Champagne Wishes and Stiletto Skylines

The Matthews-Hunter penthouse rooftop deck had Aubrey, Auggie, Ava, Cory, Donna, Farkle, Francine, Jennifer, Katy, Maya, Red, Riley, Shawn, Smackle, Stuart, and Topanga drinking champagne. It had been Riley's idea, and like most of Riley's ideas, it started with "what if we just don't" and ended with eleven women, a case of twenty-four bottles of champagne, and ten boxes of pizza from the only place in Manhattan that would deliver to a building with a doorman who wore white gloves.

"What if we just don't go to the ship," Riley had said three weeks ago, standing in their kitchen in underwear and one of Maya's old flannels. "What if we watch the fireworks from our roof and eat pizza like normal people." "You've never been normal people," Maya had said from the floor, where she was painting her toenails black. "But the pizza part." "The pizza part is acceptable."

So here they were. December thirty-first, eleven-fifteen p.m., the rooftop deck of their building strung with café lights that Maya had insisted on and Smackle had insisted be fire-coded. The skyline of Manhattan spread out before them like a lit-up circuit board, and the Minkus New York cruise ship at at the pier, glowing with the party they'd spent six weeks building and then chosen not to attend.

Smackle had wanted to stayed on the ship to manage the event. "Someone with organizational competence should be present," she'd said, adjusting her chrome heels. Riley would not accept that and told Smackle everyone would stay at the penthouse. "Especially you." Riley had blown her a kiss. Smackle had caught it, examined it for sincerity, and tucked it into her bra.

Now Riley stood at the railing in a black wrap dress that Maya had picked out, which meant it was cut in a way that suggested the dress was trying its best but might give up at any moment. Her stripper heels were patent black platforms with an ankle strap that Red had called "architecturally irresponsible."

Maya wore a white suit, blazer, trousers, nothing underneath the blazer, a fact that was becoming more obvious as the champagne flowed and the buttons strained. Her heels were silver, six inches, the kind that added height she didn't need and attitude she didn't lack.

Red had come straight from the ship, still in her crimson heels, but she'd swapped her pencil skirt for a deep red dress that matched her hair and clung to her like it had been painted on by someone who respected the craft.

Aubrey, who was becoming less "the new one" and more "the one who brings good wine," had arrived in a cream suit with gold heels and a bottle of Dom Pérignon that she presented to Maya with the quiet confidence of a woman who understood that gifts were a language.

Topanga and Cory had come up from Auggie and Ava's condo two floors below. Topanga wore a navy dress that made her look like she was about to argue a case in front of the Supreme Court, except for the heels, which were clear Lucite platforms that made her six inches taller and visibly delighted about it. Cory was in a suit, no tie, and had already eaten an entire pizza by himself.

"There's more in the kitchen," Riley said, watching him eye the second box. "I'm stress-eating," Cory said. "There are three hundred people on that ship right now in themed sex cabins that my daughter helped design." "She didn't design the cabins." Topanga said, sipping champagne. "She designed the chocolate fountain."

"The chocolate fountain is in the same ship as the sex cabins, Topanga." "The chocolate fountain is on the middle deck. The cabins are below deck. They're geographically separated." "Geographically," Cory repeated. "On a boat."

Maya refilled her glass and leaned against the railing. The wind caught her blazer, and the gap revealed a stripe of bare skin that started at her collarbone and didn't stop until the waistband of her trousers. Red noticed. Red had been noticing Maya all night in the particular way that Red noticed things: quietly, professionally, and with the faintest color rising up her neck.

Riley noticed Red noticing. The champagne made her warm, and the warmth made her generous, and the generosity made her press against Maya's side and slide her hand into Maya's blazer.

"Red is staring at your wife," Maya murmured against Riley's temple. "I'm not staring," Red said from two feet away, because the rooftop was not as large as her yacht. "I'm observing. It's a security habit." "You're off duty," Aubrey pointed out, handing Red another glass. "I'm never off duty. I'm selectively relaxed."

Cory sat on the outdoor sofa with a fresh slice of pizza and watched the ship in the harbor with the expression of a man who had accepted that his world had become strange and had decided to meet it with carbohydrates. Topanga sat beside him, her Lucite heels propped on the coffee table, her head tilted back against the cushion. Her dress had ridden up to mid-thigh. She didn't fix it.

The first test firework launched at eleven-thirty, a single gold streak over the harbor that bloomed and dissolved. Everyone turned toward the railing. Maya's arm came around Riley's waist. Red's hand found the railing next to Aubrey's. Their knuckles touched. Neither moved.

