will.” 

Vivek put his hand over hers on the railing. His fingers, also icy, covered hers and her wedding band. The connection and its spark were over before Janelle could register the intimacy.

“I’m going back inside. Get some sleep.” 

Janelle didn’t look at him when she said goodnight. Instead, she focused on where the apartment buildings met the sky. She knew she was alone when the door clicked closed.  

The night was bright. Clouds and mist reflected back Cambridge’s light pollution. She tried to warm her hands with her breath, then shoved them back into her pockets. When she felt her phone, she pulled it out and dialed home. 

Her heart sank when her husband didn’t answer. Not that she expected him to. Even with the time zone differences, the hour was well past their regular bedtime. Instead, she left a message.

“Hey, I know it’s late. We just wrapped up Olivia’s party, and it was really fun. I miss you, though. Call me tomorrow, okay? I need to hear your voice. And to hear that you want me. Love you.” 

Three dial tones signaled the call had ended. 

She went inside. The faint scent of tobacco lingered on her clothes, even when she shed her jacket. With bleary eyes and a light head, she fell asleep.