“Jeez, Anna. Are you okay? How much have you had to drink?” Mer asks.
I wave my hand.Three fingers. Four fingers. Five. Something like that.
“Dance with me,” I say to Étienne. He’s surprised, but he hands Mer his beer. She fires me a dirty look but I don’t care. He’s more my friend than hers. I grab his hand and pul him onto the floor. The song changes to something even rowdier, and I let it take me over. Étienne fol ows my body with his eyes.
He finds the rhythm, and we move together.
The room spins around us. His hair is sweaty. My hair is sweaty. I grab him closer, and he doesn’t protest. I writhe down his body to the beat. When I
come up, his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly parted.
We match each other thrust to thrust. The band launches into a new song. Louder and louder. The crowd is in a frenzy. Étienne screams the chorus with
the rest of them. I don’t know the words—even if I spoke French, I doubt I could make out the lyrics over the roar—al I know is this band is SO MUCH
BETTER than the Penny Dreadfuls. HA!
We dance until we can’t dance any longer. Until we’re gasping for breath and our clothes are soaked and we can hardly stand up. He leads me to the
bar, and I grip onto it with everything left in me. He fal s next to me. We’re laughing. I’m crying, I’m laughing so hard.
A strange girl shouts at us in French.
“Pardon?” Étienne turns around, and his eyes widen in shock when he sees her. The girl has sleek hair and a hard face. She keeps yel ing, and I pick
out a few choice swearwords. He replies in French, and I can tell by his stance and tone of voice that he’s defending himself. The girl shouts again, gives him a final sneer, then spins away and pushes her way back through the pulsing mass.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Shite. Shite.”
“Who was that? What happened?” I lift my hair to get some air on my neck. I’m hot. It’s so hot in here.
Étienne pats his pockets, panicked. “Fuck. Where’s my phone?”
I fumble in my purse and pul out my cel . “USE MINE!” I shout over the music.
He shakes his head. “I can’t use yours. She’l know. She’l f**king know.” He pul s at his hair, and before I know it, he’s making his way for the door. I’m on his heels. We burst through the club into the cold night.
Snowflakes are fal ing. I don’t believe it. It never snows in Paris! And it’s snowing on my birthday! I stick out my tongue, but I don’t feel them hit. I stick it out farther. He’s stil searching frantical y for his phone. Final y, he finds it in a coat pocket. He cal s someone, but they must not pick up, because he screams.
I jump backward. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on? I’l tell you what’s going on. That girl in there, the one who wanted to kil me? That’s El ie’s roommate. And she saw us dancing, and she’s cal ed her, and she’s told her all about it.”
“So what? We were just dancing. Who cares?”
“Who cares? El ie’s freaked out about you as it is! She hates it when we’re together, and now she’l think something’s going on—”
“She hates me?” I’m confused.What did I do to her? I haven’t even seen her in months.
He screams again and kicks the wal , then howls in pain. “FUCK!”
“Calm down! God, Étienne, what’s with you?”
He shakes his head, and his expression goes blank. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.” He runs a hand through his damp hair.
What was supposed to end? Her or me?