Nadia Waitts brought THC-laced brownies baked by her older sister. Lillian Zhang had porn downloaded onto her phone. And Alexa Maddox, whose mother had organized the sleepover, insisted we sneak out to go meet some older boys who hung out at the 1 Stop.
And there I was in my Cinnamoroll PJs, smelling like fish.
It was the worst nightof my life.
At least, that’s what I thought at the time. Surely, losing my parents was much worse. But that night?
That night I was so painfully aware that I didn’t fit in. That I wouldneverfit in. That I wasn’t even sure I wanted to.
I begged Aunt Jules to never make me go to a sleepover again. She didn’t.
After that disastrous sleepover—which Alexa made sure everyone in school knew about—I leaned in to being a weirdo.
If being normal meant kissing boys who smelled like feet behind the 1 Stop, I didn’t want it.
I had books. I had my own sense of fashion. And I wasn’t going to let anyone make me feel small.
I made that promise, and I’ve kept it.
For the most part.
I am who I am. And I’m proud of that person.
Goofy, loud, inappropriate. Unpolished. Real. Human. Too short and curvy. More box hedge than willow.
But I embrace it. I lean in. And I feel good about it.
Until I don’t.
Until a moment like this. When the reality of my crush on Miller comes back to… well, to crush me.
Because even if I like me as I am—how could someone like Miller like me?
Oh, I know he likes me. I know we’re friends. As coworkers, we’re brilliant together.
But how could I ever compete with someone like Raquel?
I can’t.
And it’s that disastrous sleepover all over again.
I remember lying awake that night in my fishy sleeping bag, long after the other girls finally fell asleep. In the silence of Alexa’s living room, I was almost tempted to eat the brownie I had shoved into my pocket earlier.
Of course, I didn’t. Because the idea of it horrified me. Surely, it was illegal! And probably immoral!
But I’m an adult now. While I don’t have a THC-laced brownie nearby, I do have a themed drink that Miller left untouched.
Miller’s drink is watered down at this point, which might be for the best. It goes down smooth and easy, and by the time I return my attention to Devon, his words don’t pack the punch they probably should.
“I think they broke up because she left to go for a job in the Bay Area,” he’s saying, as he toys absentlywith his own straw. “They’re almost too pretty together, you know? It’s like staring into an eclipse.”
I take another gulp so that my indistinguishable “hmmm” passes for a response.
Devon’s posture stiffens as he looks over my shoulder.
I turn just in time to see Miller walk up. Relief floods me because even if he was talking to her for way too long, he came back to me. And now that he’s back, maybe I’ll have some clue as to where we stand. Am I his date or his wingwoman?
Then, Miller stops behind me. And puts a hand on the back of my chair, close to my shoulder without actually touching it.
