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1
BEE
“To your triumphant return,”Morgan cheers, throwing back her double vodka with the confidence of an influencer with a brand deal.
I sip mine like a coward. Shots hit different now that I’m twenty-eight, a fact no one warned me about.
Slinking home after five years away doesn’t help. The alcohol burns, but I ignore the way my gut side-eyes me. Sometime today, the damn thing set itself to a nervous spin cycle, and now I can’t turn it off.
As returns go, it’s far from triumphant. More like sad and sheepish (title of my autobiography). But, as my best friend, Morgan is always ready to be my cheerleader, especially if it involves cheap shots and seventeen different remixes of “Bitch Better Have My Money.”
“It’s been boring as hell without you.” Morgan holds her hand out for my glass, and I down the rest of my shot with a wince. “And I know you weren’t doing anything fun while you were away.”
I can only watch as she bounds back toward the bar with our empty shot glasses.
Morgan is beautiful. Effortlessly so. Long, dark hair to match her long legs and perfect pout. I can’t compare. Taming my mousy brown hair is a lost cause (as usual, my bangs refuse to get on board with anything I want them to do). I don’t even want to know how my mascara looks, whereas Morgan’s smoky eye is still portrait perfect.
As she gleefully passes me another shot, my stomach gives me the finger. “You’re so lucky your agent didn’t fire you. I thought you were joking. I never thought you’d actually do it.”
That makes two of us.
“Don’t remind me,” I groan. Thinking about it hurts more than tomorrow’s hangover will.
Morgan slings an arm around my shoulders. “If forgetting is what you want, then we’re definitely going to need more drinks.”
It might be freezing outside, but the late February chill feels far off as we dance in a heaving pile of sweaty bodies. Even the backs of my knees are damp.
I wonder if the travel-size hand soap in my purse could help me slip and slide my way out of here.
“I know flirting isn’t your strong suit, but at least I’m here to make sure you don’t go home with a loser. Did you ever meet up with that journalist you told me about?”
No. “I’ve been working.”
It’s the truth, if the truth was aCosmopiece titled “Please Don’t Make Me Get On a Dating App Again.”
Have I been working?
Yes.
Did I also frequently use work to avoid dating?
No comment.
“You just need to do what I do. There’s not a man in here I couldn’t catch. You just have to make them want it.”
If a day ever comes when Morgan doesn’t get her man, I’ll be on the lookout for signs of the impending apocalypse. I’ve been trying to be more like her since high school, but this little lamb has never been able to make the wolf costume work.
Clearly, my lack of enthusiasm shows, because she rolls her eyes and drags me to the dance floor. “Come on. You didn’t come home to hide in the corner. Let’s dance.”
She’s more right than she realizes.
The club, Rapture, is familiar and different all at once. The edge of the stage is littered with purses, the girls’ bathroom is still the best place for a hug, and the DJ keeps cutting the song off right before the good part, the sadist. But I don’t remember the crowd being so young, and I don’t remember it being so packed. Have I simply gained an appreciation for personal space in my late twenties?
I wish I could lose myself in the music, but since I decided to pack my bags and return to Elmsford, I can’t relax.
Being home is fine. It isfine.At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past hour and a half. It’s not like I’m moving back for good. This is just a detour. A temporary distraction from the main plot.
The beat shifts from pounding to sultry, and Morgan rises to the occasion. Dancing is something we both enjoy, but there’s something free about the way she moves. Like everyone is watching.
