racerback top. Surely Josh would think I looked pretty. Surely that’s why he invited me.
I pushed open the bar’s door without noticing the bouncer murmuring at me from the side, and I had to back out to hand him my ID. Then back inside and the music crescendoed, something hip and bass-y, and I took a few steps in and scanned the crowd, sure I’d find him soon, sure I could do this without shrinking into myself and hunching over my phone.
I spotted someone from behind, talking animatedly, and it looked more or less like him, and anyway, how many men with thick wavy black hair could there be in this bar, and anyway, I looked hot, who wouldn’t want to talk to me? I tapped him on the shoulder and he stopped talking and turned around and it was him. We smiled at each other and he stood up to give me a hug with a kiss on the cheek, then kept his arm strung across my shoulders as he introduced his friends, a pretty black woman with a sculpted ’fro and a surprisingly tall Asian guy with a good handshake, what a hip and casually diverse crowd. I forgot their names right away but it didn’t matter because we were already hanging out anyway.
“You look like you need a drink,” Josh said, and he was right, I did, and he guided me over to the bar and asked what I was having and I said, “Jameson on the rocks,” knowing it was the cool thing to order, and he looked impressed and paid for it even though I must be the one who makes so much more money, although I don’t know, people with knowledge of 3-D technology are probably more in demand than anachronistic print staffers. We made small talk by the bar as we waited for my drink, my wit on full display this time, and he smiled and toasted my glass with his beer when it arrived.
We stayed for three rounds at Jimmy Rhoda’s, the crowd getting thicker and steamier around us, and then someone checked their watch and said we should probably go to Rocco’s. Josh asked if that was cool and I nodded, smiling, and we all squashed into a cab, me for some reason in the middle but it was fine. Now the cab was cruising to Ridgewood, and Queen came on the radio and I pointed out we were listening to Queen on the way to Queens, and no one else knew the words but at least they all laughed and let the song play out, sing it Mr. Mercury.
Rocco’s apartment was like a nice place with shitty furniture clustered here and there, a big black marble kitchen island piled high with beer and mixers, and we squished onto old couches drinking wet, cold cans of PBR while someone fiddled with the music on the wireless speakers that were scattered around so the music was coming from everywhere. Josh sat close and fetched me drinks whenever I wanted a new one and then I noticed a little white plastic bag, like the kind from a jewelry store, making its way around the circle and people were passing it with a teeny tiny spoon, dollhouse-size, and I squinted and focused even though I saw two spoons posing as one and realized it was cocaine, getting closer, and unlike Alex, unlike most of my friends in Calhoun, I’d never done it, so I probably shouldn’t start now.
“I’m fine,” I said, in what I hoped was a casual tone, waving my hand as it passed me by, and nobody said anything or seemed to mind, so it was fine.
There was a woman on my left with cool sleeve tattoos and I asked her about them and she was cool, too, an artist who’d designed some of them herself, and I asked her how old she was and she said thirty-one and that’s only two years younger than me, so I felt better about that, too. We talked about a ton of things; I don’t remember what, but we really liked each other.
Then someone announced it was time to go to the party and I was confused because I thought we were at the party already, but apparently this was just a pregame even though it was ungodly late, and Rocco’s roommate was dancing burlesque at a warehouse party or something, and he could get us all in, so we were going to