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“YES!”
“I knew he’d eventually make a move!”
She’s candy apple red now and I fling my arms around her, genuinely happy that she’s happy.
“God, I hope I don’t screw it up. I’ve liked him forever,” she says with a shaky voice.
My arms squeeze her even tighter. “You won’t. You’re amazing. The most talented designer ever and you’re really pretty”—she groans—“and there’s no use denying it now because Thomas asked you out!”
She laughs and steps back, chewing her lip. “Yeah, we’ll see how tonight goes. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. Like we’re just friends? More?”
I boop her on the nose. “Just be yourself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks Mom.”
Then she reaches over to the stack of clothes on her bed and tosses an outfit at me. A happy medium, if you will: cool, ripped boyfriend jeans paired with a tight black long-sleeved shirt. Once I have it on, a few inches of my midriff are bared. I yank it down and she repositions it.
“It’s supposed to sit like that. Stop stretching it out.”
I don’t want to listen to her, but the scoop neck shows too much cleavage if I pull it down, so I have to just leave it be.
Carrie wears a patent leather miniskirt paired with a slouchy peasant top. Her boots could kill and I feel slightly less-than walking into the bar behind her, but then I remind myself what a stupid thought that is. She needs this moment. I want Thomas to look over at her and sweat. And he does. He’s at the bar when we walk in and the moment he spots her, he might as well drop to one knee right then and there.
He doesn’t even wait for us to come to him, scooting off his stool and heading straight for us, eyes on Carrie. I like Thomas. He and Carrie both have a shy streak that means they’ve circled around one another for years before getting to this moment. He straightens his black-framed glasses and smiles down at her. I glance between them and it’s obvious the attraction is mutual, visible like the magic dust swirling in the air between a projector and a movie theater screen.
I don’t linger. Third-wheeling is not a favorite hobby of mine. After a quick hello, they split and head to the bar so they can fall deeper in love, and I head to where our group has gathered in the back, near the dartboards. There are a dozen people from the parade clustered around tables, chatting and drinking. I’m welcomed warmly and take a seat at a table among a group of girls who work as faeries in the Enchanted Forest. Their float is just ahead of mine. When rehearsals get boring, we shout back and forth to one another, much to Thomas’ annoyance.
As I sit, I scan the other tables, looking for Derek, and my heart sinks when I realize he isn’t here yet.
“Want a drink?” one of the girls asks.
They’ve ordered a pitcher and I help myself, pouring some of the pale amber liquid into a cup just as I hear my name called from somewhere behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and spot Ryan standing a few yards away in jeans and a faded t-shirt. He looks extremely happy to see me. I stand, surprised.
When I reach him, he leans down to hug me. It’s a little awkward since I have my beer and I wasn’t exactly expecting a hug, which seems silly considering our last encounter. Of course he’d hug me. Fortunately, he laughs off my stilted movements.
“Sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t want to spill my drink. How are you? How’s the nose?” I ask, squinting to see if there’s any residual damage. I can’t believe I haven’t seen him in person since that night. I guess I really have been busy.
He sniffs as if to prove it’s still in working order. “I’m happy to report it’s good as new.” I laugh, and he nods in the direction of the group behind me. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”
My mouth forms an O and the corresponding sound follows. “Yeah. Sort of a stress reliever before the big day tomorrow. Are you with this group too?”
He nods and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “A few of the guys I work with over in the Enchanted Forest invited me.”
As if to prove his point, one of the huntsmen from the parade tries to wave him over. Ryan holds up his hand.
“How have you been lately? I texted you earlier, but I figured you were busy.”
Since I’m here now, at a bar, it appears I clearly had time to respond to his text, I just chose not to. I look like an asshole. I want to tell him I rushed straight from rehearsals to Carrie’s to this bar. I haven’t even glanced at my phone since lunch, but that’s a lame excuse.
