Page 135 of False God

“Let’s go,” I suggest impulsively, slipping my heels back on under the table.

Hugo swallows the last bite of his mini éclair. Raises both eyebrows. Glances around the crowded ballroom. “It’s only eleven.”

“We’ve eaten, socialized … I’m over it. Let’s go to a club.”

Hugo glances at Fran like,You wanna take this one?

She clears her throat. “I saw you talking to Charlie out on the balcony. Did it go …” Her voice trails off as she waits for me to supply the rest of the sentence.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Immature maybe, but accurate.

I don’t want to think about it either. And I want tonot thinkabout it while dancing at a club with my best friends because we’re young and fun andsingle, and now seems like the perfect time to celebrate that.

“Oh-kay.” Fran manages to make that syllable last forever, then looks at Hugo like,You’re up.

I huff, exasperated by their silent—and audible—conversation.

“Looks like we’ve got a runner,” Hugo comments.

We’ve all been runners at one point or another. It’s a shorthand Bridget came up with in high school, when we first started going out in the city. Speed—jogger, runner, sprinter—conveys urgency. You say you’re going for a jog in the morning if a drunk guy asks for your number a third time. Your cousin is a future Olympic sprinter if he moves your drink for you so it “doesn’t get knocked over.” That was a line Fran used one night out in Saint-Tropez.

“I’m a jogger.At most.”

And I’m not fleeing from Charlie because anything he said made me feel uncomfortable. I’m desperate to be anywhere else—anywhere he’s not—because he’s going to come back in from the balcony at some point, and it’ll feel like my heart was shoved into a blender all over again.

“I’ll be in the limo,” I announce, standing. “Leaving in five minutes.”

I head for the exit without waiting for any responses, snagging a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of one of the boxes stacked behind the bar on my way out. The busy bartenders don’t even notice.

Deep lungfuls of night air help clear my head a little as I descend the steps. It feels as hot out as it did when I arrived three hours ago, which is awfully annoying.

Halfway down, I pause to pop the bottle. The cork flies … somewhere, bubbles fizzing over my hand and dripping down onto the worn stone stairs. Some specks of foam land on my dress too.

“Lili?”

Cal is standing with two guys leaning against the railing. Both look vaguely familiar, but I’m not able to come up with names. One of them is smoking, the lit cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers.

“Hey.” I wave, then hiccup, giggling as I cover my mouth with one hand.

Cal peels away from the other guys, missing the amused look they exchange. The smoking one winks at me, and I flip him off.

That, Cal sees.

“You okay?” he asks cautiously, stopping at the same stair level.

“Fabulous,” I answer. “When did you start smoking?”

“I don’t smoke,” Cal tells me. “I was just talking to Levi and Damian.”

Yes, those are their names. I feel triumphant, like I was the one who just solved the mystery of their anonymity. Take another sip of champagne, to celebrate.

“We’re going clubbing. Are you coming?”

He glances behind me. “We?”

I swig more champagne. The glass bottle feels extra slippery, more condensation appearing in the humid air. “Everyone.”

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