Chapter 1
June 2, 2018, 11:26 P.M.
As their taxi slipped down Fifth Avenue past Seventy-ninth Street, Ursula realized she was about to throw up. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the inky green blur of Central Park to her right. Its two-and-a-half-mile border had seemed luxuriously long when she’d strolled it earlier that spring, buzzing with caffeine and cautiously hopeful about the start of a new season. Now, its length felt torturous and unending. James’s hand moved under her dress to the inside of her thigh, exactly where she had wanted it moments ago when they began kissing. Now, as nausea overtook her, she wished for a collision and a quick, albeit tragic, death. So young. Just thirty-five. Clever. Successful. Quite attractive, depending on whom you asked. So much to look forward to. Pity that she had left her young cat behind. Who would take care of her? Any volunteers? She’s a very sweet cat …
The taxi swerved hard into the right-hand lane, jolting Ursula out of her morbid reverie. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the confused galaxy of taillights up ahead. She searched for a soothing mantra, but all that came to mind was her middle-school JV soccer cheer—“Be aggressive! B-E aggressive! B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I…”—and that was no help.
The taillights spun into an evil vortex, a mocking Charybdis that portended imminent humiliation. It was happening. She had to warn him.
“I might throw up,” she murmured, staring down at her pale, freshly shaven knees. James opened his mouth as if to ask a question but said nothing. He transferred his hand from her thigh to his own as he leaned back, his prior enthusiasm turning to concern.
After a beat, she confirmed—“Yep, this is happening”—as she lurched over her legs and expelled a stream of Sancerre onto the plastic floor mat of the taxi, some of it splattering against the Mansur Gavriel bucket bag she’d bought to celebrate her recent promotion.
“Damn it,” she thought, leaning her head back against the seat. It had been a decent first date until then.
Chapter 2
June 3, 4:07 P.M.
“Wait, you threw up on him?” asked Issa, her eyes wide. “In the taxi?”
“Not on him,” Ursula said. “But next to him, yes.” Using her straw, she created a violent whirlpool in her green juice, which had been listed as Self-Compassion Nectar on the menu. She leaned forward to take a sip, but the foamy liquid got lodged halfway up the straw. She leaned back, then tried sucking once more. Unsuccessful again. “I’m glad they don’t have plastic straws here because I don’t want sea turtles getting them stuck up their noses, but this thing doesn’t work.”
The straw was made from avocado husks, which she knew because there was a sign on the counter that read, “Finally! Avocado husks are here!” with a colorful arrow pointing to a ceramic mug of beige straws. For some reason, the mug had breasts.
Issa watched as Ursula struggled with the straw for a few more seconds before plucking it out of her nectar and flinging it to the far side of the round, marble-topped table.
“Always so dramatic,” observed Issa.
“I’m not dramatic,” grunted Ursula, closing her gray-green eyes. “I’m deathly hungover.”
“I noticed that,” said Issa gently. Ursula looked like a sapped, feral version of her normally vibrant self, and her hair was even wilder than usual. A voluminous cloud of honey-blond waves that fell around her shoulders, it recalled the look of a particular babysitter that Ursula had worshipped as a child, whose hair took up substantial space and whose bangs appeared to defy gravity. Ursula remembered aspiring to that fluffy volume throughout her childhood, but by the time she entered high school in 1997, straightening had become de rigueur, and she woke early every morning to fastidiously iron her hair. It wasn’t until college that she began to re-embrace its natural chaos. Now, her hair distinguished her from the many women intent on taming their natural texture. She enjoyed feeling like a wild-maned lion in a sea of slick seals. Issa once told her she looked like a combination of Kim Basinger from Batman and a tumbleweed, and Ursula rather liked this comparison.
“What happened?” asked Issa. “No judgment, but why did you vomit on a first date?”