"That was just a test," Aubrey said. "The main show starts at midnight." "I know what a test is," Red said. "I run security." "You run security like Riley runs catering," Aubrey said, and smiled. "With a lot of enthusiasm and some improvisation."

Riley laughed, which pressed her closer to Maya, which pressed Maya's blazer open another inch. The wind did the rest. Maya's breast was visible from the side, the curve of it catching the café light. Red's breath caught. Riley saw it, felt the champagne heat in her stomach turn into something lower and more specific. "Maya," Riley said quietly. "I know," Maya said. She always knew.

The second volley of fireworks went up, three bursts this time, red and white and blue. The light played across their faces, and in the strobing glow, Riley turned and kissed Maya. Not a champagne-buzz peck. A real kiss, open-mouthed, one hand gripping Maya's jaw, the other still in her blazer pulling her in. Maya made a sound that the fireworks almost covered.

When Riley opened her eyes, Red was watching. Aubrey was watching. Cory had looked away so fast he got vertigo. Topanga was watching with the calm focus of a woman who had been waiting for this to happen since the second bottle. "Happy almost-New Year," Riley said to no one in particular.

"Get a room," Cory said. "You have ten rooms. You're in a penthouse that you own." "We're watching the fireworks," Maya said, her voice lower than it had been. Her hand had found the hem of Riley's wrap dress and was pulling it sideways, opening the overlap. Riley's thigh appeared, then the edge of a black thong, then the stocking clip.

Red's champagne glass trembled. Aubrey reached over and took it from her, set it on the railing, and stepped closer. Not to Maya and Riley. To Red. "Your pulse is elevated," Aubrey said. "I'm aware."
"Would you like to do something about that?" Red's blue eyes moved from Maya's hand on Riley's thigh to Aubrey's face, close and gold-lit. "You're very direct for someone who designs law briefs."
"Aubrey kissed her. Red kissed back with the precision of a woman who'd been thinking about it for three weeks and had finally run out of reasons not to.

Cory stood up. "I'm going to go back to Auggie's." "Stay," Topanga said. Her hand caught his wrist. Her Lucite heels were off now, her dress higher, and she pulled him back down beside her with a grip that brooked no argument. "It's New Year's Eve. Everyone's where they're supposed to be."

"I don't think you're leaving." Topanga kissed him, and Cory's protests dissolved into the sound of the harbor wind and the next round of fireworks cracking open the sky.

Maya had Riley against the railing now, the wrap dress fully open on one side, her fingers inside the thong, moving with the slow confidence of someone who'd memorized this territory years ago and still found new corners. Riley's platforms scraped against the deck as she widened her stance. Her head dropped back. The fireworks lit her throat in alternating colors. "You're going to make me come on this rooftop," Riley said, half a question. "That's the plan," Maya said, and pushed two fingers in.

Riley grabbed the railing with both hands. The ship glowed with the party they'd built. Above, the sky exploded. And between, Maya fucked her with a rhythm that matched the fireworks. Burst, pause, burst, pause until Riley's knees buckled and she came against Maya's hand with her mouth open against the cold December air, a sound that the fireworks did not quite cover.

Red had pulled Aubrey onto the outdoor sofa, her red dress rucked up to her hips, Aubrey's cream blazer on the ground, their mouths locked. Topanga had Cory's mouth on her neck. The countdown started from somewhere below, the crowd on the pier, the ship, the city. "Ten... nine... eight..."

Maya withdrew her fingers slowly, brought them to her mouth, and tasted Riley with her eyes closed.
"Seven... six..." Red pulled back from Aubrey, breathing hard. "We should go inside." "We should," Aubrey agreed. Neither moved.

"Five... four..." Topanga looped Cory's hand tighter. "Midnight. Everyone kisses."

"Three... two..." Maya pulled Riley's dress closed, smoothed it, kissed her forehead. Then her mouth. Then her mouth again, deeper.

"One." The sky split open. Gold and silver and cascading white, the biggest show Manhattan had launched in a decade, and six people on a rooftop watched it with varying degrees of composure, various states of undress, and the shared understanding that the best New Year's Eve party was the one you built for three thousand people and then skipped.

Riley leaned into Maya, fireworks reflected in her brown eyes. "Best pizza decision I ever made," she said. Maya buttoned her blazer with one hand. "We're not done." "I know." "Happy New Year, Riley."
"Happy New Year, Maya."