“His… what?”
Devon nods toward where Miller is still—still?—talking to Raquel. “His wingwoman. So that he can chat up Raquel.”
“So he can what now?”
“They used to date,” Devon says in that offhand way he has of dropping bombs in the water just to see how many dead fish will float to the surface. “This was back before you worked here.”
“Oh,” I say softly, looking at Devon and then back to Miller.
Miller and Raquel.
Still talking.
Still.
Oh.
He left me to get me a drink. Me with my dragon clips and my unpolishable shoes. He left me to go get me a drink, but steered away from the bar to talk to Raquel.
And he’s still talking to her.
I glance back at Devon to see him studying me expectantly. It occurs to me that maybe he doesn’t know for sure if Miller and I are here together or if I’m Miller’s wingwoman. Maybe he’s waiting for me to confirm one way or the other. Is he seeding doubt to season of the soup of office gossip? Or is he seeking confirmation of potential gossip so he has first dibs? Or does he know something I don’t and he’s trying to let me down easy?
With Devon, it could be any of the three.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Devon might not know, but I don’t really know either.
I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship, so I never came out and asked Miller if this was a date or if the drive here was just convenient.
Are we work friends who shared a ride and saved on gas? Or are we more?
It seems like more. I want more. But does he?
Devon is still watching me, waiting for me toconfirm or deny or burst into tears, I’m not sure which.
I’m not going to cry in front of him, that’s for sure. So I give a shrug that I hope looks breezy and noncommittal.
Suddenly, I realize why my inner teenage girl stopped giggling.
She’s a smart girl, that one. Knows what she’s doing.
She’s been here before.We’vebeen here before.
The social event where we—where I—packed all wrong and brought the wrong clothes and the wrong energy.
When I was twelve, I went to a sleepover. (Yes, exactly one. I wasn’t the kind of girl who was invited to many sleepovers, but that’s a story for another day.) It was a couple of years after my parents had died. Just long enough for me to get settled in living with Aunt Jules and Uncle Pete. Long enough for them to notice I was having trouble making friends.
To be honest, I’ve always had trouble making friends, but they didn’t notice those first couple of years because… well, when you’ve lost your parents in a car accident that crippled your brother and left you remarkably unscathed… when you’re suddenly an orphan living with your past-their-prime aunt and uncle in a small town where everyone has known everyone since they were fetuses… well, no one expects you to make friends right away.
So it took my Aunt Jules several years to realize I was a social misfit and for her to bully the parents of my classmates into inviting me to social events.
So there I was, twelve and heading off to my first sleepover. (I hadn’t been to any sleepovers before my parents’ accident either, because they were both college professors and outright geniuses who assumed interacting with other children my own age would only dumb me down.)
With zero knowledge of the kinds of things that happen at sleepovers, I packed three novels, a flashlight, my Floppy Bunny stuffed animal that I had slept with since I was three, and my Cinnamoroll PJs. My Uncle Pete loaned me the old sleeping bag he used to bring on fishing trips.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t that kind of sleepover.
