@GUELITOX IS A DEAD-END on Instagram. Private. So I can't even (classily) slide into his DMs to ask him about...

What? Us?

So, I sift open Spotify. Find us @anochebk on Instagram.

Instagram open again, I bite into my bottom lip uncertainly. I search it, let it load... load... load, and hit ANOCHE (EP OUT NOW) 1705 Seguidores — a bilingual bio, a link to a dropped single from July, and a makeshift tour across DIY venues in Brooklyn. Posters for mash-up line-ups in Queens. The Love's Halloween Smash. Next, on November 1st, a Dia De Los Muertos Show at The Broadway.

Why did Chelsea...

Stop, Nola.

I should hit up Guillermo, pick up a 40 from Muhammad, I...

I can't keep waiting for Chelsea, but I call her anyway.

"Hey, you've reached Chelsea! Sorry I'm unavailable, if you leave a message, I'll get back to you! Promise! ❤️"

♛

Her Instagram hasn't been touched all day.

LONG LIVE THE LOVE

chelseainchelsea ✨ 🖤

I'd already hearted it—2,130 Me gusta in nearly 14 hours—but I can't comment on it.

Sus. Chelsea doesn't disable comments on her Instagram. Ever.

Everything so... unlike her. Even at Otero-Mesa. Neither a full-body nor a no-body fit her brand, and if I know anything, I know her Instagram persona: I helped her invent it. Chelsea likes to be personal, as if you could be beside her, partying with her, a phone-camera angled selfie, close-up, smirking behind a Manhattan.

Her Stories expiring in a few hours, I watch them incessantly. Gone is Chelsea on a rooftop in Manhattan. Gone is Chelsea on an L. Gone is Chelsea at Otero-Mesa. Only Alex. 23 hr.

Tap.

Only The Love. 18 hr.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It had been an unusually... quiet Halloween on Chelsea's Instagram. Gaps.

My Stories, on the other hand, had been noisy. June wasn't lying. I'd had a night, I guess. We'd been in the East Village. Blurs of signs for Canal, an overweight Devil. Drunk on Essex. On a J. The Williamsburg Bridge. Manhattan cast in a sooty haze, June lying down. Laughing. 22 hr. Then I'm dark, for a while, resurfacing in a back room, downing a shot—Tequila and Tecate. Classic at The Love. 20 hr. Gone, replaced by Chelsea. Giggling. 17 hr. Her skewing down a staircase, jarring shifts, bare legs and black stilettos, darkening in a dusky purple haze I know I know. 16 hr.

Ugh, I can barely keep track of it all; so many goddamn numbers I'll forget, so many... gaps. Time. Who cares? All I know is I don't remember any of it. Nada, baby.

My Fotos are a jumble—blurry pocket-shots and red-hot thumbs over lenses, flares, lit cigarettes, flushed skin, a slew of plaid and denim and leather in between flashes of darkness; warped shutter capture of Halloween.

Even scouring Leon's Stories is depressing. He had been extremely fucked up on shrooms, yeah, but I keep going back, back, back.

@lasolanola and @guelitox 🔥🔥

18 hr.

My skirt being hitched up.

Clean.

♛

I shrug his jacket on before I head for The Broadway. I slip my iPhone into it—an inner pocket—before I step onto a Queens-Bound J. It smells faintly of sweat and smoke, lingering, lingering, lingering...

It's dark. The J grating away.

My nails catch on a frayed hem, and I hiss under my breath, plucking its oversized pocket open impatiently. I'd just put it away, but as I dig deeper, yanking, I drag up a crinkled, curve-bent, professionally printed sticker instead: an illustration of a pigeon smoking a cigarette alongside an Instagram.

@DeadPigeonProject

Huh. Fun.

I crush it into a fist, pulling for my iPhone again. Where is The Broadway? Only a block or so away from The Love's semi-inconspicuous addy. Everybody has a haunt—Broadway in Brooklyn is DIY.

