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“Isn’t that just a screwdriver?” I feel like she’s speaking an entirely different language that I’m not familiar with. I know alcohol, for the most part, having spent the majority of my senior year of high school—and a few months in Italy—becoming well acquainted with the term “black-out” despite my under twenty-one status.
“Just trust me, alright? I’ll hook ya up.” And because on some level, I swear guys are pre-dispositioned to hear the words “hook” and “up” when used close together in a sentence, one manifests in front of us.
“P, who’s your friend?” he asks as he slides a hand over her shoulder and points at me. I go through the ManFax—as my best friend, Stella, always says—as I survey the man in front of me. Tall. Blonde. No facial hair, but a cute face nonetheless. Muscular. Blue eyes. All American Boy.
“Skyler. Weren’t you listening?” She pushes his arm off of her. “And no.”
“No what?”
“No and no. Go away.”
“Cockblock,” he grumbles as he walks away, and I wonder if there is something going on between them.
“He’s fucked ninety percent of the girls in this room. Yes, I fall into that ninety percent. Let’s not dwell on it.” She hands me a Jell-O shot. “Just…it’s for the best. His dick game isn’t even all that great. Which is why I have not been back for seconds,” she says through a mouthful of the red gelatin that had far more Everclear vodka than was probably safe. “But he’s hot.”
Two hours later, more than half the party has left to hit the bars, armed with their fake IDs and willingness to make bad decisions. I sit on Peyton’s bed as she rifles through her closet trying to come up with something to change into.
“What you have on is fine, Peyton. Shouldn’t we go soon? It’s getting late.”
“Late? It’s midnight. The only reason people left earlier is one of the bars offers a Power Hour between eleven and twelve which means half priced shots and mixed drinks. Trust me, it’s still early.” I hiccup as I take another sip of my drink when there’s a beep from her nightstand. My eyes flit to the sound and she squeals with delight. “An OC notification! Yes!” She fist pumps the air and moves to her phone, her eyes lighting up with intrigue and excitement.
“O…C?” I ask, feeling the effects of the alcohol starting to catch up with me.
“Yeah, Our Circle! It’s this new dating app!”
“Oh.” I groan. “So, like Tinder or Bumble or whatever?” I’d never been on a dating app, but Stella swears by them. That girl goes on more first dates than anyone I know.
“Better!”
“They always are, right? Until something better comes along?” There’s always some new dating app that’s supposedly better than the last. It’s just the latest craze.
“No, this really is better. You can only join if you’re invited by someone else.”
“Oh, so kind of like how Facebook started?”
“Right! Well, not anymore. My sister’s unborn child has a Facebook already.” Peyton rolls her eyes and holds her phone up for me to see the app.
“So, you get invited and then what? You get unsolicited dick pics by, not randoms necessarily, but by someone who knows someone who knows someone that may be your neighbor’s cousin’s ex-boyfriend?”
“It takes the element out of whether or not they’re a psycho!”
“No…no, it doesn’t.” I chuckle as I listen to her backwards logic.
“Well…I haven’t met any yet. All the guys I’ve met have been totally normal. And gorgeous. And smart. A lot of guys from the grad schools in the area are on here. Of course, I do have my age preferences set just a teensy bit higher.”
“What’s a teensy bit?” I ask, wondering if this girl is about to unleash her wealth of daddy issues on me.
“Just twenty-two to like…forty.”
“FORTY? Peyton, how old are you?”
“Nineteen, relax.”
“That’s like…your dad’s age.”
“Well, I never knew my dad, so…Psych major me.” She rolls her eyes as if she already knows what I’m going to say.
I hold my hands up as if to say no judgment. “I think I want to try it.”
