The Gift in the Kitchen

Serena Hart stood in the kitchen of 214 Ridgeway Lane, hands wrapped tightly around a Solo cup of punch she hadn’t touched. Her heels clicked lightly on the tile as she paced the edge of the room, just enough to suggest poise without broadcasting nerves. She had dressed with care—black silk slip dress, open-back, heels that made her calves pop, gold hoops in her ears, hair in soft, glossy curls. Her dark skin gleamed under the pendant lights, catching every glint of warmth the party could offer.

She had texted Donna ten minutes ago.

Just arrived :) Kitchen, like you said.

And now she waited.

Serena didn't know what she expected. Normally she would have debated coming for hours, trying to convince herself she was too tired, that it was inappropriate, that it was insane. But things had changed. Her perspective had changed. In the end, there had been something undeniable about the way that shy-looking boy had looked at her in the hotel—something about the way he'd said it, casually, factually:

"Hot girls want me. Always have, always will."

She hadn't believed it when he said it. Not really. Sure, he seemed sincere, truthful even, but how could he possibly know what all hot girls wanted? That kind of insight was impossible. Even the editors at the top fashion magazines struggled to keep on top of trends, **** to stay ahead of the newest thing, finding out what women wanted. How could someone like him know more than them?

But that was the thing—deep down, after a few minutes of reflection, she believed him. Not an inkling of a belief, a total, complete, wholehearted belief. Hot girls wanted him.

And Serena was a hot girl.

And so there she was, in a stranger's kitchen, soaking up the sound of the house party, waiting. Hoping.

The kitchen door creaked behind her.

Serena turned to look, expecting to see Donna Granger, or perhaps Donna's husband, Joey Granger. She hoped for the latter.

Instead, she saw her.

A beautiful girl—maybe twenty—wearing a red satin crop top that clung to her like sweat, a black leather miniskirt slung dangerously low on her hips, and a wobble in her stance that suggested multiple rounds of something strong. Her brown hair was mussed, clinging to her cheeks like it had been brushed out of her face a dozen times and lost the fight each time. Her eyes were rimmed with red, not from makeup, but from crying.

She leaned against the counter, blinking at Serena as if trying to determine if she was real.

"Hey," Serena offered gently.

The girl blinked again, then gave a hiccup-laugh. "You're too pretty," she said, voice slurred.

Serena blinked. "I'm... sorry?"

"No, like, it's fine. Just. You're, like, so pretty. It’s a problem."

Serena offered a half-smile. "It's not a competition."

"Damn straight it is," the girl muttered darkly, reaching for the bottle of tequila on the counter and missing it by a wide margin. "Everything's a competition when he's involved."

Serena's brow creased, but before she could ask who it was the drunk girl was referring to, she heard the creak of a footstep behind her. She turned slowly.

Joey.

He stood in the doorway, short, skinny, hair disheveled, dumbfounded look on his face. Serena wanted him so badly she could feel her knees get weak.

His gaze hit Serena first—and widened.

"You're the girl from the hotel," he said. Not unkindly, but stunned. Caught off-guard. "The... front desk."

Serena smiled, far more unsure of herself than she was used to. "Yeah. I am."

Joey's eyes dropped briefly to take her in—the dress, the heels, the shine of her skin in the light—and then back up, unsure of what to say. He hadn't expected this. He looked so good—sunken chest, narrow shoulders, ill-fitting clothes. He was everything she never knew that she needed in her life, all in one package, all within reach. There was lipstick at the corner of his mouth.

Serena's stomach did a strange, excited flip.

Donna. She was, after all, Joey's wife. And more than that, Donna was a hot girl. She imagined living with Joey, being close to him all the time. It would almost be too much to bear. When she had first seen the couple walk into the hotel, they hadn't made sense to Serena. But after Joey explained it to her, it made all the sense in the world. Just like Serena, Donna wanted Joey. There was nothing freaky about that at all.

"But why are you here?" Joey seemed astounded to see her. Had he not been told about the invitation? Had Donna not told the truth? "I mean, how did you even know..."

He paused, a look of clarity entering into his perfect eyes. He sighed.

"Of course," he said, "the gift. I must have..."

He trailed off, staring at Serena. For a moment a look of resignation washed across his face, but as his eyes took Serena in more and more, that expression changed to something more akin to excitement. Anticipation.

"You look incredible," Joey said, clearly making an effort to make a good impression. He didn't need to. He had won her over the moment he walked in.

"I wasn't sure what to wear to a party thrown by someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Someone like you," Serena approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's not every day that I meet a man that makes me feel the way you make me feel."

Joey flushed. "Right. Okay. Um. Wow..."

A groan behind them pulled Joey's attention.

The drunk girl.

Joey turned—and froze.

The belligerent souse was leaning unsteadily against the island counter, now clutching that tequila bottle like a lifeline. Her eyes were red, her mouth slack with exhaustion or defeat. Serena saw Joey's excitement seep out like air escaping a flat tire.

"Juniper?" he said, voice tight with disbelief. "What the hell happened to you? Why are you dressed like that? Are you drunk?!"

She looked up slowly, eyes glassy.

Her lip trembled.

"Oh," she said, almost too quietly. "Suddenly you have time to notice me."

Then she slid to the floor, laughing once, softly, before the tears started to come again.

Joey stood rooted. Serena looked between the two of them, confused. She could feel the temperature in the room shift again. She should have seen it coming. The drunk girl, when not utterly smashed, would have been incredibly hot. So of course the guy she was pining after was Joey. It only made sense.

She stepped forward slightly, toward Joey. Her voice lowered, intimate.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked. "Or come back later?"

Joey's hand came up, rubbing his temple, suddenly overwhelmed.

"I…" he began.

But he wasn't sure what came next.