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“Yeah,” Dane, the drummer of the band, says, slapping Liam on the back. “Happy birthday, old man.”
Liam glares at him. “I’m only two years older than you, dickhead.”
Everyone laughs and raises a glass. When she realizes I don’t have one, Josephine, my brother’s wife, slides a shot to me. I send a silent prayer up in thanks for the tequila I’m about to consume because when I finally look at Liam, I’m overwhelmed by the need to get out of here.
He looks like shit. Dark circles rest under his eyes. His usually well-kept beard is much scruffier than usual. His blue eyes look tired and lifeless.
“This is a party.” Josephine declares. “Let’s go dance.”
Angel grumbles as she shoves his shoulder, pushing him out of the booth. The other couples follow, leaving Liam, Casey, and me sitting alone.
The tension is thick, and the awkwardness of Casey being next to us is worse. I am not drunk enough for this. “I’m going to the bar. Does anyone want anything?”
Casey opens her mouth then checks her dad from the corner of her eye and shakes her head. I bite my lip not to laugh because, for all her mild-mannered awkwardness, the girl loves margaritas and screwdrivers. And the more she has to drink, the more she loosens up and has fun. It’s practically a requirement for her when we go out because until she has a few drinks in her, she’s like a little rabbit ready to bolt.
“I’m good,” Liam tells me, meeting my eyes for less than a second before turning his attention elsewhere.
I bite my cheek as I suck in a breath and push down the urge to lunge across the table and slap him. Breaking up was supposed to stop this feeling of worthlessness when he refuses to acknowledge me. It should’ve stopped the murderous rage coursing through my veins, making me want to shove a knife in his face. Repeatedly.
I head back down toward the bar, fury and hurt mixing, making stupid tears burn the backs of my eyes. But I’ll be damned if I let a single one fall. I allowed myself to cry two weeks ago when I left his apartment. Those were the only tears I’ll spare for something that meant nothing. If it had, he wouldn’t have let me walk out the door. Again.
Not that he hasn’t called and texted every day. He has. But I can’t take the risk of surrendering to his pleas. It’s happened before. If I want out of this endless cycle, I need a clean break.
As I wait for the bartender to bring me my drink order, an attractive guy approaches me. “Can I buy you a drink?” He looks to be late twenties, with hair neatly cut short on the sides and long on top, wearing an expensive suit and a dazzling smile. I notice the tattoos peeking from his undone collar and under the cuffs of his sleeves as I allow my eyes to travel the rest of him.
The bartender sets my drink in front of me, and I nod my head at it. “I’m all set.”
He laughs, and the sound is nice. Full, deep, and genuine. “That’s my luck. I’m Carson.” He extends his hand. I hesitate, knowing Liam might see. I don’t want to make him jealous or hurt him. Not today. Today is supposed to be a good day for him.
Then I remember it’s time to put myself first. If I want to move on, I have to take that step. It doesn’t matter if it happens now or later.
“Lily,” I say as I place my hand in his.
Ugh, I hate how wrong it feels. Not shaking another man’s hand. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with talking to him. Flirting with him.
It feels wrong because it literally feels wrong. There are no tingles. No sparks. Not a single flicker.
Stop it, Lily. That doesn’t mean there won’t be later.
But is that what I want? Do I want to feel connections and sparks? Am I looking for a relationship? Especially since my only reference has been a disaster?
No. I don’t think I do. I think I want what I had before Liam and I went from random hookups to spending every moment we could steal together. I want the simple back.
That doesn’t require sparks. Just good sex.
After some small talk, where I tell him I’m a student at Columbia, and he tells me he is a resident at NYU Langone in pediatrics, and after a few more drinks, he asks me to dance.
When we get to the dancefloor, I lift my arms and sway my hips to the rhythm of the heavy beat. Song after song, we move together, laughing as we shout over the loud music and noisy crowd. When the song changes from fast to something slower, he grips my hips from behind and guides my movements with effortless ease.
My arm reaches up, wrapping around his neck as I sway to the music, my ass grinding against him. His head dips to my neck, and his lips lightly brush to my clavicle.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
That feeling of wrong comes back with vengeance. It takes effort to finish the dance, then I excuse myself to the ladies’ room.
When I walk in, I head straight for the red velvet chaise sitting in the middle. I sit and drop my head into my hands.
“What are you doing, Aliana?” I chastise myself quietly so as not to draw attention from the others in the room. “Get it together. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
