Page 77 of Fun at Parties
“It’s about a mile. Car or walk?” Nate asks.
Logan’s already been at the club for an hour, maybe more. Every minute is crucial. My silver boots aren’t made for running, but a car will take at least a few minutes to arrive—
Somebody jostles me. Suddenly, I’m enveloped in a mass of bodies clothed in various pink fabrics. Satin and sequins and lace and chiffon, with one white-clad figure somewhere in front of me coming in and out of view, tequila and a mix of perfumes filling my nose.Bachelorettes.
“Sorry!” says Sequins as she stumbles.
“Sorry!” a bunch of them repeat.
I can barely see the top of Nate’s head on the other sideof the group, and I try to extricate myself as they try to move out of my way and somehow we all get even more entangled. A strand of my hair is caught on one of Sequins’s sequins, and I yelp as she pulls away.
“Sorry! Oh, shit. What a mess. We’re in a hurry, and we’re a little bit drunky-drunk.” She stops so I can free myself. “Lainey Wilson is playing a surprise set at the Lilypad and we want to try to get in! Or at least stand outside so we can listen.”
I comb out my tangled hair with my fingers. “That’s so cool.”
“Yeah, Maggie’s obsessed,” Sequins says. Maggie is the bride, I assume, who’s currently ten feet away, adjusting the ankle strap on one of her heels. “Do you like Lainey? You want a ride? We have room.”
“Where is it?” I ask. Not because I want to go, although I like her music just fine. If the Lilypad is anywhere near the club, a quick trip in somebody else’s limo would be the exact stroke of luck we need.
“Printers Alley,” says Lace, who appears nearly sober and is juggling three separate handbags. “We’re over there.” She points toward the corner, which I can’t quite see.
“Nate,” I call, and with the bachelorettes funneling toward their car, he can finally make his way over to me. “The place they’re going is near the club and they offered us a ride.”
He looks skeptical, but it’s obviously the fastest option, so he nods. Besides, it’s only one mile. How bad can it be? We follow them to the corner, but when I get there, I stop short.
Ah. This is not a stroke of luck. It’s a joke from whoever’s in charge of the universe.
There’s only one vehicle in sight, and it’s not a limo or a bus. It’s one of those party bike taxis that looks like a tractor with a table attached to the back and a bunch of seats around it, each with its own set of pedals. This thing is definitely slower than an Uber. It may also be slower than walking, given how I expect these girls to pedal in their heels and their current state of intoxication.
“No.” Nate steps back. The bachelorettes are clambering onto their seats, and Sequins waves us forward.
I approach the driver, a bored-looking scruffy guy in a windbreaker. “How fast can this thing go?”
He cracks his gum and squints down at me, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. This man hasseenthings. “Top speed is about twelve miles an hour, but nobody does that. With this crew you’re probably looking at three to five.”
“And the pedaling really controls it? You can’t just make us go faster?”
He gives me a look of disgust at this apparent insult to his profession, so I drop my head and skulk away. We need to be at the club thirty minutes ago. These girls need to be at the Lilypad now. Every second counts.
“Come on.” I drag Nate over to the two available seats, which are across from each other at the front.
He glances at the woman next to him, Satin, who’s attempting to reattach an uncooperative false eyelash. “How is this going to work?” he asks.
“I’m a professional,” I say. “If I can’t get us there fast, I should be fired.” The angle of the pedals relative to theseat is different from what I’m used to, but I’ll work with what we’ve got. I shift around until I find the position that feels the least weird and take a centering breath.
Before I finish exhaling, we’re off. I mean, barely. Nate and I pedal, and some of the girls clumsily cycle their legs, but they’re also singing and talking about tomorrow’s brunch plans and passing around a flask. Chiffon is facedown on the table with her head buried in the crooks of her arms, possibly asleep.
I’m firing my glutes as best I can as I try to get us going faster, but it’s not having much of an impact. This is meant to be a group activity, and the only way to build speed is for all of us to do it together.
“We’re not going to make it,” someone moans. “It’s going to be too crowded by the time we get there.”
“It’s going to beoverby the time we get there,” someone else complains, as multiple pedestrians and a dachshund on a leash walk past us.
“It’s okay, guys,” says the bride, waving one floppy arm. “I want to see Lainey, but maybe it’s not meant to be.”
No.My inner motor revs. We need to get to Logan, and we will get to Logan. They need to see Lainey Wilson, and we are going to make that happen. All of us.
“Hey, everyone,” I say.