When I get off at Gates, I don't stop. Past Quincy and Ralph. Past Lexington. Rounding up to The Broadway, I'd been ready to hunt him down. Anybody who may have been at The Love on Halloween. Al.Divino on at 10:30, 2Suave at 11:30, ANOCHE at 12:30. I'd know somebody.

Somebody would know him.

Maybe.

Okay, I don't have a very solid plan, but I know I hadn't expected him.

It's awkwardly easy.

He's talking to a short Puerto Rican guy at the closest corner of the bar, a forearm planted on it, a lilting smirk on his lips, and I watch it happen, I do. His gaze flicks up and flicks away, before drifting up slowly, lingering, realizing. He straightens as I offer an impish grin.

Remember.

"Ay, ay, you lost?" he hollers, shouldering by to intercept, a hand up in a mock affront. "Killer Cheerleader, yeah?" My lips quirk. "I remember you," he says softly, reaching up behind his head, ink from his elbow to his wrist—Roman Numerals. Roses. "Earlier." His voice is low, gravelly. Remember.

"Hm." Pleased, I'll admit it, I look him up and down. He'd cleaned up: a fading stamp for entry to The Love. His open flannel and rolled-up sleeves, a side-slip of ink from his collar to his earlobe, and a sloppy slew of hair in a dark, Madonna-esque halo. "You're a shit Tom Cruise."

It doesn't faze him.

He pauses, holds up a finger before pulling a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, unfolding... "Sometimes you gotta say 'what the fuck?'" He slips them on smoooothly: un morado ojo half-hidden. "Make your move." His hands raising. "Risky Business, baby."

Risky Business.

"Bueno." I'll give it to him. I nod, snickering, "B+."

"Well, you got an A+," he says, shrugging it off. "Best thing I seen all year."

"Right." Right. Why I'm here. "Mira, I..."

"I'm glad you're okay, you know, I don't know what happe—"

"I'm okay," I cut him off as I gesture to myself. "I'm fine."

"Fine." His accent on it stirs a flutter between my thighs.

"Look, I saw us on Instagram. I don't know what I did, or— I don't know if I..." I point at his bruise quietly. It's fading. "I... I hope I didn't..."

"Funny, I don't even remember—" His dry, humorless snort as I frown. "Nah, I picked a fight, I guess, your boyfriend," he says, coughing offhandedly, as if mildly embarrassed by it. "He came in, grabbed you, and I—"

"Who?" Boyfriend?

He cocks his head, lifting a brow. "I don't know. But, ya sabes, sober o no, I musta did it for a reason, I don't usually go around taking or throwing punches, I promise." Suave, as if I've known him para siempre—a ghost of a wry grin.

It's contagious. I want to grin, too. "No?" Good.

"Nah, but I was blackout, I mean, I barely remember you."

"Ah, es mutuo," I admit. Hell of a Halloween, Nola.

My iPhone buzzes. It's been fully charged all day, unwelcomely vibrating all day... 848-301-7947. I'd looked it up, but I don't know anybody in Jersey. Probably a few robo-calls about a Loan Forgiveness Program. It can't be him, I guess.
I watch him pick up a drink lazily; both hands visible and sin iPhone.

"Have you seen Chelsea?" I blurt.

His brows crease. "Who?"

"Rubia," I clarify, plucking my iPhone out to show off her Instagram. "I think I was with her."

"Oh? Oh, yeah, you know..." His hand disappears into a jean pocket, digging up an iPhone, unlocking it quickly. My chest knots up. "Rubia asked me to tomar una foto, but didn't give me a phone," he says. "I told her I'd send it to her." Below, on a dimly lit screen, a Sent Message to 917-220-7143. I know it by heart. Chelsea.

ayer 2:31

It's... a cutesy, drunken half-blur. Chelsea a silvery strapless Playboy Bunny. My hair in cheesy pigtails, a Pom Pom. Her lashes heavy, sooty, charcoal-lined wings. Blinking. I'm smoking a cigarette classically. Everything behind backlit in a hazy purple glow: cramped darkness, a burlap sacked guitarist crammed in a crowd of The Love.

