Page 32 of Fun at Parties
As we pass the bar, we run into Rosie and Camila. Rosie raises her arms in the air. “We saw them!” she shouts. “I got a picture!”
There it is on her phone. The two girls with Logan andhis friends, the clear blue water behind them, all smiling and covered in a sheen of nightclub sweat.
“No way,” I say. “How long ago?”
“Fifteen minutes? They weren’t here long. They came in, had one drink, posed for a few pictures, and left.”
I break out of Nate’s grip and shove my purse into his hands. “I can find them.”
“Yes!” Rosie cheers.
I take off, shouting, “Thanks, girls!” as I go.
I am fast. I am athletic. The chafing on my thighs has started to heal. Fifteen minutes is nothing. For all I know, they could still be standing by that giant chandelier bar outside the club entrance, chatting with fans.
I slip through the crowd. Behind me somewhere, Nate yells, “Quinn, wait!”
But I can’t. Instead, I pick up the pace, glancing back over my shoulder to wave him off.
That’s when I fall into the pool.
Chapter 10
I wake with my limbstwisted, my face smashed into an unfamiliar pillow. My mouth is dry and sour, I have a stomachache that reaches my toes, and I’m wearing…a bathrobe? It’s thick terrycloth and soaked in sweat. My brain tries valiantly to situate itself, but with the throbbing headache, it’s a little difficult. I roll over and open my eyes.
An unnaturally dark room with the curtains drawn tightly. White numbers on the clock telling me it’s ten in the morning. The outline of a TV on the wall, hung next to a large picture of a blob in a gold frame. This bed has a fluffy comforter that doesn’t reek of cigarettes, which means this isnotmy hotel room. In fact, on the other side of this bed, across a wall of pillows, is a lump of a person, fast asleep. Nate.
Why the hell am I in bed with Nate? Coherent thought may be too much for me right now, but panic isn’t. I scan the room wildly, searching for more clues about what happened last night. When I spot Nate’s waterlogged sneakers sitting atop a towel in the corner, it comes back to me.
We did not find Logan.
I fell in the pool.
Before that, wetalked,and the things he said stunned me. Remembering them now, mostly sober, knocks me flat. Or it would, if I weren’t already flat.
I must’ve slept here because of—shit—the pool incident. In my memory, that part of the night flashes in fragments like a strobe light. Feeling the splash as Nate jumped in beside me. My screeching “He’s a trained lifeguard!” as he helped me find my footing, and “You’ve got a handful of ass!” repeatedly as he carried me out of the club. Trying to explain to him that my actual hotel room is across the street.
Stumbling into his bathroom to floss my teeth, because I never miss that step, and loudly insisting that I couldn’t go to bed without—oh god—myDUMP HIMT-shirt. Ordering room service fries, which are sitting untouched on a tray in the corner, because I probably passed out before they arrived. Nate presenting me with water and ibuprofen at my bedside like my hangover prevention nurse.
This hangover is not the kind that could’ve been dodged with pre-bedtime treatment, though. I haven’t been drunk in a long time, so it feels like a new kind of awful. So awful I can’t yet digest the significance of what Nate said last night.
He did want me. I wasn’t wrong about us. And while I felt rejected, he felt like I’d been dismissive of his fears. I try to reassess the last two years in light of those facts, but my head is spinning and pounding at the same time.
There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, so I gulp it down with another ibuprofen and drag myself to the bathroom for the longest pee of my life and a shower that does nothing to alleviate the odor of shame emanating from my pores.
I need more rest. Instead of the heavy bathrobe, I slip back into my dress, which Nate thoughtfully draped over the shower curtain rod to dry overnight. When I tiptoe back into the room, he’s still asleep.
If I try to go outside into the Vegas sunshine, I won’t make it across the street without puking, so I sneak back under the covers on my side of the bed. It’s hard to settle down with Nate’s steady breathing so close to me. Of course, it was a lot closer last night in the club, when he set his mouth against my ear to tell me he used to want me like I wanted him.
He was afraid. And fair enough. I’m sure he felt vindicated when he got back to L.A. and found out I was with Caleb after all. Did I do it to spite him? Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t think spite is in my repertoire. Moving on with someone else, someone who was available and clearly interested, seemed like the fastest way from devastation back to happiness. Trying to be happy, nowthat’sin my repertoire.
The part of last night I keep coming back to, despite my spotty memory, is how it felt to have him carry me out of the club. One hand on my thigh, the other on my hip, my upper body thrown over his shoulder. My dress soaked and clinging to me, clinging to him as he moved. There was care in the way he held me—not just becausehe wastaking careof me, but also like he was trying to be respectful. I wonder if he was hyperaware of my body, the way I’m hyperaware of his now.
He turns over, and his shoulder pokes out from under the comforter. I realize he’s not wearing a shirt, and it’s all I can think about until my eyes fall shut.
When I wake again, Nate is awake next to me, rubbing his eyes. I peek at him over the pillow barrier and try not to budge from where I’m cocooned under the covers. He moves a leg, and the mattress shifts.
He somehow senses that I’m conscious. “Hey,” he says.
