bustling sounds of the bar fill my head as I enter, people laughing and Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” on the jukebox. Fitting. With tables on one side and pool tables and an arcade on the other, the place is decorated like an old-fashioned diner with black and white floors and red stools at the bar. Vintage cars on neon signs blink on the walls.
Playing cool and acting as blasé as possible, I take off my coat and drape it over my arm. Tiny beads of sweat form on my face, and I chalk it up to the stares of everyone in the place. They aren’t looking at me, per se, but they are watching the door, waiting for the football team to arrive. With a deep breath, I inhale the greasy, yummy smell of fried food. My stomach growls, and I tell it to chill out. There’ll be no messy cheesy fries with loads of ketchup and ranch on the side tonight. My black mohair sweater dress is too pretty…and this is business.
“There she is! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a person we haven’t seen in these parts in ages. The elusive Charisma Rossi! Give her a hand, y’all!” The announcement comes from Margo, the cardigan-wearing, champagne-drinking president of my sorority.
Color floods my cheeks. “Stop that. Attention is what I don’t need right now.” I scan the room with lowered eyes.
She straightens the headband on her shiny, straight blonde hair and gives me a pointed look. “He isn’t here, Charm,” she says, her Southern accent sweet as iced tea. “But he will be.”
“Who isn’t here?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for it. Nice outfit, by the way. Bold with the red stilettos—makes quite a statement.” She arches an elegant yet somehow condescending brow as she hooks her arm in mine and tugs me toward the front of the bar. Normally, I wouldn’t be so acquiescent to her telling me what to do, but she’s taller than me, and I use her as a shield, hunkering down next to her as we walk.
She stops at a big table right out in the open with a clear view of the arcade and pool tables.
Great, just great—right in the middle for everyone to see.
I sigh. “What time did you arrive to score a front-row seat?”
“Chi-Os get the best. I aim to please.”
Margo is a Type A tornado on her way to Yale Law. We’re nothing alike, but we manage…mostly. She thinks I’m a little wild, and I think she has a stick up her ass. I like her anyway.
My eyes scour the bar again, and I straighten my shoulders. Be carefree. Be nonchalant. BE THE OLD YOU. Right. Only, there’s a pinch on my right big toe from my three-inch heels, and I end up standing on one foot like a flamingo to ease the pain. To make matters worse, both arms itch, and I glare at the fluffy fabric on my sleeves. It was a big mistake to wear this, yet I know where my head was when I picked out the figure-hugging dress. I wanted to look hot. I wanted him to see me, take a good, long, second look, and wish he still had me.
“You’re scratching yourself. A lot.” Margo squints at me.
“Dude, I’m fine.”
But I’m not. My skin, from the top of the neckline to the hem, feels like a million ants have invaded. Mohair, why you killing me? I’m mid-scratch, trying to be discreet as I reach a spot on my neck, when a group of rambunctious partiers pushes past me to get to the pool tables. I stumble in the process, and someone’s cold beer spills down the front of my once awesome but now terrible dress.
Crap.
Double crap.
Well, shit.
I stare down at my wet chest and let out a wail. At least the coldness makes the itchiness feel a tiny bit better.
The guy in question utters a half-mumbled apology and takes off for the pool tables.
“How rude. By the way, I can see your nipples,” Margo says as she takes a sip from her champagne flute.
“Perfect—a flamingo with erect nipples,” I mutter.
He isn’t even here yet and this night already sucks.
2
While blotting my dress with napkins Margo pushed into my hands, I take in our group and see Connor Dimpleshitz, Margo’s man. He’s chatting with some of his nerd friends, and I say that because out of the four guys, three wear identical Regional Chess Champions shirts. Digging up resolve, I flash