Page 8 of Guy's Girl
Ginny turns to find Adrian peering down at her. A light breeze feathers the black locks peeking up at the top of his head. Instinctively, she drops her hands, which were rubbing her arms. “Yes,” she says quickly.
“Cold?”
“No,” she lies.
Adrian tilts his head but says nothing, so Ginny looks away, studying the street around them.
New York is everything Minnesota isn’t. Gone are the chubby, bearded Norwegian men. Here—leggy women the size of mountains. Bodies shaped like telephone wires. Eyes thick with dreamy desire. Ginny wants to drown in it all.
And it isn’t just the models. It’s everyone. Gangly teenagers. A man whose face appears to have gone through a trash compactor. A big-breasted woman with eyes like steel, dressed in a suit Ginny has only ever seen on James Bond.
Thestyle.They reek of it. Chic, tailored women in black tights and heeled boots. A waif-thin photographer crouched low on the corner, jeans dangerously close to falling from her body. Hasidicmen with curls swinging beneath boxy black hats. A dog with three legs. A thick-browed man in enormous black headphones, pushing through the crush and belting out the words to a song no one else can hear.
Heather would fit in here, Ginny thought.
“Cabs ah he-ah,” says Clay, using the Jersey Shore accent.
“Cabs ah he-ah!” Finch and Tristan yell back.
They all cram into the tiny yellow sedan. Somehow, Ginny ends up on Adrian’s lap. Neither acknowledges the other. The car speeds off, whisking them toward the bar.
***
Niagara steams with bodies. Bodies by the front bar. Bodies by the back. Bodies by the photo booth. Bodies by the arcade. Bodies on the dance floor.
The boys lead her through the crowd. They scream over the music and the voices. Clay heads up the group, holding his hands over his red hair. Ginny keeps close to the flagpole that is Adrian’s figure. Finch elbows Tristan into a group of girls ordering vodka sodas.
Once they make it to the back, all the boys melt onto the dance floor, bouncing up and down and flailing their necks side to side. All the boys except Adrian. He leans down to Ginny and asks, “Should we get drinks?”
Ginny nods, so they elbow over to the small bar shoved into the back corner.
“Coronas?” Adrian asks.
“Sure.”
Adrian turns to the bartender. “Five Coronas, please.” He pulls out his wallet and hands over his credit card.
“Thank you,” Ginny says. Adrian shrugs. When the bartender presents them with five open bottles, each with a slice of lime pointed from the rim, Adrian hands two to Ginny.
She hesitates.One Corona is 150 calories, plus the tequila lemonades earlier, and...
You know what?Fuck it.
Ginny squeezes the lime wedge into her bottle and takes a swig.
***
She must drink three Coronas. They must dance for hours. The DJ plays songs from the early 2000s, and Ginny sings as loud as she can. She dances with her boys. Clay picks her up and spins her around the dance floor as if she weighs nothing.
She can’t remember the last time she had this much fun.
Ginny wanted to make life in Minnesota work. She did. She wanted to strike off on her own and prove to herself that she didn’t need anyone else to live happily.
She was sorely mistaken.
Her whole life, Ginny had a brood of siblings around her. Siblings and friends and friends of siblings. They filled her life. Distracted her from the inside of her head, which, more often than not, was an extremely unpleasant place to live. Made her laugh, even when she didn’t think she could. Until now, Ginny hadn’t realized how essential other people were to her own happiness.
I want to move to New York.
