Page 107 of Betting on the Brainiac

Sami isn’t mad at me. Ava isn’t mad at me. Sami isn’t mad at me. Ava isn’t mad at me.

I’ve never tried a mantra before, but this is a good one. Truthfully, Ruby isn’t mad at me either. She’s waiting for me to not be mad at her.

Am I ready for that, especially after this morning?

I donotenjoy the rational part of my brain, popping up like Ava’s cross-stitch. “Well, actually . . .”

I sit up and hug my knees, thinking. Did this morning between Oliver and me mean Ruby was right? Had I sensed that Oliver isitfor me before she said it and got mad because I didn’t want to acknowledge it?

Until this morning, I would have said no. Hard no. Absolutely not.

But I’m in the after of this morning.

Oliver isn’t wrong about turning to him to mute the hurt of Kaitlyn’s words. But I don’t think I turned to him simply because he was there. I just . . .

Wanted Oliver.

Have Ibeenwanting Oliver?

I go to the bar and pour myself a glass of cold water from the soda gun, then climb to the deejay stage to lower the volume. I also change the playlist to Motown. I need to mellow out the rage-dance endorphins.

I pick a booth Oliver and I have never shared and slide in to drink my water and cool down. The new playlist starts with a Stevie Wonder hit, where he teases about his weak Spanish while he plays a Cuban melody.

My gaze wanders up to the third floor. From this booth, I can almost see the alcove where the masked guy kissed me that night.

That night. That kiss. Was that a lifetime ago?

I climb the stairs up to the corner, thinking. It feels more like the memory of a really good book I read, or a movie that sends you out of the theater with a happy buzz and you want to tell allyour friends to watch it. A story that happened outside of me, not to me.

I walk to the alcove and close my eyes, trying to bring back that night. The music, the syncopated synth flute, the buzz of the crowd, the dark. The guy with the strong jaw and eyes that glinted in his mask.

I focus, trying to bring back the details through all my senses, but I can’t picture the man from that night. Oliver’s face keeps morphing into the memory, and with an irritated grunt, I give up and open my eyes.

I don’t even know what I thought this field trip upstairs would do. I turn my back on the dim corner and walk over to lean on the balcony railing, staring down at the club, taking it all in as Marvin Gaye comes on asking about what’s going on. I meant to choose sixties Motown with all the bops—the Supremes, Martha and the Vandellas, some Smokey. Instead, I’ve got seventies Motown and all the thinking. If the next song isn’t “Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” I’ll eat my uniform.

I stare at the main ceiling speaker. “Songs with a social conscience? Really? That was not the category I picked.”

Marvin Gaye’s sweet tenor doesn’t give up, asking me the same question over and over again. I consider it as I scan the empty club. “Whatisgoing on?”

Was I chasing the high of that kiss in the dark when I slid onto Oliver’s lap like a thirsty girl slides into a stranger’s DMs?

No.

No, and that worries me. No, and I don’t know what to do about it. No, and I am the dumbest dumb girl who ever dumbed.

I tried to kiss Oliver because I wanted to kiss Oliver.Oliver. Oliver who, in fact, looked hot and sleep rumpled, Oliver who made me want to kick Ruby for even suggesting she might date him, Oliver who, even bare chested, doesn’t flinch when a kittentries to climb him. Oliver who, bare chested, is so far north of sexy that there’s not even a latitude that goes that high.

Oliver who is sweet and adorable and kind and smart and sexy even in his stupid hoodies that tricked me for so long.

I drop my head onto my arms and moan. How did this happen?

Dumbest dumb girl who ever dumbed. EVER.

I straighten and sigh. At least the buzzing is gone. And I can take full breaths again.

I go back down the stairs and turn off the sound system completely. But the silence is loud. It’s so big, filling every part of the club, which doesn’t make sense until I realize it’s not the silence that’s getting to me; it’s the emptiness.

I walk back to the center of the dance floor and look around, clocking every part of the club. The tables I’ve served over the last four years. I picture the faces of my favorite customers—and the faces of the truly heinous ones. I think of all the bartenders and bottle girls I’ve worked with, Heinrich and the other partners.

---