So Thirsty

by Rachel Harrison

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; General Fiction; Friendship; Horror

Synopsis

A woman must learn to take life by the throat after a night out leads to irrevocable changes in this juicy, thrilling novel from the USA Today bestselling author of Such Sharp Teeth and Black Sheep.

Sloane Parker is dreading her birthday. She doesn’t need a reminder she’s getting older, or that she’s feeling indifferent about her own life. Her husband surprises her with a birthday-weekend getaway—not with him, but with Sloane’s longtime best friend, troublemaker extraordinaire Naomi. Sloane anticipates a weekend of wine tastings and cozy robes and strategic avoidance of issues she’d rather not confront, like her husband’s repeated infidelity.  

But when they arrive at their rental cottage, it becomes clear Naomi has something else in mind. She wants Sloane to stop letting things happen to her, for Sloane to really live. So Naomi orchestrates a wild night out with a group of mysterious strangers, only for it to take a horrifying turn that changes Sloane’s and Naomi’s lives literally forever. The friends are forced to come to terms with some pretty eternal consequences in this bloody, seductive novel about how it’s never too late to find satisfaction, even though it might taste different than expected.

Release date: September 10, 2024

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

Sunlight severs me from sleep. I grasp at a fading dream, catch its last breath, quiet and wispy as a cobweb. It feels tragic, but I already forget what the dream was about. Something good. Was I at the mall again? I'm always dreaming about this mall. It's the same mall, except a little different every time. The stores change, the layout. The fountain to throw loose change into while wishing to strike it rich.

I'll have to tell Naomi. She also has a dream mall. It's a cornerstone of our friendship.

Someday we'll meet in the dream mall, she'll say.

How do you know it's the same mall? I'll ask.

It's obviously the same mall.

I take her word for it. She speaks with such certainty, it's impossible not to.

Sometimes when I bring up the dream mall, she'll go on a rant about capitalism infiltrating our subconscious. Sometimes she'll try to interpret, say the dream is about choices, about decision paralysis, or insecurity, or identity; then she'll eulogize her beloved dream dictionary, which she accidentally left on a train when she was a teenager. It was a gift from her favorite aunt, who bought it from a clairvoyant in Prague-irreplaceable.

I've never asked her why we've yet to find each other there, at the dream mall, what that could mean. I'm sure she'd have an answer. Naomi has an answer for everything.

I yawn, shut my eyes tight. I call the dream back to me, make a silent plea with sleep, but they're both gone, so I might as well get up.

My morning routine looms. As I lie under the covers, the simple task of brushing my teeth feels monumental. Then everything that comes next. Applying moisturizer, vitamin C serum, SPF, foundation, blush, mascara. All this effort just to look half-decent. To look alive.

And then making coffee, and logging in to work, and checking email. Slathering peanut butter on a slice of almost-stale bread that I'm too lazy to toast. Smiling at Joel when he offers a cheery Good morning.

He snores beside me now, impervious to the morning light, its brightness amplified by a fresh dusting of ultra-white snow. Joel could take a nap in an Apple Store, on the surface of the sun. Doesn't bother him. He always forgets to close the blinds at night. So do I, but it's too early for accountability. At seven thirty a.m., there's only blame.

I roll onto my back, tongue the drool crust at the corners of my mouth. A face materializes, just for a second. There was a man in my dream. His image has already escaped me. Not someone I know, I don't think. A stranger, maybe? Or a figment of my imagination.

What would have happened between us had the sun not interrupted?

Joel grunts, twitches, then resumes snoring. Sometimes I feel guilty for dream cheating, even though I know I shouldn't, considering. . . . But, turns out, seven thirty a.m. is too early to contemplate the complexities of monogamy and the enduring hurt of infidelity.

I get a leg free of the covers, put a cold bare foot on the carpet. I lost a sock in the night. Like the dream, it's now gone forever. I don't know where all my missing socks go, but wherever they are, I hope they're happy.

I thrust myself to standing and stumble into the bathroom, shivering, my knees stiff. I avoid the mirror as best I can. Lately, my reflection has been the bearer of bad news. You're tired, it tells me. You're sad. You're getting older. Last week, I spent over an hour examining a line on my forehead that I could have sworn appeared overnight. The line shouldn't bother me as much as it does.

