Page 9 of Fun at Parties
He eyed the car again. I couldn’t blame him. It wassopurple. Not a deep goth-y eggplant, and not a gray with subtle lavender undertones. It was a vibrant orchid color with a horrible Jolee bumper sticker on the rear, and it was eight weeks away from being repossessed, though I didn’t know it yet.
“You should find another spot,” he said.
That was when the adrenaline subsided enough for me to realize he was hot. In his faded sweatshirt and low-slung board shorts, he looked like the mysterious surfer boy I always dreamed of meeting as a teenager in landlocked Pennsylvania.
“I can squeeze into this one, but do you mind telling me when to cut the wheel? Please?” I made what I thought was a cute face. He gave me a skeptical look and pedaled off.
Back then, Nate was guarded and sulky. His dad had recently betrayed him in a mortifyingly public fashion, and the subsequent rerouting of his life was still fresh. Plus, I had just almost hit him with a six-thousand-pound motor vehicle. That was the end of that, or so I’d thought.
A decade later, here we are, together in a car that is—thankfully—a very normal gray. Winding north on the 405, a few miles closer to another September weekend in Seapoint to celebrate Bailey’s birthday.
Which reminds me. “Shit! We were supposed to call Bailey before we left.”
“Oh, right,” Nate says. “She told me the same thing. I’m supposed to…well, you’ll see.”
Bailey picks up his call on the first ring. “Hello, intrepid travelers!”
I grin. It’s been too long since I’ve heard her voice. “Hello, stunning birthday queen!”
“Hi,” says Nate.
“How are—”
“Are you—”
Silence. The kind that fills in the gaps of a conversation like rust when you don’t talk to the other person enough, when you forget the normal rhythms of your rapport.
“You go,” I say.
“Are you ready to begin your journey?” she asks.
“We already did,” I admit. “We left ten minutes ago.”
“Who’s driving?” she demands.
“Me.”
“Dammit, Quinn. You ruined my plan.” She sighs. “Okay, I guess Nate will have to open it.”
I glance at him. “Open what?”
He lifts a white-and-gold polka-dot gift bag out of the duffel bag between his feet.
“I got you something.” Her voice is eager. “A gift, to thank you for driving so far to see me and send you off fully prepared. I overnighted it to Nate so he could give it to you.”
“That’s so thoughtful!” I grin wide. This trip ismyattempt to make amends. She doesn’t owe me anything. But it feels good to know she cares.
“Open it,” Bailey says.
“She’s driving,” Nate reminds her.
“Not her.You,Nathan.”
Here it is. A chance to show that I can behave like things are fine. Which they are, with Nate, and will be soon, with Bailey. “Yes, Nathan,” I add. “You also have to provide a vividly detailed narration, so I get theexperienceof opening the gift even though I’m not opening it myself.”
Bailey cackles. “And you have to react the way Quinn would, so I get the experience of hearing her reaction as she opens the gift even though she’s not doing it herself.”
Nate groans. “Or you could pull over here and let me out so I can walk the rest of the way.”
