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Thomas points directly at me. “You might want to hold off on making claims like that until you see your partner play.”
“Oh come on! That’s uncalled for! Derek, as my boyfriend, I think you should beat him up.”
Isn’t that the number one perk of being in a relationship? Having a lackey to fight all your battles?
During my first turn, I take careful aim and then let that sucker fly. The ping pong ball bounces off the table, hits the window, and then smacks into the back of Dracula’s head. It’s the same guy I hit in the face with the Ouija board.
He whips around, fangs bared. “Seriously? Again?”
To be fair, he should probably just avoid me.
When I’m up again, Derek slides up behind me and attempts to direct my toss. I’m immediately distracted by the feel of his body pressed fully against mine.
Thomas calls foul. “Cheating! No. Don’t touch her.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Derek points out. “I’m just hugging her.”
“You’re aiming the ball for her!” Carrie says in outrage, pointing to where Derek’s hand cradles mine.
“We’re just holding hands,” I say with an innocent voice.
Leave us alone! We’re in love!
Then Derek flicks my wrist for me, and the ball flies and lands in one of their cups with a satisfying plunk.
Thomas tells Derek he can go screw himself before scooping out the ping pong ball and shooting back the punch from inside the cup.
Sadly, even with us cheating, we still lose.
Derek thinks I should make an appointment to get my eyes checked because he’s unsure how someone can be that bad at beer pong. I tell him it’s an art.
We mingle for a little bit, pilfer some snacks that look like they’ve had the least amount of hands dipped into them, and then Derek nods toward the door.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Really? Because I was hoping we could hang out here for another hour, maybe eat some more stale chips and—”
My sarcasm is cut off when he tugs me over to say bye to Carrie and Thomas. They’re still dominating at the beer pong table. I think they might try to go pro. They don’t even care that we’re leaving early. Carrie waves, not realizing I’m standing right beside her because she’s too busy lining up her shot. She ends up brushing her hand down my beard and remains wholly unfazed. It’s like she always fondles my beard when we say goodbye to each other.
“Have a good night!”
Out in the hall, Derek leads me toward the bank of elevators.
“So am I spending the night?” I ask, playing the cool girl.
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Nothing’s obvious when you’ve had as many drinks as I have.”
He smiles and presses his hand to the small of my back. “Let’s go, champ.”
Inside the elevator, I tug on my beard. It stays fused to my face. I recall my parents’ old reprimand: “If you keep making that face, it’ll stick like that.” It appears that lesson is finally hitting home. I will forever look like an 80-year-old man. I must whimper in distress because Derek chuckles and loops his arms around my shoulders as we arrive on his floor.
“C’mon, I’ll help you get it off.”
In the end, he props me on his bathroom counter and stands between my legs, rubbing an alcohol-soaked cotton swab carefully beneath the edges of the beard.
He concentrates as if he’s performing open-heart surgery. He’s so gentle, working slowly so he doesn’t rip my skin off by accident. I was very clear with him that I like my skin.
“Where did you get this glue?” he asks.
“Someone from Costuming brought it over.”
“Ah. Right. I guess that makes sense. They want these beards to stay put on people who are In Character all day.”
He works another piece of the beard off as I hold still, watching him.
It should be boring, but it’s not. I have unhindered access to his face. Up close and personal. I study his nose (straight, cute if noses can be considered so) and his forehead (seemingly an appropriate size, currently wrinkled in concentration), his eyebrows (brown, thick enough to offset his strong features) and the little freckles that are barely visible on his nose. He has a tiny scar on his left cheek I never noticed before.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say.
He chuckles but keeps his attention on his work. “You’re swaying.”
Am I? I thought I was holding perfectly still.
I go back to studying his face.
“I didn’t like these last two weeks,” I admit quietly.
“Me neither.”
“I missed you.”
“You never said so,” he says, eyes flitting to mine.
“I was trying to play it cool.”
He hums and tugs a little more of the beard off my face, and I wonder if someone donning a costume like mine can ever really be considered cool.
“And I knew you were busy, so I kept myself busy too,” I confess.
