How to Be a Grown-up by Emma McLaughlin

where I found a club to go at night. Super-cheesy: you took a slide to get down into it, the whole bit. And they had these red shiny cubes anyone could climb on to dance. And if the men watching liked what you did, they threw money at you—as I discovered one night rocking out to, of all things, “Smells like Teen Spirit.” After that, I went every night like it was my job and ended up paying for a whole backpacking trip through Greece. I was always industrious.
    Dancing. That’s what life had been missing. Not the silly, slide-around-the-kitchen-with-Maya kind, but the dirty, deep, out-of-myself kind.
    Suddenly the crowd parted a little, and I saw this guy—tall, lanky, wearing a bright green turtleneck and leggings, a vine wrapped around one leg. He bounced over to me in his green Converse.
    “Kelly Wearstler?” he asked.
    “Jolly Green Giant?” I responded.
    And then his hands were on my hips and his lips were brushing my bare shoulder and we were dancing like the MoMA was the staff quarters at Kellerman’s. With thick blond hair and pale blue eyes, he was like Eric Stolz. A young Eric Stolz. God, he was young. And his hands were everywhere . Almost. An hour passed, maybe more. “Let’s find a bathroom,” he whispered in my ear, his fingers grazing my bustier. “I want to be inside you.”
    Could it be that simple? We hadn’t even kissed. “Wait here.” I stumbled away through the crowd to find Claire.
    She was standing by the sushi table talking to a woman dressed as a Mondrian. I strode up to her, hugged her tight—and then tumbled past for the revolving door. “Thank you!” I called as it sprung me onto the deserted red carpet. I slipped off my shoes and ran the six blocks home as if he was chasing me.

    Dropping my clothes to the bedroom floor, I let the ashtray clatter on top. Naked, I jumped into bed and flipped the duvet over me—holding myself still, waiting for the lust to abate like the spins. I wanted it to stop.
    Stop, stop, “Stop.”
    From my tiny clutch bag I heard a buzz.
    “You up?” the text asked.
    I immediately dialed him back.
    “Hey,” Blake said softly, “you’re awake.” He sounded surprised. Good. He’d had me in a near-constant state of surprise for two months.
    “Just got in. Those were some amazing boobs.”
    “What?”
    “We share an Instagram, Blake.”
    “Oh—right—sorry, that was Charlie’s girlfriend—that was a goof.” Oh. “How was your night?”
    “I went out with Claire. It was Claire-iffic. You?”
    “Jack and I went over to Charlie’s for a little bit, but then I came back here. It wasn’t my scene.”
    I rolled over on my elbow. “What’s your scene?”
    “Watching Maya and Wynn divide their candy. How she tries to hide the Jolly Ranchers from us.” Us.
    “I miss you,” I whispered.
    “I miss you too.” There was a long pause and I wasn’t sure if he was still there. “I’m sorry I’m so fucked up,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
    “Neither do I, Blake. None of us do.”
    “But I—I don’t know if I can be there right now. You make me so mad—”
    “Shhh, not tonight,” I soothed like I was rocking one of the kids.
    “I can’t sleep.”
    “Let’s just stay on the line.”
    “Okay.”

    We drifted off like that, to the sound of each other’s breath. In the morning the call was disconnected, but I don’t know which of us hung up.

Chapter Eight
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    The first time I encountered the New York City marathon I’d been living in Manhattan all of four months and was attempting to find my way back to my apartment from a hookup. Waking up in the Bronx, I might as well have been in Shanghai. When I finally spotted the entrance to a subway I was cut off from getting there by a police barricade. Fighting tears, I noticed the tradition of runners writing on their shirts so that bystanders can yell motivation.
    “Do it for Aunt Mary!”
    “Continua, José!”
    “Go, Sammy’s Daddy!”
    At a time when I