Page 27 of Fun at Parties
I have no response. My best guess is that I’ll head for Utah alone while Nate flies back to Los Angeles. For some reason, even though we should’ve gone our separate ways two days ago, that prospect feels like a loss instead of arelief.See,I tell myself.You can adapt to anything with the right mindset. You’ve already adapted to this.
I never do manage to fall asleep.
After my failed nap, I do twenty minutes of intervals on the creaky treadmill at the hotel gym. When I’m done, I post a clip of myself running, listing the details of my workout and captioning itOutrunning my exes. Easy.
Then I head back to the Cosmopolitan to find the stretch of retail shops tucked near a bunch of trendy restaurants. In the middle sits a multilevel bar inside a giant crystal chandelier. There’s a fancy food court selling things like truffle nachos and pork belly BLTs, so I order the cheapest dinner I can find—a rice bowl from the Momofuku fast-food stall—and scarf it down.
The pickings are slim on the sale rack at the only store that sells club-appropriate clothing, but I manage to find a mini slip dress with delicate straps and a drapey neckline in my size. It’s blacker and skimpier than the candy-colored casual stuff I normally wear, but this is Vegas. I try not to wonder what Nate will think of it, but my stomach flips anyway.
Before heading back to my room, I take a quick glance in the swimwear shop, just to make sure I’m not missing a cheaper option there that’s not an actual bathing suit. When I spot the white oversized T-shirt–style cover-up with orange block letters across the front, bordered by rhinestones, an idea pops into my head. Without giving myself time to think about it, I grab it and pay.
Back in my room, I shower quickly. There’s enoughtime for hair or makeup, but not both. Praise be whichever nepo baby popularized the slicked-down center-parted bun. Thanks to her, I have five extra minutes after swiping on a dewy highlighter and a serviceable flick of eyeliner.
I pull on the cover-up, put a hand on my hip and cock my head, and snap a quick photo in the bathroom mirror.DUMP HIM, the orange letters urge. Miraculously, my uncertain half smile looksknowinginstead. I post it.
Confident that Tracy and the marketing team will be satisfied for the moment, I swap out the cover-up for my dress and slide my feet into a pair of low-heeled strappy pink sandals that don’t irritate my Band-Aid-covered blister.
As I assess the final result in the mirror, sweat dampens my palms, and my heart starts to race. I think I might be nervous. And not about tonight’s mission, but about what Nate’s going to think of the way I look. Which is ridiculous, because he’s seen me in everything from pajamas to a bathing suit.
But he’s never seen me in something like this. A dress that’s sexy on purpose, that skims my body in a way that’s supposed to make people jealous that it’s touching me and they’re not.
I check the placement of my sticky silicone bra cups and head for the door. It’s party time.
Chapter 9
I think I look goodtonight—until Nate and I spot each other in the Cosmopolitan lobby. His eyes barely settle on my face and body before darting away, and he proceeds to thoroughly study everything in the room except me. I look down to make sure I haven’t suffered a wardrobe malfunction.
Nope. Guess I really just don’t do it for him.
“Ready?” His voice is clipped. He’s wearing a blue oxford shirt and swim trunks.Thighs,my mind screams, because they areout. These are a few inches of his body I haven’t seen in a while, where his knees give way to muscle definition and skin covered in golden hair.
I try to look away from him, since he has no interest in looking at me, and smooth out the hem of my dress. My heart is sinking at an agonizingly slow pace. I don’t know why I still do this to myself. He’s checked me out before, and sometimes I see attraction there, like this morning in Tahoe. But it doesn’t matter. Even if he had a weakness for tiny black slip dresses, it wouldn’t matter. He’s neverreally wanted me, and I need to permanently bury whatever it is inside me that continues to hope otherwise.
“We’re dressed for two completely different events,” I say. “Actually, no.You’redressed for two completely different events. I’m dressed for a third, separate event.”
He tugs on the collar of his shirt. “The dress code was confusing. Is it apoolparty or a poolparty?”
Turns out it’s both. There’s a big dance floor lit up in shades of blue, with a fog machine and giant TV screens behind the DJ booth flashing trippy geometric patterns. Bars and lounge areas surround the pool. People are dancing and drinking, both in and out of the water. Next to the steps perches a woman dressed as a mermaid, her tail woven with lights.
Somehow both of our outfits work here, and mine feels less skimpy than it did when I tried it on. People are outfitted in swimwear with varying degrees of ass coverage. Shirts fully buttoned and completely open and everything in between. Dresses both sequined and breezy.
It’s loud. It’s crowded. It smells like so many things—an entire department store of perfume and cologne, plus liquor. My head immediately starts pounding.
Our plan for tonight is not elaborate. We’ll walk around, look for Logan and his friends, and check our phones periodically to see if they post anything from the club. After Nate corrals Logan, I’m hoping for some time with him and his friends, who have hundreds of thousands of followers. They won’t mind a few photos or a video with me. Something playful. I wonder how much I’d have to pay that mermaid to let me borrow her tail?
Before we start searching, I should film something quick, so I have a backup option. But that means I have to ask Nate to help, regardless of how ridiculous he thinks it is.
Before I can work up the courage, he nods at the goofy-looking shark floats in the pool. “Those things are Logan magnets. We should keep an eye on them.”
“You could get in the water.”
His nostrils flare. “There is literally nothing that could get me in that water.”
I roll my eyes. “What if you see Logan in there?”
“We’ll fish him out with a net.”
“Pool snob,” I say. “Hey, real quick. Take a video of me? Please?”
