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He nods. "My favorite genre." He presses his hands to his heart. "You know me. Love the pain."
I guess. He does have an ex he isn't over.
But the guy alternates between sunny and stormy like that. One day he's bouncing, flirting with every cute girl in sight. The next, he's hiding behind his hoodie and headphones, completely blocking out the world.
I always noticed, but I never through much of it. People are who they are.
They don't change.
Only I…
Fuck, I don't know.
"I better go with you." I reach for her reflexively. Try to stop myself. But I'm too slow, my hand skims her waist.
Her cheeks flame with anger.
I pull my hand to my side. "So you pick something good."
"No grunge, Ollie, we need to bring the mood up, not down." She blows Patrick a kiss. "Happy birthday."
"I hope that doesn't count as my birthday kiss," he says.
She smiles who do you take me for? Takes a half-step toward him. Places her hand on his chest. Rises to her tiptoes.
Kisses him.
His fucking cheek.
But still.
My fingers curl into fists. My heart thuds against my chest.
No fucking way.
Only there's every fucking way. I don't have a say. I've barely spoken to her. I don't have any right to tell her what to do.
She waves another goodbye to Patrick, turns, saunters to the stereo.
It's connected to his laptop. To some streaming service.
She bends over, places her palms on the table, focuses intently on her selection.
Fuck, she has a perfect ass. It's impossible to look away.
I try, but my eyes refuse. They stay on her as the music shifts—some popular singer who's on the radio twenty-four seven.
As she rises.
As she turns to me with a look of righteous indignation.
She is pissed. But that's not fair.
She's avoiding me too.
She had the chance to say I know we can't but I don't care.
And I—
Fuck, I'm the one who kissed her then stopped it. Of course, she's pissed.
I should let her go. Let her mingle. Stay the fuck away.
For a moment, I stay in place.
She holds my gaze, waiting for me to react, say something, somehow explain.
But I don't know what she wants me to explain. So I let her move forward. Let her brush past me on her way to the bar.
My body refuses to still. I follow her. Wrap my fingers around her wrist.
She looks up at me what the fuck?
"Let me fix you a drink," I say.
She motions to my hand.
I release her. "A Negroni, right?"
Her posture softens. "Here?"
Somehow, Patrick has everything I need. The guy only drinks Bud Light. What's he doing with Campari and Vermouth?
Is it shit I left?
A million things fill my head. A night in Mexico with Luna. Daisy's Birthday Eve. I fixed a dozen classic cocktails. So my sister could try everything.
She didn't like this one. Too bitter. Too alcoholic.
She favored Holden's drink. Kentucky Mule. Ginger beer and bourbon. All sugar and spice. Like the chai lattes she drinks every morning.
But Luna starts her day with black coffee. Of course she loved the Negroni. The only desserts she'll consume are eighty-five percent dark chocolate and coffee ice cream.
Everything else is too sweet.
"Oliver?" she asks.
Right. I'm fixing her a drink. Like normal.
Things can be normal. For once. "We need a glass."
"This is fine." She motions to one of the red plastic cups.
I shoot her the really look.
"It's a party."
"You deserve the best."
She nods true. "You're finally making sense."
"Does Patrick really think you're a goddess?"
"Excuse you?"
"I'm not saying you're not—" I motion to the kitchen. It's around the corner. This is a one-bedroom apartment. A big den, a hallway kitchen, two doors.
"You're digging your own grave," she says.
Probably. "You are a goddess."
"Obviously."
I actually chuckle. Fuck, I like her so much. She's funny, confident, strong. "Anyone can see that."
"Not really seeing your original point."
Yeah, me either. Of course, he thinks she's a goddess. She's tall, curvy perfection. "The dress."
"Excuse you?"
I move into the hallway. Find a short glass in the cabinet. Ice in the freezer.
"You want one too?" she asks.
What the fuck can I say? It's not my drink, sure, but since when do I refuse booze? "Don't like gin."
She knows it's bullshit, but she lets it go. "What about my dress?"
"It's fucking hot."
"Thank you."
"And that lipstick."
She shakes her head you're ridiculous, but I can't tell if it's a good or bad you're ridiculous. "Oh my god, Ollie, you are not going on about the lipstick again!"
"It's a fact," I say.
She motions for me to follow as she moves back to the bar. "It's a good color for me. I'm a cool summer."
"A what?"
"It's flattering."
"It's hot."
"Yes. That's the male version of flattering."
My eyes stay on her lips. Fuck, I need to taste them. To taste her. I focus on my task. Equal parts gin, Campari, vermouth.
One shot of each.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
I stir with a straw. Pull it from the glass. Bring it to my lips.
