Toxic

Chapter 1

‘A confident woman don’t seek no validation from nobody.’ yeah I used a triple negative, bite me.

I am pretty and I know it. My confidence comes from my looks, which sometimes makes it difficult for me to understand why a girl who is clearly pretty struggles with low self-esteem. Guurl, your genes have already given you a free pass to the beauty standard, and you're still not okay?

When I say I'm pretty, think Kendall Jenner. Assuming you know who Kendall Jenner is, if you're an American in the 21st century who doesn't, I don't blame you much, because I would wish I were you. Well, many strangers at my workplace have told me I look like Kendall Jenner. I became obsessed with her for about two months until I got over it. It's the eyebrows, eyes, hair color, and skinny body. She's a model who's 5 feet 10 inches tall, while I'm 5 feet 4 inches tall.

That's enough about Kendall Jenner. Let me tell you a little about myself. As I mentioned, I'm pretty, which gives me confidence as a 24-year-old. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in Hotel and Hospitality Management from the University of South Wales. I'm not from South Wales or anywhere in the United Kingdom; I was born and brought up in Brooklyn, New York. It was easy for me to find employment as soon as I finished school because my dad pulled some strings to get me employed at a five-star hotel in Brooklyn. I missed New York so much while I was abroad that I couldn't wait to come back and continue my life here.

My sweet, lovely mother is a well-known attorney who has won so many cases that I lost count of them. She is a domestic violence victim attorney, and her clients are mostly women who are in abusive relationships, partnerships, or marriages and want to leave their abusive boyfriends, partners, or husbands. My dad is a hedge fund manager who isn't so proud of me for the career path I chose. He wanted me to choose something more prestigious like what my mother chose, but I did well to disappoint. Oh, and I'm from a broken home too. My parents split when I was seven years old.

You are free to call me a trust fund baby. You now see why I was able to obtain a degree in something like hospitality as an international student in the UK. I own a loft somewhere in the Upper East Side of New York, and my best friend Fiona stays there more than I do. As an only child, I love my space so much that I think I would sleep in a separate bedroom if I were to get married. But since Fiona works the night shift at a bar just two blocks away from the loft, she doesn't really invade my space and privacy.

The good thing is that I communicated to her while our friendship was still growing how much I value my space and privacy, and she understood perfectly. She understands that I can't ask her to move in with me because it might ruin our amazing friendship. They say best friends can't make good roommates, but roommates can make great friends. I still haven't understood the logic behind this statement, but it is what it is.

I met Fiona at a seminar for women under thirty. My mom's friend was one of the speakers at the seminar and asked my mom to invite me. I normally don't enjoy going to functions where I have to listen to someone give me life advice because you don't learn from life through advice but through experiences, including self-help books from someone still trying to figure out their life. Imagine someone working 9 to 5 writing a book on how to become a billionaire. Absurd, right?

Fiona's seat number was 9 while mine was 6. I think you know what happened next. I sat in seat 9 and almost had an argument with Fiona. An usher interrupted, reminding us that the numbers 6 and 9 are the same when turned upside down. When I realized my number 9 was an upside-down 6, I apologized. At the end of the seminar, I offered to buy her a drink. She suggested we go to the bar where she worked, as she considered herself an amazing bartender who could make the best drink mixes. She proved herself worthy of the praise when we went to her workplace.

Fiona and I have known each other for two years and counting. Although I have a treadmill at the loft and a skipping rope, she suggested we get a gym membership together that we would attend on weekends. I asked her if her job paid her enough to get one, but she mentioned a discount or something like that, so we went every weekend. Fiona is an amazing 23-year-old, and if I were gay, I would definitely date her, but sucking vagina isn't my thing. I know because I have tried it and didn't want to do it again. Out of all the many things I love about Fiona, the best is that she loves me for who I am. She barely accepts my offer to help her financially whenever she vents to me about a problem that I know money can solve. "I just want to vent, Sasha," she would remind me.

She lived in a shared two-bedroom apartment. Her room could be compared to the size of a storeroom.

One time, I asked her about her parents, and she replied that she didn’t like talking about them. I never asked about her parents again.

Celine and Astrid are also 23-year-olds. Sometimes they look 28 with their makeup on, which makes me wonder why they want to look older. Women aging is something that society doesn’t like. We met them at the gym. They were in the same bike workout group as Fiona and me. They have been besties since high school, and both are Instagram influencers, always looking for an opportunity to take pictures worth the gram. Kudos to their hustle; it pays their bills.

Don’t get me wrong. The tone at which you might be reading this in your head might make it sound like I am a hater or bashing them. That’s just the way I talk or write.

They fully understand that I can't put my life on any social media. That’s how serial killers track pretty girls and hunt them down.

That’s enough backstory for now.

It’s Sunday, and the girls and I are meeting for drinks at Fiona’s bar tonight. I can’t drink later than 10 pm, and they know that. I always keep to time, the same as Fiona, but Astrid and Celine are a whole other case. I have learned to lie about time with them. For example, I told them that we would be leaving for the bar by 6 pm, so they get to keep until 8 pm. I knew it was taking them so much time to glam up their faces, choose from the thousands of outfits they constantly order and are given by sponsors, plus the picture posing and taking. It got so annoying after the third time they kept Fiona and me waiting. Fiona told me to cut them some slack, but I had a better idea than being patient and tolerant with two Insta baddies.

Wearing my mom's jeans, a plain white T-shirt, white Nike Air Force sneakers, and a small black purse to hold my phone and credit card, I got into my Uber. I sweat easily, but I smell nice. You know what I mean.

I walked into the bar and immediately looked for our booth. I call it "our booth" because that's where we always sit on Sundays to have a drink or two or get wasted while talking about random things. I spotted Astrid and Celine sitting together, sipping a drink. I looked at the time on my phone, and it was seven minutes past 8 pm. I guess my strategy worked today.

Chapter 2

Fiona always has Sundays off. The amazing IG influencers don’t really work a 9 to 5. Astrid and Celine are live streaming their night out at the bar. As usual, I don’t join their live stream. I sit and wait for their fun on IG to be over. Fiona joins us with two glasses of Moscow mule for me and an espresso martini for her. She knows that's what I always get whenever she is working her night shift, and I happen to stop by. Our IG models are having what looks like vodka and watermelon punch today. They try different drinks every time they come here. Just like their outfits, they have never repeated a drink at this bar.

“I saw you walk in while I was getting my drink,” Fiona starts a conversation.

“You are late today,” Astrid says.

“Seems like you are done with your live stream,” I ask as I bring out my phone, “let’s take a quick selfie, and no! Celine, you are not posting it on your page for your followers.” I say immediately I sense Celine tr