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“No idea.”
I laugh and link my arm with hers. “Let’s go get a drink and enjoy this amazing place.”
“Will you tell me when there’s famous people around me?”
“You, my friend, are one of the famous people now. You’ll have to get used to it.”
We turn from the railing and Bexley leads me to the table. “I need more than one drink for that.”
It’s not until later that I find out we’re in a special VIP area, slightly secluded from the other tables and served by our own waitress. It also comes with bottle service, something entirely new for me, and I point out the famous people that walk by for Bexley as we crowd around the two tables.
And drink.
Vodka shots lined up for all. Champagne bottles emptied and replaced. Beer and wine and cocktails, every shade of pink.
I learned early on that alcohol doesn’t help my anxiety but it sure helps me loosen up when I’m not panicking. One drink slides into two, my smile becoming more relaxed and ever-present. My earlier moment seems to fade from Bexley’s mind as she finally stops hovering and starts to have fun.
It’s her night. She deserves to have a good time.
“These are so good, and I don’t even like cranberry juice,” Shae cries, downing her second Cosmopolitan.
“It’s very good for IUDs.” Demi sways slightly on her stool. “UITs?”
“Is that when it hurts to pee?” Chrissa chimes in.
“Yes!” Demi leans against her.
With cups covered in sippy lids, we head en masse down to the dance floor.
I love to dance.
We take over a good portion of the dance floor, especially with the circle of fans. This is another first for me; I’m not used to being in a crowd of famous people.
It’s Bexley and Grayson—The Suitor is a Canadian show, but there must be a lot of fans here in the US or a lot of Canadians in the house tonight. It’s Shae, who is an influencer, popular for her travel vlog and pink hair. But most of the women gathered around seem to be there for Mase, hoping for a smile and maybe a whole lot more.
I avoid his gaze, which seems to be focused on me more than it should be. I want to tell him not to bother worrying about me—if that’s why he’s looking at me.
Why else would Mase Stirling be looking at me for?
I’m far from the thin and willowy models he prefers. I’m not Insta-filter perfect with the makeup and the hair. I wear vintage clothes and comfortable shoes and I don’t suffer from FOMO.
He still looks at me.
Boen brings me another drink. A sheen of perspiration covers my arms, my dress is starting to stick, but it’s not the clammy anxiety sweat from earlier. This is from dancing.
Bexley does not share my love of dancing, but tonight, with her arms up and Grayson by her side, she looks as happy as I’ve ever seen her. The way he looks at her makes it clear they are in love.
So is Boen, dancing with Rachel using moves I’ve never seen him use before. He only has eyes for her, and he keeps his hands on her, too.
And David, looking at Biba like she’s the only woman in the place.
I can’t help the envious thump of my heart because I want a man to look at me like Grayson looks at Bexley, like David stares at Biba. Like Boen smiles at Rachel.
Who wouldn’t? A television reality show helped Bexley find love, and because of that, her friends have found happiness.
Except for me.
One song blends into the other, a mix of techno that vibrates through my body. Taking a final slurp of my drink, I manage to make Bexley understand that I’m heading to the ladies’ room and push my way off the floor.