“I don’t know,” Ursula wailed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, where a spray of freckles had reemerged now that it was June. “I guess I hadn’t eaten enough. Yeah, I hadn’t eaten anything since noon. And we went to this wine bar in Harlem, where it turned out his friend was the bartender. So the drinks were just flowing, and James weighs like 250 pounds. He has that former-football-player body, you know? Like he used to be really muscular and rocklike, and now he’s softer, but he can still absorb an infinite amount of alcohol.”
“Whereas you’re a wiry little whippet,” said Issa.
“I guess I am. Anyway, it was really fun. I have no idea how much I drank. We were just talking and making out, and then we got in a car to head downtown, which was fine for about fifteen minutes. Totally fine. But then an evil demon overtook me.”
“The evil demon known as drinking a gallon of wine on an empty stomach,” said Issa.
“That’s the one.”
“How did James respond?”
“He was really nice about it,” said Ursula, feeling a simmer of shame.
“That’s a good sign.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t think we’re going to build an enduring relationship on a foundation of puke,” said Ursula, leaning back in her chair and tugging at the velvet scrunchie she wore around her wrist.
“Maybe not,” said Issa, recentering the gold pyramid that hung on a long, thin chain around her neck. Whereas Ursula’s outer appearance often mirrored her ever-shifting inner state, there was a consistency about Issa’s look, no matter how she felt on any given day. Her straight black hair hung symmetrically; and her short, blunt bangs framed her smooth forehead, giving her face an organized look. Upon meeting her, no one was ever surprised to learn that she was an architect. She looked the part: even her ear piercings—four on each side—provided a sense of balance and intention. Though she often wore bronze-colored eyeliner to bring out the golden flecks in her dark-brown irises, today she was makeup-free.
“What happened with the Lebanese guy?” Issa asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe mutual ambivalence,” said Ursula, taking a sip directly from the glass that left her with a green-foam mustache. “After our fourth date, neither of us followed up. I think he might have moved back to Beirut.”
“Hm,” said Issa, using a napkin to brush Ursula’s upper lip. “And what about that really sweet guy—the veterinarian?”
“Really bad square-toed shoes,” said Ursula, shaking her head and placing her hand over her mouth in horror.
“Oooof. That’s rough.” Issa winced. “But you broke up with him over that?”
Ursula shot her a confrontational gaze and held it until Issa relented. “Fine. We can draw the line at square-toed shoes. That’s fair.”
“He also had that newly divorced energy, you know?” said Ursula.
Issa didn’t know, because she’d never dated a divorced man.
“It’s like, you know, before the start of the Kentucky Derby, when the horses are all hyped up and they’re in their little starting pens? And they’re so full of fervor and anticipation? It’s like that. These men shoot out of their marriages like horses out of the starting gate. The longer the marriage was, the more aggressively they shoot out. And then they careen all over the racetrack, trying to assess where they fit in the pack…”
“The racetrack of dating?”
“Yes. They careen all over the racetrack of dating, and the next few minutes are anyone’s guess. Some crash, some burn out, and a few straighten out and then end up doing well. But when you encounter one of these horses right out of the gate, watch out. They’re way too excited and completely unpredictable.”
“So a newly divorced man has the fervor of a racehorse?”
“Exactly. It can be overwhelming.”
“Maybe this veterinarian racehorse was just excited because he liked you,” suggested Issa.
“Ew,” said Ursula, suddenly disgusted. She didn’t want to think about that particular man ever again. “You know, I’m barely attracted to anyone, even if they’re great. Almost everything turns me off these days. I’m pretty much only interested in men who are speaking an indecipherable language that I have no chance of understanding—like Icelandic. It’s like I don’t even want to engage anymore. I just want to project something onto them and then never find out what they’re actually like. Ever. Yes, that’s it: I want to date an Icelandic man who promises to never speak a word of English. I think that might work.”
“Healthy,” said Issa. “Wait, what about Virginia’s friend? Didn’t she set you up with him?”
“Ugh, the worst. He was one of those guys who starts every other sentence with ‘Look…’” said Ursula, switching to her bro voice. “‘Look, you’ve gotta think about it like this…’ ‘Look, in my industry…’ ‘Look, I’m a dipshit.’”
