Page 29 of Fun at Parties
Thankfully, she’s not a Logan hater. “I’m going to be on the lookout all night!”
“If you see them, and then you see us, will you let us know?” Nate adds.
I clap him on the shoulder. “This guy’s a huge fan. It would make his night to catch a glimpse.”
He snorts. Our new friend introduces herself as Rosie and her companion as her cousin Camila. Camila isn’t participating in the conversation, but she’s smiling weakly. Across her chest is a sash that saysBirthday Girl.
“Happy birthday!” I say. “What a place to celebrate.”
She hugs herself. “Thanks. I’m twenty-one today.” Her voice is shaky.
I take a step closer. “Everything okay?”
Rosie puts an arm around her. “Camila’s friend is being a jackass. She came out with us, and it was supposed to be a girls’ night, but she insisted on bringing her boyfriend.”
“They’ve been dancing all night and ignoring us, and it feels like she doesn’t want to celebrate with me at all.” I can barely hear Camila’s quiet voice over the music.
My heart goes out to her. If I were in her shoes, I’d tell myself not to let it get to me. To forget about my friend and have fun. But she looks so sad and so young, and for some reason that advice feels hollow.
Instead, I say, “You should talk to her. Tomorrow, when no one is drinking and you’re not in a place like this. When someone is a good friend, it’s better to clear the air, or you’ll resent her and nothing will change.”
“She might get defensive,” Camila says.
“She might, but you won’t know unless you try.”
“You’re so right,” Rosie says, and Camila nods reluctantly. Before they leave for the bar, they promise to flag us down if they spot Logan and his friends.
Nate shifts on his feet next to me, surely thinking the exact thought that’s gnawing at me: I’m not following my own advice. Refusing to talk about what went wrong between us hasn’t made things any easier, but I’m doing itanyway. Either the advice I gave Camila was empty platitudes, or I’m a total fucking hypocrite.
My head is throbbing. “Another lap?”
I don’t wait for his answer before setting off. This time, my body feels like a ship lurching in stormy waters, every step a little wilder and less balanced than the last.
I’m almost all the way around the dance floor before I remember I’m supposed to be looking for Logan. I pause for a second just as the beat drops. The people around me really start moving, and I accidentally bump asses with the woman behind me. Annoyance shoots through me, even though it was no one’s fault. I push through until I’m out of the chaos.
Nate is nowhere in sight. I press my knuckles to my eyes and try to breathe deeply. The red mist is invading, and I’m powerless to stop it. I’m just sooverwhelmed.About Nate and this trip, about work and Bailey, about my failure to thrive in L.A. I don’t know how to handle this stress, just like I don’t know how to handle any other bad feeling. All I do is try to push it away or turn it into something good, and it usually works. It’s always worked in the past, but not anymore. I can’t make myself feel the way I should.
Instead of waiting for Nate, I go to the bar and slam back another tequila shot. When I return to our home base, he’s waiting for me. One of his rolled-up sleeves is falling down, his cheeks are rosy, and his shirt is unbuttoned even farther than before.
His shoulders drop when he spots me. “You were moving so fast, I lost you by the DJ booth,” he says. “Where did you go?”
“Bathroom,” I lie, hiccuping. The toe of my sandal catches the ground, and I amtotally fineand barely stumble, but he grabs me by the waist to steady me anyway.
“Let’s go around one more time,” he says. “It’s late, and I’m kind of drunk. If he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s coming.” I think he meansI’mdrunk but is too nice to say it.
“Okay.” A lump settles in my throat. If we don’t find Logan, this night is over, and it’s likely that Nate accompanying me on my trip is over too. That makes me feel a lot of things I shouldn’t. I can’t stand the idea that after all this, we might go our separate ways without clearing the air. Even though I’m the one who said I wasn’t ready for that conversation.
I trail Nate toward the dance floor. Right on the outskirts, where some people are dancing but others are hanging back and watching, I grab his wrist.
“Hey,” I half shout. “I’m ready to talk.”
When he turns around, his eyebrows are tense with uncertainty. “Seriously? Now?”
“Yes, now. What happened with us?”
“I’m going to need you to be more specific.”
I tug him down by his shirt so I can speak directly into his ear. “Me and you,” I say. “How did I fuck it up so badly?”
