Page 15 of Fun at Parties
He walks toward me, and I peel off my other sock and reach out for my shoes. But instead of handing them over, he crouches down, sets them in front of me, and looks up. He’s practically kneeling at my feet, and the sight immobilizes me.
He interprets this as helplessness and offers a hand for balance. His palm is warm and slightly rough, and while it steadies me physically, it threatens to undo me in every other way. After I slide my feet into the sandals, our eyes fasten onto each other, and I feel that horrible, familiar spark inside me, like a lighter in the dark. I swear I see it too, reflected back at me in his eyes. Somehow, I get a bigger rush from this than I did from the hike.
When he realizes he’s still holding my hand, he blinks and lets go. He stands, and his gaze moves to the top of my head. “Devil horns.”
That breaks the spell. I scowl and attempt to smooth the bits of hair at my temples that curve up and out when I sweat. He coined the nickname years ago, after a long day at the beach. Another reminder that he’s known me so well for so long.
His mouth scrunches at the corner. “You don’t have to do that with me, you know.”
“What? Be fine?”
“Act fine.”
My vitals spike. “It’s not a show. I’m not trying to convince you I’m okay.”
“No. You’re trying to convince yourself you’re okay.”
I fold my arms across my sweat-soaked tank top. “You don’t get to do that. You dropped out of my life.” When he opens his mouth to say more, I raise my hand and hobble past him. “I can’t deal with this right now, okay?”
Logan had better show up soon.
Chapter 5
After a long shower anda date with the first-aid kit, I retreat to my bedroom, grabbing my phone and climbing under the covers. For the last few days, I’ve avoided social media, but it’s time.
If the Caleb drama isn’t fading away online, my job is in jeopardy. Exhibits A, B, and C: the three instructors who got fired after the recent board shake-up. The company won’t hesitate to cut me too, if I damage their bottom line.
Connecting with riders online is a necessary part of my job, and I used to enjoy posting workout tips and sending encouraging messages. Yet now I brace myself, like I’m about to swallow a nasty-tasting pill. I tap the Instagram icon.
Whoa. My follower count has skyrocketed from my usual twenty-eight thousand or so. It’s closer to forty now, and I have a ton of mentions. More than I should, since I haven’t done a new ride since I last checked in. But people aren’t tagging me in posts about their rides.
Someone chopped up bits of my ranty, confessional speech from my last ride and set it to a sped-up, techno version of “Stronger” by Britney Spears. “I am so muchmore than my love life,” I’m saying, and then a bunch of images flash on-screen: A woman—the one who made this post, I guess—lying in bed with her dog. Holding up a stein of beer at Oktoberfest. Lounging in a yellow inner tube in a river, arms linked with a bunch of friends in matching tubes. Perched on her CycleLove bike, a towel draped around her neck.
I’m going full #rayofsunshine this week and celebrating my beautiful, full, SINGLE GIRL existence!!!the caption says.
There appear to be thousands of posts like this. It is sweet, it is corny, and it iseverywhere.My face and voice, a battle cry for people to stop obsessing over their love lives and focus on all the wonderful things they have. Meanwhile, I’m skulking around with my head down, dwelling on the men who’ve wronged me.
Shit. What is Tracy going to say? She needs the drama between Caleb and me to die down, not go viral. I’ve created a mess and left her to clean it up on her own. Quickly, I post a clip from my hike, with the total distance and my time—fitness-focused, business as usual—to signal to her that I’m not encouraging this.
If I look at these posts any longer, I’m going to hurl my phone out the window. Instead I toss it across the bed and drop my forearm across my eyes. I’d like to nap, but my restless leg syndrome kicks in, and I toss and turn and stare at the framed poster on the wall, an incredibly detailed picture of aLast of Uszombie with fungus exploding out of its face.
Then the bedroom door opens, and a familiar voice shouts, “Quinnie!”
I squint. Logan is wearing a neon-orange beanie, aT-shirt, and a pair of joggers. He’s still sporting the ridiculous mustache I thought he’d tire of months ago.
I didn’t know this was exactly what I needed until right now.
“Hi!” I screech, and spring out of bed. He wraps me in a hug and lifts me off the ground, and I squeeze him back. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
“Same,” he says. “And can I just say that Caleb sucks, obviously, but you’re everywhere right now, and that’s pretty sweet.”
Stress ripples through me. “I’m not sure whether my boss will agree. It’s kind of freaking me out.”
He follows me out of the room. “Trust me, I get that. Everyone hates me right now. That’s why I’m lying low. Last week I went to the UT football game—the tailgate was awesome—and people in the crowd booed me.”
Logan became a controversial figure after he dumpedbothof his final love interests on the reality showThe Beach Houselast year instead of proposing to one. And then recently, he went on aBeach Housespin-off, avoided anything romantic, outplayed everyone, and won a bunch of money, and people are criticizing him for that too.
“What are your plans while you’re here?” I ask, heading for the stairs. “Maybe we can do dinner one night. I’m here for a few more days.”
