“Probably not.”
“Should we stop them?”
“They’re adults,” I tell her.
Plus, if anyone should stop them, let it be Charlie and Mateo. They’re equally concerned, but neither makes a move to break up the PDA.
“They’re going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t they?”
In a crowded room, with a million other things to watch, I can’t rip my focus away from our friends. Amy won’t regretthis tomorrow, but she will grieve the brief moment where a relationship seemed possible. Every time they get together, only to break apart, another piece of her withers.
She loves him. He told her he could never be with her, not fully.
I don’t know the whole story, not in the way Charlie and Mateo might, but I know as someone who’s been offered so little love in her life, she’d rather have slivers than nothing at all.
I can’t say I blame her, nor do I judge her for it. Very few realizations slice as deep as loving someone wholeheartedly and knowing they only offer crumbs in return.
“They will,” I say.
The words are still hot on my tongue when Charlie steps in, telling them to go back to the hotel or cut it out. Amy smooths her hair, and Oliver readjusts his collar, both of them acting like scorned school children. Mateo meets my eye and shakes his head.
I shrug, mouthHave fun with that, and clasp Sofía’s hand to drag her out to dance. A DJ replaced the band, and the older crowd filtered out, leaving backpackers, tourists, and groups of university students.
We push through a throng of people to the back of the makeshift dance floor, the rest of the group following the path until we’ve weaseled out a sliver of space. Early 2000s pop music blasts through the speakers, and I watch, enraptured, as Sofía moves, a kaleidoscope of light from the disco ball reflecting off her silk dress.
I have no rhythm. The best I can do is wiggle my shoulders to the music, tapping my fingers against my beer glass. The girls form a small circle, in their own world, and when the song ends, Sofía passes her cocktail to me.
“Can you hold this? I need to go to the restroom.”
The drink is in my hand before I can answer.
“Mine, too, please,” Amy says, and I scramble to grab hers before it falls, juggling three glasses.
Charlie decides three isn’t enough and four is the new magic number. “Oh, mine, too.”
“I only have two hands,” I scream, overwhelmed and barely clinging to the glasses. The liquid from one sloshes when I’m hit from behind.
Mateo and Oliver wave from the bar, and I signal for help, but they miss it. I’m in a crouched, defensive position when the girls return, doing all I can to protect their drinks from spillage or any other untoward actions.
They take back their beverages, and the weight of responsibility lifts from my shoulders. The music’s bass rattles my teeth, and the girls squeal when “Untouched” blasts through the speakers.
“This is my jam,” Mateo yells, weaving back into the group, shimmying his shoulder as he slides into the center of the tiny dance group Charlie, Sofía, and Amy have created.
They cheer, and when the chorus hits, I’m dragged into the center with him, shaking my hips like I’m Shakira—minus the rhythm and skill—which incites a plethora of giggles.
Nothing beats the sound of joy, and Sofía’s rings louder than the others, an alcohol flush turning the tip of her nose a bright pink. She jumps up and down, her hair flying as she enjoys the music. The song ends, and she tugs on my hand, forcing me to lean down.
There’s a small thrill in leaning down so she can whisper in my ear. A sense of impractical male pride when she gives me an incredulous look but has to gaze upward, which dampens her ire.
“I want food,” she says, then, in a booming voice, declares, “Pizza! Weneedpizza.”
Before I can process, I’m dragged out of the crowded bar and into the cool night air. Sofía’s hand clutches mine as she tows me through the streets.
“I’ll never turn down pizza,” I say, gently tugging her back, “but we don’t need to run.”
“But you love pizza.” She pouts, and my heart clenches. “I remember. Extra pepperoni, lots of sauce, and ranch to dip on the side.” She yanks on my arm. “And there’s a pizza stand around here, Iknow it.We have to find it.”
We take a left, a right, and then the scent of grease fills the air. Sofía cheers and scurries over to the small shop, rattling off the different slices she wants. She digs through her purse, but I step forward to pay and hold the slices. Her nose scrunches.
