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“Someone ask a question,” Thomas prompts the room.
“Is Whitney a virgin?”
I flip the crowd my middle finger and everyone laughs. We’ve all reverted back to tween-dom and soon enough, we’re asking the board the most ridiculous questions.
“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop?”
“Who stole the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos?”
“Is the spirit of Elvis Presley among us?”
We’ve just identified that Elvis is, in fact, in the building—“Tell him I said hi!” someone shouts—when the door to Thomas’ apartment opens, flooding the living room with light. In theme with our current activity, we all scream our heads off.
Crouched over the Ouija board, I can’t see over the crowd, but Thomas stands and laughs, telling everyone to settle down. “It’s just Derek. Hey man, come on in.”
DEREK!
I leap to my feet, flinging the Ouija board away from me. It hits a guy in the face and he groans in pain.
The lights in the apartment are turned back on and the crowd disperses, but I stand at the coffee table, trying to find Derek. There. Thomas is waving him over in our direction. He’s still in his clothes from work, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He must have come straight here and I bet he’s exhausted.
I reach up to fix my hair before realizing I’m still dressed as an old man.
I scan the crowd quickly, trying to locate one of those slutty witches. I need your outfit! Now! Switch with me!
It’s too late. Derek finds me in all my glory. I wave and a whole range of expressions flash across his face in a matter of seconds: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Or is that delight?
Hard to tell.
When he reaches me, I’m still standing in a group with Thomas and Carrie, and I’m not sure how he wants me to act. We aren’t dating, really. I mean, are we? I don’t know. Now doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to ask for clarification. I don’t even know how to properly greet him. If I had it my way, I’d throw my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his waist, and make him carry me like a baby koala back to his apartment. Instead, I extend a courteous hand.
“Hello Derek, good to see you.”
It’s formal and discreet. He should be proud.
Instead he shakes his head, smiling before taking my hand and using it to tug me in his direction, right through the middle of the circle.
So much for discretion.
“You’re absolutely insane,” he says before bending down to kiss my cheek, just above the edge of my beard.
“Do you know who I’m supposed to be?” I ask.
“Do you really have to ask?”
“I did a good job, though, didn’t I?”
I hold up my watch. It’s the twin to Derek’s. We clink them together like we’re middle schoolers fitting together two halves of a friendship necklace.
“It’s eerie,” he says, tugging on one of the tails of my neck scarf. “You’re a miniature version of him.”
“And what’s your costume?” I ask, teasing.
“Overworked asshole?” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to get ahold of these last few weeks.”
“It hasn’t been so bad,” I say, shrugging. He arches a brow and I look away, sheepishly admitting, “Okay, it’s been a little bad.”
“I’d kiss you right now, but I’m not sure I know where your lips are underneath that beard. Can you take it off?”
“It’s glued to my skin. Permanently, I’m afraid.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Carrie and I tried to rip it off a few minutes ago because it’s getting itchy and it won’t budge. What if I look like this forever?”
He narrows one eye, thinking it over. “I’d get used to it.”
“Yeah?”
“Not worth breaking up over.”
“Breaking up?”
My voice comes out squeaky high.
He likes my reaction. He’s grinning with the confidence of a warlord. “Unless you want to take things slow?”
Slow? No. I want to speed things up. If I had a car, I’d stuff him in the trunk and drive us to a drive-thru chapel in Vegas. Elvis would really be in that building.
“So it’s officially official?” I ask.
“Officially,” he confirms, like we’ve just executed a contract.
We shake on it.
Then our hands linger, and we have quite the audience watching us at this point. I think they’re genuinely confused about our interaction. I mean…I’m wearing a beard and Derek Knightley is staring down at me with sappy eyes.
“Are you guys done being weird? Because I want to play another game of beer pong. Whiterek versus Thomarrie,” Thomas says, ushering us toward the table set up near the back windows.
“Whiterek actually sounds like the name of a real athlete,” I point out, as if this alone proves we’ll be the victors. Derek seems to agree.
“Are you sure about this? I’m completely sober,” he says to Thomas. “We’re going to win handily.”
