is his boss’s fortieth birthday party and banners surround the room. YOU’RE OVER THE HILL, TERRY! I wish that it could say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SARAH!
“It’s open bar for wine or beer,” Andrew says.
Crap. What’s open bar?
“Whatever you’re having,” I say.
“I’m having a Coke because I’m driving. I hear the wine is pretty good,” he says.
I wonder how many other decisions he makes every day because of the accident. I immediately wonder how many decisions I have made because other people have pressured me in my life. I don’t like it, but I think people are more influential on me than I’d care to admit.
“You okay?” Andrew asks.
“What?” I say, and Andrew places a couple of dollars in the tip jar.
“You’re frowning.”
“No, I’m totally fine,” I say and shake myself out of it. On a positive note I figured out that “open bar” means free.
I take the glass of wine and sniff the contents. I’ve never had alcohol before and hopefully Andrew can’t tell.
What would Scarlett do? Scarlett would have some wine and relax. She wouldn’t immediately be able to recount the police officer’s statistics when he came to school to discuss drug and alcohol abuse. Even though that is exactly what is humming through my mind.
I sip.
“Ugh,” I say and pull away. “The ethanol alcohol ratio is really very high. At least eight percent. Like sour grape juice. Why do people drink this crap?”
Oops.
He breaks into that same big teddy bear laugh that I heard on the phone the other night.
I clear my throat and toss my hair back. “I mean it’s a bit more bitter than I realized. I’m a beer girl myself.” Not that I ever had beer either.
“Wow,” he says. “That is exactly why I like you.”
“What? What is?”
“You, Star Girl.” He pauses then adds, “You.”
Andrew’s hand links around my waist and we enter into the fray of the party.
He asks me to dance and we do. I keep trying to sneak a peek at his tattoo, but his shirt is covering it. Our bodies fit and Andrew can definitely move to the beat. He doesn’t make me feel like I should worry what I look like when the dance floor is packed with people. But, either way, after forty-five minutes or so of dancing, I should check out my hair and makeup.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Andrew. A line of sweat rolls down my back as I walk down the hallway to the ladies’ room. The satin of the dress moves softly against my body, and my hair is coming out of its updo in long tendrils that curl on my shoulders. I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I feel gorgeous. This is exactly what I needed after the debacle at Viola’s.
I come out of the stall a couple minutes later and check my makeup. There’s a girl at the mirror already. She’s got a black bob and bright blue eyes. Her sundress is a pretty, deep green. She didn’t do it up for tonight, like me.
“I like your dress,” I say and open my little bag.
She puckers her mouth and applies a lip gloss.
“Thanks,” she says with a quick glance at me. “Don’t I know you?” she asks.
Oh no.
“Yeah, you work at the Lobster Pot, don’t you? I heard tips suck there this summer,” the girl says.
“No. I don’t work there. I—”
She blots her lips together and clicks her purse closed.
“Not like last summer,” she says, talking over me. “We were raking it in at the Blue Oyster. Still early, though.” She reaches into her bra and hikes up her boobs to show more cleavage. “See ya,” she says and blows past me.
“See ya,” I say, and once she leaves I lift my boobs up just like she did. Yikes, I don’t think they need to be pushed up any more. I push them back down and leave the bathroom to join Andrew. When I sit down at the table of Andrew’s friends, he immediately takes my hand. One of his coworkers, Susie, leans across the table toward me.
“Sarah, is it? Our friend Andrew here is the best secret keeper on all of Cape Cod. He won’t tell us anything about you.”
He wipes his brow with a napkin; we’re both sweaty from dancing. “She’s going to MIT in the fall,” Andrew says. “There—I told you something.”
My gut tightens to hear the lie from Andrew’s mouth. I wish we could