asks.
"Boom box?" Her brow knits in confusion.
He chuckles, again. "The music." He motions to the stereo setup in the back. "Boom box is something we used to say in the old days."
"How old are you turning?" She shoots him an I don't buy it expression. "You don't look forty."
"It's the plastic surgery. Does wonders," he says.
She laughs. "I can see that." She reaches out. Touches him. Her fingers on his jaw.
I have to press my palm into my thigh to keep from grabbing her.
"Well, give me his number," she says. "In case I need it."
"Oh no, I can't allow anyone to mar perfection." He smiles, pure charm.
She smiles back, endeared. Or pretending. Or trying to make me jealous.
Is she that petty?
Am I that desperate to believe I matter to her?
"I hope you like eighteen-year-olds singing about getting dumped," I say.
He nods. "My favorite genre." He presses his hands to his heart. "You know me. Love the pain."
I guess. He does have an ex he isn't over.
But the guy alternates between sunny and stormy like that. One day he's bouncing, flirting with every cute girl in sight. The next, he's hiding behind his hoodie and headphones, completely blocking out the world.
I always noticed, but I never through much of it. People are who they are.
They don't change.
Only I…
Fuck, I don't know.
"I better go with you." I reach for her reflexively. Try to stop myself. But I'm too slow, my hand skims her waist.
Her cheeks flame with anger.
I pull my hand to my side. "So you pick something good."
"No grunge, Ollie, we need to bring the mood up, not down." She blows Patrick a kiss. "Happy birthday."
"I hope that doesn't count as my birthday kiss," he says.
She smiles who do you take me for? Takes a half-step toward him. Places her hand on his chest. Rises to her tiptoes.
Kisses him.
His fucking cheek.
But still.
My fingers curl into fists. My heart thuds against my chest.
No fucking way.
Only there's every fucking way. I don't have a say. I've barely spoken to her. I don't have any right to tell her what to do.
She waves another goodbye to Patrick, turns, saunters to the stereo.
It's connected to his laptop. To some streaming service.
She bends over, places her palms on the table, focuses intently on her selection.
Fuck, she has a perfect ass. It's impossible to look away.
I try, but my eyes refuse. They stay on her as the music shifts—some popular singer who's on the radio twenty-four seven.
As she rises.
As she turns to me with a look of righteous indignation.
She is pissed. But that's not fair.
She's avoiding me too.
She had the chance to say I know we can't but I don't care.
And I—
Fuck, I'm the one who kissed her then stopped it. Of course, she's pissed.
I should let her go. Let her mingle. Stay the fuck away.
For a moment, I stay in place.
She holds my gaze, waiting for me to react, say something, somehow explain.
But I don't know what she wants me to explain. So I let her move forward. Let her brush past me on her way to the bar.
My body refuses to still. I follow her. Wrap my fingers around her wrist.
She looks up at me what the fuck?
"Let me fix you a drink," I say.
She motions to my hand.
I release her. "A Negroni, right?"
Her posture softens. "Here?"
Somehow, Patrick has everything I need. The guy only drinks Bud Light. What's he doing with Campari and Vermouth?
Is it shit I left?
A million things fill my head. A night in Mexico with Luna. Daisy's Birthday Eve. I fixed a dozen classic cocktails. So my sister could try everything.
She didn't like this one. Too bitter. Too alcoholic.
She favored Holden's drink. Kentucky Mule. Ginger beer and bourbon. All sugar and spice. Like the chai lattes she drinks every morning.
But Luna starts her day with black coffee. Of course she loved the Negroni. The only desserts she'll consume are eighty-five percent dark chocolate and coffee ice cream.
Everything else is too sweet.
"Oliver?" she asks.
Right. I'm fixing her a drink. Like normal.
Things can be normal. For once. "We need a glass."
"This is fine." She motions to one of the red plastic cups.
I shoot her the really look.
"It's a party."
"You deserve the best."
She nods true. "You're finally making sense."
"Does Patrick really think you're a goddess?"
"Excuse you?"
"I'm not saying you're not—" I motion to the kitchen. It's around the corner. This is a one-bedroom apartment. A big den, a hallway kitchen, two doors.
"You're digging your own grave," she says.
Probably. "You are a goddess."
"Obviously."
I actually chuckle.