Issa laughed. Ursula made a convincing tech bro. Or was she a finance bro?
“Did I tell you about Nicole? The shark?” asked Ursula.
Issa shook her head, her glossy hair sweeping her collarbone. She would have remembered Nicole the shark.
“Well, I saw a documentary last week,” said Ursula, “about a great white shark named Nicole. She lived in the waters off Cape Town, but every year, she would disappear for nine months. This isn’t normal behavior for a female shark, and the scientists who were observing her had no idea where she went, so they eventually put a tracking device on her. It turns out, she went to Australia—to find love. She didn’t like the local South African sharks, so every year, she swam the 12,000-mile roundtrip just to mate with a higher-caliber foreign shark. Then she would come home, relax, and do it all again the next year.”
“So, we’re going to Australia to find you a mate?” asked Issa.
“We probably should. But that sounds exhausting,” said Ursula, massaging her own temples in slow circles. “It’s okay. I’ve slipped into a state of ambivalence. Acceptance. Maybe even peace. I don’t need a partner. I’m doing fine. I’m good at my job. I have friends—too many friends, actually. I should get rid of some. And Mallory keeps me weirdly busy.”
“A cat can only keep you so busy,” said Issa.
“She needs more attention than you’d think.” Their eyes met and Ursula laughed, burying her forehead into her crossed forearms. After a moment, she sat up and tapped on the surface of the table. “I like this marble. It’s very cooling on the face.”
The lounge was outfitted with ten such tables, each accented with a brushed-bronze ring around the edge. White Carrara marble and rose gold dominated the palette at The Stake, the nouveau feminist wellness club where she and Issa convened as often as their schedules allowed—usually once or twice a month. Ursula had joined two and a half years ago at the insistence of her then-boyfriend Sean’s sister, Hannah, who was an early investor in the enterprise. “It’s a space for modern women to cleanse their psyches and manifest their most audacious goals, unfettered by male influence,” Hannah had explained. “But it’s more than just a community. It’s a movement.”
Ursula, whose expertise was in brand strategy, had noticed a lot of young companies describing themselves not as brands, but as movements. Movements that sold yoga pants. Movements that sold electric toothbrushes. Movements that sold generic Viagra in discreet unmarked packages so they wouldn’t embarrass you in front of your doorman or neighbors. Movements that sold $188 serums that would jolt your aging face back to life. Thoughtlessly buying products was out; joining movements was in. But you joined by buying the products.
“Why is it called The Stake?” Ursula had asked Hannah at the time.
“You know, like Joan of Arc. And like so many witch trials throughout history. The stake was the site of punishment for women who asserted themselves, who dared to speak, to lead, to challenge authority,” explained Hannah. “This club is reclaiming the symbol of the stake. Today, it’s a place where women gather to summon their strength and pool their power.”
“Rather than where they go to be publicly burned?” clarified Ursula.
“Exactly,” said Hannah, flicking her pointer finger at Ursula to emphasize how correct she was. “Do you want to hear the tagline?”
Ursula waited.
“Aflame with ambition.”
“Clever,” said Ursula, pretending to sneeze so that her condescension wouldn’t hit Hannah directly in the face.
“We also considered Be well, bitches,” said Hannah. “But Aflame with ambition seemed more positive, more productive, less prescriptive. We don’t want to tell women how to live. They’re free to be well or not to be well, you know? It’s okay to not be okay.”
“Of course,” said Ursula. “That was a good decision.”
Once The Stake opened its doors in a Manhattan penthouse near Madison Square Park, Hannah had reminded her to join every few days, dropping intel about high-profile women who were signing on as early members: the politically outspoken host of a major network morning show, a celebrity chef who worked exclusively with ten “life-affirming” ingredients, the right-hand aide to the mayor of New York City, a former Olympic figure skater turned climate-change activist. Ursula resisted for weeks and then joined anyway. In the two and a half years since, she had spent more time at The Stake than she had ever anticipated. She was no longer in touch with Hannah or her brother, whom she had dated for three frustrating years. But The Stake had become a hub in her life, and she had even convinced Issa to join.
