Page 11 of Fun at Parties
“Yeah?” he challenges. “You want to smell sugared grapefruit, plumeria, and sandalwood for the next three thousand miles?”
“I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions about what I do and don’tsmell.”
“So many options for jokes here,” Bailey says. “How do I choose?”
“Thank you for all the gifts,” I say. “I love the trifecta. I’m going to use the sunscreen immediately, and I already feel like the plant is part of the family.”
“Sorry about the diffuser. I’ve been so slammed at work, my brain is turning to mush.”
“It was a really nice idea.” For pretty much anyone but me.
We say our goodbyes, and I turn the music up. The rhythm of the road evens out my breathing. Mile markers ticking past, the freeway wide and sweeping.
I’m grateful that Nate invited himself on this drive. The emotions he stirs up in me aren’t healthy ones.Exposure therapy,I remind myself.
This drive is seven and a half hours on a good day, andI feel every second of it. I hum along to the music. We occasionally make strained small talk. He stares out the window a lot.
When he takes over behind the wheel, I send an email to everyone attending the party.If you think you might enjoy dressing on-theme, I strongly encourage you to do it! Many of us will be decked out, and the more people get into it, the more fun it will be.
I include a few ideas for costumes and call Seapoint’s vintage clothing store to see if they can set aside some options. After that, it’s back to “have you seen any good shows lately?” and “what are you hoping to do in Tahoe?” with Nate until I can’t take it anymore. I pop in my earbuds and pretend I’m on a conference call, periodically throwing out an “agreed” or “absolutely,” to make it convincing.
With an hour to go, we stop for a bathroom break. He trails me back to the car in silence, and I glance at him in the reflection of the rear windshield. He’s looking at me with stoic, perceptive eyes that stir up storm clouds in my chest, and I remind myself to feel nothing at all.
Chapter 4
South Lake Tahoe, California—2,778 miles to Seapoint
It’s late afternoon when wereach South Lake Tahoe. The cabin I’m calling home for the next few days is at the end of a quiet, wooded cul-de-sac a couple miles from the lake, and it’s only a “cabin” in the sense that it’s in a rustic location and has timber siding. In all other respects, from the outside, it’s a mountain mansion: huge, with oversized windows, an outdoor sauna, and a gorgeous deck with a fire pit framed by Adirondack chairs. The kind of place you miss on Airbnb when you sort by price, low to high, like I always do.
Inside is a different story. A story, perhaps, of a twelve-year-old boy tasked with decorating a million-dollar piece of real estate.
“This one is all video games,” Nate says, poking his head into the third bedroom. Logan is late picking him up, so I invited him inside, even though the drive didn’t kill the awkwardness between us like I’d hoped.
“Please tell me one of these bedrooms contains a bed,” I say.
The stunner of a living room, with its soaring ceilings and a massive stone fireplace, is empty except for a futon and a giant television. The first bedroom contains an air hockey table and a life-size cardboard cutout of Steph Curry. The second is full of Lego sets and jigsaw puzzles.
Tracy generously arranged for me to stay here for free for a few nights—a send-off gift to wish me well on my trip—so I have no right to complain. Except the cabin is owned by some fancy tech guy, a friend of her son. According to her, he comes out here a couple weekends a month. So I expected, you know, furniture.
Mercifully, the fourth bedroom is fully furnished. “I’m going to settle in,” I say. “Give me a shout when Logan gets here.”
He glances at his phone, and his mouth tightens. Logan has a big heart, but he’s notoriously flaky and easily distracted by a good time, so Nate might be waiting a while. “My legs are kind of stiff from the drive. I’m going to walk around outside and try calling him.”
After I drop my suitcase on the hardwood floor and set the plant Bailey gave me on the nightstand, I head to the en suite bathroom. There’s a pebble tile shower with multiple showerheads, but no hand towels, and a bottle of hand sanitizer sitting on the vanity instead of soap.
No big deal. This place is free, and I’ll gladly dry my hands on my pants if it means I get to use that shower every morning.
After such a stressful day, the bed is tempting, but I’m too restless to lie down. Instead, I raise my foot onto the bench in the corner and stretch out my hamstring.Before switching sides, I check my phone, where a text from Bailey awaits.
Bailey:How’s Day 1 going?
A familiar burn flares in my chest. Not because she’s asking about the trip, but because I need to consider what to say about Nate. Talking to Bailey about him has always stressed me out.
On the first night of my first visit to Seapoint, we got drunk in Bailey’s backyard with her closest friends. Giana and Sam arrived early, and we sat at the bar on the patio, bundled up in sweatshirts and playing a lazy version of quarters. Everyone in their core friend group was a “work hard, play hard” type, I’d gathered—honors classes, tons of extracurriculars. They fielded a lot of party invitations and seemed more worried about too many people showing up at Bailey’s birthday celebration than too few.
Giana bounced the coin, which ricocheted off the counter and onto the ground near my chair. “Are you single, Quinn?”
“Oh, yeah. One hundred percent.”