It really bothers me.

It instigates these spells of debilitating angst that punctuate a bland, general malaise. Upon the arrival of my new forehead wrinkle, I Googled "existential crisis" directly after I Googled "Botox." I'm aware that my imminent birthday is exacerbating this angst.

But it's not like there's anything I can do about it. There's no cure for getting older, no solution for the harsh seep of time, save for maybe an attitude adjustment, a positive outlook, which I'm incapable of. Best I can do is acquiesce.

I don't know. I don't know. I'd talk to Naomi about it, but she couldn't relate. Her life is a wild, glamorous adventure.

I squirt out some toothpaste, brush my teeth with my back to the mirror, turning to the sink only to spit.


“So, I know you hate surprises,” Joel says, scooping some coffee grounds into a refillable pod. He pops it into the Keurig and turns to me, rubbing his stubble like he always does when he’s nervous.

"I hope that's the end of your sentence," I say, and lick a knife clean of peanut butter, then stuff it into the dishwasher, which is somehow already full. "I emptied this last night. I know I did. Do we have a ghost?"

"A ghost that uses all our dishes while we sleep?"

"Yeah," I say. "A midnight snacker. A hungry ghost."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Sloane."

"I'm haunted by chores! Also-sorry-there's no more milk."

"Really? I thought we got more. . . ." He opens the fridge, because he can never just believe me. He rummages around, validates the absence of dairy.

"Ghost must have gotten to it," I say, imagining an ethereal floating milk mustache. "You should try it black."

"I'm not cool like you."

I grind my own beans, prefer a French press. Maybe because I'm a snob, or maybe because, freshman year of college, I lost my virginity to a random guy at a party and in the morning, in his grimy off-campus apartment, he put on a Jimmy Campbell record and made me coffee with a French press, and I felt special for five seconds. Felt cool. Like an adult. Like I wasn't a girl anymore. I left that morning thinking, This is the kind of woman I am. The kind who takes a lover. The kind who drinks strong French press coffee. I never saw the guy again, but leave it to teen me to let a complete stranger spoil me to the ordinary, to allow myself to be ruined for what's simple and easy in favor of some romantic notion of who I imagined I would be.

I've abandoned enough of that idealized self. The French press is my last holdout.

Though it is kind of a pain to wash.

"Guess I'm going out," Joel says, sighing. "Do we need anything else?"

I shrug. "Not that I can think of."

"Oh," he says, tossing up his keys and catching them in the opposite hand. "Birthday surprise. You want to hear it?"

"Okay," I say, battling a sudden bout of stress-induced nausea.

"This Thursday through Sunday, I booked you a cottage at the Waterfront in Auburn. For you and Naomi."

"Naomi?"

"My coconspirator."

I screw and unscrew the lid of the peanut butter jar, fidgeting until I figure out how I feel.

"This is the exact reaction I was hoping for," Joel says. He's joking, but I can sense the frustration lurking under the surface. I can see its dorsal fin.

"I'm . . ." I start. "That place is so expensive."

"It's a big birthday," he says, and my existential angst returns, batting around my chest. Is it a big birthday? Is thirty-six big? "Plus, it's off-season."

"Naomi's coming?"

"Yep," he says. "Girls' weekend."

"But she's in Europe," I say, my voice at a mortified pitch. "I think."

"Not this Thursday through Sunday. I've been planning this for a while. You don't need to worry about anything," he says, which, of course, makes me worry. "All right. I have to go get the milk; my first meeting is in twenty."

"Okay. Thank you, Joel. Thank you."

He nods and slips out through the door to the garage.

I walk over to the front window to watch his car pull out of the driveway, tires interrupting the perfect powdering of snow. I'm still holding the peanut butter, and I'm struck by this riotous impulse to chuck it at the wall. Instead, I return it to its rightful spot in the pantry. Then I roam around the house clenching and unclenching my fists, compulsively sighing.

I'd call Naomi, but I know she wouldn't pick up. And what would I say?

I'm so excited! I can't wait to see you!

Or, Why didn't you tell me? You know I hate surprises. I don't feel like celebrating my birthday. I'd rather just ignore it. If you ever bothered to ask me how I was doing, you'd know that.