Despite their participation, however, they both remained conflicted about the authenticity of the club’s mission. Some argued that rather than advancing the feminist cause, The Stake bastardized it. Still, it had its merits: it offered a café and bar, stylish-serene workspaces, and exercise classes that focused more on awakening the spirit than on toning the muscles (though they did that, too). Then there was the spa, whose director, a former Vogue editor turned wellness guru, had patented a series of therapies called Soul SoftenersTM, which were designed to relieve specific types of psychic pain.
For those who needed an immediate and high-aggression release, there was the Smash Center, a white-walled room full of porcelain dishware. Before entering, you chose from a selection of vintage cricket bats and protective goggles, and once inside, you could destroy things until your anger abated. The next door down was the Scream Den, a soundproof padded chamber that was bookable in fifteen-minute intervals. It was in high demand. (The Stake’s founders planned to add two more Scream Dens once they secured their next round of funding.)
Gentler therapies included Hush-Brushing, where you sat in a beanbag chair and a therapist brushed your hair while repeating phrases of your choosing, which ranged from soothing (“Shhhhh, everything will be okay”) to classic (“This too shall pass”) to colloquial catchphrases by popular heroines like Lizzo (“You are 100 percent that bitch”). The main lounge featured a Swaddle Station, where members could zip themselves into adult-sized cradles, push a button, and then be mechanically rocked (very, very slowly) to a selection of adult lullabies, custom-composed for The Stake by singer Maggie Rogers. Tucked up a staircase was a row of booths called Sobbing Pods, where you could cry in silence or to a soundtrack of ’80s love ballads. A box of tissues was mounted in each pod, and an attendant was available for an optional hug on your way out. Finally, the Womb Room was a sensory deprivation tank where you could float in complete darkness in a bath of warm placenta-infused saltwater, eventually losing your sense of where your own body ended and your “mother’s” began. Ursula had only tried it once and deemed it “terrifyingly therapeutic.” Upon exiting the Womb Room, she had wept for two hours on one of The Stake’s rose-hued velvet sofas, which was perfectly normal, and even encouraged—the club was explicitly designated as a no-judgment zone where members were encouraged to “feel their feelings.” Neon signs with encouraging statements like “We’ve Got You, Girl” and “Female as Fuck” hung throughout the club.
Massage therapies ranged from typical Swedish and Deep Tissue to the more inventive. For example, if you opted for the “Animal Instinct” massage, you could choose from a selection of five beasts—deer, fox, blue whale, ocelot, or flamingo—and the masseuse would integrate the ethically extracted musk of that animal into the oil for your massage. Ursula had tried out all five musks in the weeks after her breakup with Sean two years ago. She preferred the ocelot.
* * *
“Would you like to try a complimentary Bodhisattva Baby?” A Stake staffer appeared at the table between Issa and Ursula, lowering her tray so they could see the sand-colored blobs on offer. “They’re vegan, gluten-free, and brimming with high-strength CBD. They’re made of a proprietary bean blend.”
“Beans are so hot right now,” said Issa, citing a rising dietary trend she had noticed.
“What are those ones?” Ursula asked, pointing to four pink blobs on the far side of the tray.
“Oooh, those are Buddha Babies,” said the staffer. “They’re a little stronger because they’re infused with Xanax. Do you have a prescription on file with us?”
“Yes,” said Ursula, supplying her name and membership number. The staffer set down the tray, pulled a tablet from her back pocket, and verified Ursula’s prescription. Issa gave her friend a surprised look. Reaching for a Buddha Baby, Ursula insisted, “It’s worth doing! If you see the in-house doctor, she’ll write you a prescription that they link to your account. Then you can get Xanax added to anything on the menu.”
“Noted,” said Issa, picking up a Bodhisattva Baby. “Cheers.” She smushed it against Ursula’s blob.
Copyright © 2022 by Victoria Hoen
