Page 25 of Night Shift

“He”—I scoff because it seems so absurd now—“invited me to his birthday party.”

“He what?”

“I shit you not. Just when I thought I understood men.”

“He invited you to his birthday party?” Nina repeats, stunned.

“It’s on Thursday, apparently. So, unfortunately, we won’t be attending, since we’ve already got plans. Harper, I’m pretty sure it’s your turn to pick the movie.”

But Nina isn’t ready to have our bimonthly argument about the objective ranking of Sandra Bullock’s filmography. “Kenny, please tell me you didn’t tell him you’re not coming.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“You—” Nina has to stop and collect herself. “Kendall, what the fuck?”

“The whole thing had bad vibes once the team arrived. I panicked and booked it out of there.”

I sprawl backward across the length of the couch. It creaks unflatteringly under my weight. I try not to take it personally. Nina walks over, her hands balled in fists on her hips, and looms above me in a menacingly maternal way.

“What’s our most hated trope?”

I frown. “Our what?”

“Answer the question. What do we always bitch about in books?”

“Slut-shaming?”

“No—I mean, yes, obviously, but I’m talking about a trope.”

“Surprise pregnancy?”

“Oh, God—” There’s fire in Nina’s eyes like she’s prepared to rant. “Yes, all right, we hate a lot of tropes. But I was talking about miscommunication, Kendall. We both hate when two stupid characters could solve all their problems by saying one honest thing. So, instead of assuming you know why a bunch of basketball players came into Starbucks—when you know for a fact that you and Harper once put on hoodies and fake moustaches to spy on me when I had that date with that girl from improv—why didn’t you ask Vincent what was up with them?”

Admittedly, Nina has a very good point.

So, yes. I fucked up. I fumbled. I goofed my first ever not-a-date Starbucks trip with a boy.

But if I trace out all that’s happened between Vincent and me, this feels like it could be the midpoint: that spot in the story where it all goes wrong and some sort of twist or plot device is needed to push the main characters back together again so they can fall in love properly. Maybe Vincent’s birthday party is our plot device. Maybe there’s still hope for me.

If nothing else, I know I want to kiss him again. Even if it all ends badly. I’m young—like he said. I can do casual. I can have fun. I can be okay with the idea of not getting a happy ever after if it means I get another shot at kissing Vincent.

Because more than anything, I want one last chance to feel that way again.

So, my choice is clear.

“All right,” I say with a nod. “What do we do?”

“We’re going to go to his birthday party,” Nina tells me, “and you’re going to get him alone, and you’re going to talk to him. You need to tell him, to his face, that you refuse to tutor him ever again and that you want to fuck him six ways to Sunday. Okay? Because he deserves to know where you really stand.”

I keep nodding. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“You look pale as fuck,” Harper says.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna throw up,” I croak. “We’ll pregame the party, though, right?”

Nina claps me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, champ. Keep up that nervous wreck energy. All my best going-out stories start with some anxiety and too many tequila shots. I have a good feeling about this.”

Weirdly enough—despite the knot in my stomach—I do too.

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