Page 47 of Fun at Parties
We never used to touch each other like this. An unspoken rule built on our own tentativeness for the longest time. But now, after the roof deck and this game, it’s like the rule has been obliterated, and we’re pretending like all this contact is normal. The dam of physical touch has been broken, and I never want the flow to stop.
I am the worst Single Girl Quinn. Happier than I’ve been in months after one weird, wonderful day with a man—and forty of his best friend’s best friends. What if it could be like this every day? Not that I want my happiness to be dependent on one relationship.Doesn’t matter. He’s leaving.
Yeah,a more instinctive part of me murmurs.Doesn’t matter. He’s leaving.And I hear it in a completely different way.
What’s happening between us tonight doesn’t matter. It’s not hurting anyone, and we both know this trip ends with us going our separate ways. He’s leaving, but he hasn’t left yet.
We fly through the course, and our togetherness is all I feel. We communicate a strategy for the balance beam in two words: “go” from me and “hand” from him. When I hit that damn ottoman off-kilter, he reacts before I do, wrenching me upright. Near the end, he hesitates. I squeeze his arm once, and he flies to the finish line.
When I land a few moments after him, we stand toe-to-toe on Kyla’s linen cushion, our faces so close we’re lucky we didn’t break each other’s noses. He pulls me in by the hips to steady me, and I feel the muscle in his cheek contract against the corner of my mouth as he smiles.
“Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds!” Kyla shouts. Five seconds ahead of Michael Embry. All these people I don’t know but am pretty sure I love explode into cheers, and my insides crackle before winding tight when Nate cups my chin.
“You’re my hero.” He feeds the words into my mouth from a breath away.
Nothing we’ve done so far has been damning. We can wake up tomorrow and decline to acknowledge tonight’s greedy touches, like we did in Vegas. It would be easy to pretend it was all friendship and playing to win.
My stomach twists at the prospect of this night and these feelings fading into nothing. Nate’s leaving, but we’re together now, and I want that on the record. When he ducks his chin to laugh, I press forward until my lips crash into his.
It’s not exactly a kiss at first. I go in too hard, too clumsy. My aim isn’t great, so my mouth stamps the corner that curves down when he smiles. His lips part as he inhales in surprise. And probably confusion, given that what I’ve done could easily be interpreted as a misplaced peck on the cheek.
I nip the edge of his bottom lip. Nobody does that by mistake. It’s soft and pliant between my teeth and he makes a little noise I want to replay on my deathbed someday. His hands slide from my chin to the sides of my face, his thumbs framing my cheekbones. He angles my face toward his in one precise, determined motion.Like this,it says, and he kisses me properly.
My pulse fires to the rhythm of a Vegas strobe light. My body floods with the hot, overwhelming sunshine of a Tahoe mountain meadow. His mouth moves against mine in deep, hungry strokes, and when he lets go of my face to grip my waist and haul me closer, his hands tremble. After our dance floor truth-telling session, I don’t think I believed he ever wanted me like I wanted him, but now I might.
I curl my hand inside the neckline of his T-shirt andpull, fastening us together in one more way, feeling a stitch pop under my fingertips. Good. Even if this never happens again, let him think of me every time he sees this stretched-out crewneck.
Dimly, I recognize that the people around us are hooting and whistling, but we don’t stop. As his tongue slides into my mouth, I catch the faint taste of mint and raspberry-lime seltzer. When I drag the nails of my free hand down the back of his head, he slides a hand down to squeeze my ass. I laugh into his mouth at the audacity, and then realize that if we only get one of these, I want to know what his ass feels like too.
Watching us grope each other’s butts is a bridge too far for this crew. Somebody gets a slow clap going and we break apart, but instead of facing the room, he buries his face in my hair and huffs. “Quinn,” he rasps, his voice equal parts horniness, humor, and frustration. My eyes land on Livvie and Kyla, both of whom throw me a double thumbs-up.
People pull us in separate directions to congratulate us on the win. It takes time to extricate ourselves from the party, lollipop bouquet prize in hand, dignity left behind on the linen cushion. By the front door, I squeeze Livvie and Kyla tight and thank them. Michael Embry gets a high five from me and gives Nate a sullen head nod. Before we go, I tell Amber we had her gift shipped to her house and type a reminder into my phone to find her registry information in the morning.
Our Uber is already idling at the curb when we step outside. The driver rolls down the window. “There’s a car seat in the back. I can move it.”
Nate shakes his head and loops around to the passenger side. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take the front.” A true-crime podcast plays on the ride while Nate stares out the window and uncertainty engulfs me like a black hole.
When we get back to the carriage house, I need to say something. Not talking things out has historically served us poorly. But first I need to decide what to say.
I got carried away.
I got carried away, but I don’t regret it.
I got carried away, but I don’t regret it, and I think we should do more. Right now. Because you’re moving and we’re not right for each other but we’re here, and we want this.
As the car slows to a stop, my heartbeat speeds up. A spontaneous kiss is one thing. Making a conscious decision to spend the night together would be another. But I’ve already humiliated myself in front of Nate a million times on this trip. The worst thing that can happen is him saying no, and that’s something I’ve already survived once. I can handle it again. I can handle anything.
In my head, I visualize myself slapping the brick wall at the CycleLove studio.Guts. Honestly, it feels less cool from a distance.
We walk up the driveway, past the main house. The air smells like those pretty yellow flowers in the garden, and Nate’s brow is furrowed, his expression simultaneously vacant and focused. It feels like miles to the carriage house, but I don’t speak yet. Better to wait until we get inside, past the finicky keypad on the front door.
Nate punches in the code, hesitating for a millisecond before pressing the last button. The light flashes green, and the sound of the lock disengaging unlacessomething inside me. I need it all again: his hands on me, the noise he made when we kissed, the blissful whiteout feeling I experienced during that moment in his Vegas hotel room.
Tonight’s party made this happen. With all that noise and mayhem surrounding us, it felt natural to turn toward each other.
The lamp on the console table provides dim light. I can barely make out the shadow of my plant on the kitchen hutch across the room. My bed is up the stairs to the left, and Nate’s pullout couch is to the right. It’s now or never.
Nate hovers in the in-between zone too, his posture stiff. “Quinn.” His voice is low and gritty, like it hasn’t been used in days, which is fitting since the walk up the driveway felt about that long. “Why did you kiss me?”
