1
Drumroll, Please
I certainly didn’tplan to celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday wearing body glitter.
And yet, here I am. Reluctantly shimmering.
“Stay still,” Bridget demands. Holding my chin, she shifts my face toward the flickering bathroom light and presses what’s basically a glitter-covered glue stick to my temple.
Years ago, preparing for my first official day of work as an accountant, I visited the makeup counter at the mall, where a woman named Cheryl with the sharpest eyebrows I’d ever seen told me that I was anautumn. She suggested berry shades to complement my dark hair and olive complexion, and the next day I strutted into the office wearing a lip color called “moody fig,” which I’ve worn every day since.
Something tells me Cheryl wouldn’t approve of Barbie pink chunks of glitter, for any occasion at all, ever, on anyone. I say as much to Bridget.
“Trust me,” she says. “You need something to brighten you up.It’s Saturday night! It’s your birthday! And you look like a disgruntled Ann Taylor employee.”
“I look fine,” I argue. I’m wearing my favorite silk tank with my go-to black heels and perfectly nice black trousers, thankyouverymuch.
Bridget adds one last swipe of sparkles before admiring her handiwork. “Don’t worry,” she assures me with a nod, her blond ponytail bobbing like she’s still leading cheers on the sidelines. “It’s waterproof.”
Perfect.
If I had my way, we’d have celebrated tonight with an early reservation somewhere in the city, the evening ending promptly at nine. Rules are rules, though, and every other year, Ryan gets to choose how we spend our shared birthday. So, instead, I’m at the grimy dive bar in my suburban hometown thirty minutes outside of Chicago, hiding from all the former classmates with whom my brother inexplicably keeps in touch. Ryan specifically wanted to celebrate at Curly’s because the bar’s manager is his best friend, Penn Hayes—the lifelong nuisance who grew up next door.
Having an extroverted twin is a real hazard to my mental health.
Bridget drags me back into the fray, weaving me through the crowd. Everything here is sticky: the tables, the floors, the gossip slurred between neighbors late at night. The place is a Lakeville institution, though, with Christmas lights looping the ceiling year-round, a Chicago Bears flag hanging over the bar, and brick walls covered in framed Little League photos that haven’t changed in decades.
Tonight, thanks to Bridget, there’s also a shirtless Harry Styles poster taped beside our table. She organized a rousing game of Pinthe Kiss on the Harry, in which I stood, blindfolded, and pressed a mouth-shaped sticker over Harry’s left nipple. Bridget deemed it the jackpot.
“There you are,” Connor whispers. “I was starting to think you’d made a run for it.”
I sit on the stool beside him, and he slips a reassuring arm over my shoulders. He must sense my nerves—likely because he shares them. We share everything: an office, an apartment, a five-o’clock alarm. Not even for our firm’s holiday party do we stay out past nine, so I’m sure he’s as ready as I am for our exit. This is a man who can’t stand bars and keeps hand sanitizer on his key ring.
The jukebox has been taken over by a Britney Spears superfan. From the seat opposite me, Bridget yells to be heard over the “Toxic” chorus. “Where’s Ryan?”
I gesture behind her. “Approaching from your six o’clock.”
My brother arrives wearing his happy-drunk grin and drops another tray of bad ideas onto the table. With a bow, he slides one tequila shot to Connor—“Good sir”—and another toward Bridget—“Madam”—and then arches an eyebrow at me. “Ruby? Just one?”
I cannot take him seriously when he’s in a hamburger-print button-down. He’s always had an affinity for funny shirts and bright sneakers. “Yeah, no,” I say on a laugh. “It’s water o’clock. You should have some, too.”
Ryan’s dark hair falls across his forehead as he tips his head in disapproval. “C’mon, Ru. It’s our birthday. Officially.”
“Officially!” Bridget repeats.
“And I’mofficiallyhydrating.”
The two of them clink their glasses together for a toast, and as they knock back what must be the well-est of well tequilas, Connor casually nudges his shot to the side.
Bridget coughs. “Was that bleach?”
“Unclear,” Ryan squeaks out. “It was on the house.”
From where I sit, I have a clear view of the poison shots provider.
Penn stands behind the beer dispenser wearing a charcoal-gray Curly’s T-shirt, a white towel thrown over one shoulder, and his brown hair curls out from beneath a backward navy baseball hat. As if he can feel my irritated stare from across the room, he looks up, and there it is: the obnoxious half-smirk that still manages to wedge under my skin like a hangnail.
I narrow my eyes, catching his laugh before I look away.