Or, Do you think this is a generous gift from a guiltless husband, or do you think it's suspect?

I park myself in front of my laptop and attempt to get some work done.

Joel comes back with the milk, which he leaves out on the counter, either absentmindedly or with the expectation that I will put it away. At around five o'clock, I log out and go down to the basement to pedal the stationary bike for half an hour while staring off into space. Then I come upstairs and put a pot of water on the stove to make pasta for dinner. I step into my knockoff UGGs and take the kitchen recycling out to the bin at the side of the house. The bin is already full, overflowing, and a cherry seltzer can falls onto the icy pavement. I reach to pick it up and notice something small and furry and still in the dark, wedged in the narrow space between the bin and the house.

It's a mouse. And it's dead.

If the mouse were alive, I'd be screaming, flailing. I'd wish it were dead. But because it is dead, I wish it were alive.

I don't want to just leave it there, let its corpse freeze to the driveway, so I get a garbage bag and a pair of plastic gloves from the garage and pick it up, wrap it in the bag, toss it in the trash.

Someday me, too, I think, carefully removing the gloves and throwing them on top. Someday I'll be dead in a bin and none of this will matter.

This sudden grimness provides a nebulous sense of relief, like tonguing a sore in the mouth.

I let the lid slam down and wheel the trash and recycling to the curb, go inside, wash my hands vigorously. Then I get my suitcase out of the closet.

I consider that maybe I do need this weekend away. More important, maybe I want it.

2

Your luxury experience awaits at the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. An oasis nestled in the heart of-"

"Are we really doing this?"

"Nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes. The-"

"Naomi."

"The picturesque American village that we call home has been at once restored and transformed, the perfect location for the ultimate escape."

"You done?"

I hear a big, deep inhale through the receiver, and I understand that, no, she is not done. "From our modern yet cozy cottages, to our lavish spa, to our fine-dining restaurants, discover a vacation experience like no other. Welcome . . . to the Waterfront."

"Should I applaud?"

"Well, yeah. That would be nice," Naomi says, breathless from her dramatic reading of the hotel website. Not hotel. Collective. Vacation experience. Ultimate escape. "This place is posh as fuck. Are they even going to let us in? We don't play tennis. I've never eaten a scallop. What even is a scallop?"

She knows what a scallop is, but she likes to pretend her parents don't have money. I play along with the charade. "Maybe we'll find out."

"Never taken a picture with an American flag draped over my shoulders at the beach at sunset. I don't wear white. I've been arrested, you know."

"I know. I was there."

"The first time. Not the second."

"A shame to have missed it."

She shrugs. I know her so well, I can sense it. We're on different continents, but we might as well be in the same room. I can picture her in front of me. How she's sitting. Her legs tucked to one side, her feet pointed. Wearing a pair of men's boxer shorts and a crazy lace bra. Some combination of Hanes and La Perla she can somehow make work. If I didn't love her so much, she'd be insufferable.

"Ooh, you can get married here. This venue is insane. A sprawling estate with exceptional lake views, originally built as the summer residence for some crusty old chin beard . . ." She trails off.

"Do you want to get married?"

"Fuck no," she says. "Damn. I'll need to pack extra sweaters to tie around my neck. WASP cape."

"Do you not want to come?"

"Of course I want to come. I'm coming. Flight is booked out of Munich."

"You're talking like the Finger Lakes are fancy, Miss Flight-out-of-Munich. You've been traveling around Europe for the last, what? Three, four months?"

"And I'm coming back to the States with a vague accent to prove it."

"Great. Can't wait."

"It's not as bougie as it sounds. It's work. Most days I'm wrangling at least one hungover man-child, or getting groupies to sign NDAs, or chasing Rolling Stone, or spending a tragic amount of time on the band's Instagram. Some days I'm a glorified roadie. Plus, the showers over here have no water pressure. And the toilets are weird."

She's not being dishonest, but she is downplaying her journeys for my benefit, so I won't be so jealous. I'm both grateful and a little insulted. "Still . . ."

"Sure. Still . . ." she says. "But fuck it. I get to see you!"

"I hope this goes without saying, but you don't need to fly back from Europe for a weekend."

"Your birthday weekend," she says, and I flinch so hard, I almost fumble my phone.