My heart hitches violently. My head is ringing: glasses clinking and amp feedback in a distant clamor, dulled, disappearing.

"Okay. Don't—" I clap a hand over it as I look around warily. "No le muestres esta a nadie, okay?"

A slight, uncertain lilt: "Okay?"

"Ah... ¿no la conoces?"

Who is he?

"Me?" he scoffs. "Nah, but you did, and I wanted to know you."

"Did you see her leave?"

Pause. Confusion. "What? Why?"

"Did you see Chelsea again?" I ask, pointing at his iPhone. "Rubia. Did you see her leave?" His lips tilt down. "Do you remember seeing her again?"

"No sé. Not my type. I wasn't watching her. Now, you"—a finger flicking accusingly—"I remember being pretty mojado off a mojito, hm?"

Heat floods my cheeks. I don't know what he's referring to, or if I believe him. "Okay. I don't need a play by play of what I did wrong last night," I scoff, but Jesus, I might. What am I doing? He's bluffing. "I wanted to... I didn't expect to see you, uh... here, I was looking for you, I couldn't DM you on Instagram."

"Oh, nena, I barely use it."

People are shuffling by, filing upstairs, slinging slangs of Spanish. Noise reverberating, funneling down its emptying booths and emptying bar—a set about to begin.

"Ay, ¿te quedas?" he rasps, jutting his chin slightly. His gaze doesn't seem to stray away. "I can buy you a— uh, if you... do you want a drink?" Oh, I do. "I'll let you pick my memory, if you want, uh..."

"Nola."

"Right." One side of his lips curves up, as if he knows already: I don't remember su nombre. "Miguel."

Miguel.

Miguelito.

"Right. Sorry." I let myself smile sheepishly. It doesn't seem to bother him. "Gracias, but I... I don't know if I should..." Never. Again. How often have I sworn off drinking (and dick), Chels?

"Bet. Hangover's a bitch," he says, wincing, and I nod as I glance away, grateful for an unexpected understanding. Even if I'd bypassed official hangover longevity, I still felt a soreness behind my forehead, a dull ache in my skull, raw knees in road-ripped fishnets, bruises fading—bloody clothing in the corner of my bedroom. "I know I told you, but you and I didn't hook up, Nolita."

Nolita, a slow-drawl, his haunted Halloween.

"I know."

I did know.

"Listen, I've gotta go up, but if you... want to hang, I'm around—"

My iPhone interrupts him, buzzing—in my hand—as I seriously consider it. I peer down. 00:25.

Instagram ahora
Notificación

I unlock it carefully. Miguel is saying something, but I press, hold, skim.

[lasolanola]: xnr.ok
Respondió a su Historia: u killed her

Whoa, fuck. What? Who...

Dread churns in my gut as I look up at Miguel again. My reflection in a pair of cheap glasses—Risky Business, baby. "Please, if you know anything, or know anybody who... I don't... I don't remember anything, and I just— I..." I should delete—

"Jesus, I didn't..." he murmurs off as I shift uneasily. "I didn't realize—"

"What?"

"Nothing, I just... I didn't know you were that drunk, I guess." His weight shifting uneasily, too. "Serio. How you feeling?"

I don't say anything. I can't say anything.

"I don't know her. Perdón." Miguel glances down, shoves his iPhone away. "I wasn't really paying attention to her."

"Right."

Not.

Everybody is always paying attention to Chelsea.

"Really, I gotta go. If you..."

"I might lurk a bit," I admit, looking again: 00:28.

Instagram ahora
Notificación

It goes dark.

"But if I don't see you," I drawl as I sift onto a barstool, allowing a petty parting grin, "gracias por nada, Miguel."

He's about as useful as I am.

His glasses lift coyly. "Una hora, and I'm yours."