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“You really believe that?” I ask.
“You don’t?”
“Of course not. She was beautiful. He was horny. That’s what initially got them together. Then the falling in love happened later, once they got to know each other. Compatibility took over. Compatibility is whatkeptthem together.” I’ve seen plenty of pictures of Mom in her youth. She was gorgeous, with long blonde hair and green eyes and full lips. She wore a leather jacket over her sundress, showing off innocence and experience, the same way Lexi does. Dad was totally attracted to her with just one look. But that isn’t love.
“You don’t allowanypossibility of love at first sight?” River asks.
“No,” I say. “Why would I?”
“Because it happens.”
“To who?”
He shrugs. “To anyone. It’s not something you can plan or calculate.” He doesn’t saywith an app, but I hear it loud and clear. “It just happens, and you don’t know it’s happened until it’s already done. Plenty of people can vouch for that.”
Except he isn’t talking about “plenty of people.” He means Lexi—he means howhefeels about Lexi. He has to. Who else would he mean? He’s had it bad for her since “first sight.” I’ve known this for as long as I’ve knownhim.
So much for this distraction, it isn’t working. Time for a Plan B. Yes, most people are more likely to get frisky after a few drinks, but not someone as romantic as River. He wants a perfect first date with Lexi. Which means clear-eyed sobriety. So…getting him drunk is not a long-term solution, but it works for tonight.
Chapter Eight
Deanna
Outside, Depressed Mode looks like any other bar. Another unassuming strip mall. The sort of small, slightly run-down collection of stores that covers the east side of the county. All the more charming for its lack of perfection. A reminder that the county’s west side is perfectly planned and curated within an inch of its total lack of life.
A local pizza place, a tattoo parlor, and the county’s only Goth bar.
Inside, Depressed Mode is all purple light and ornate black frames. The place is small—about the size of Dad’s living room—and it wears its theme in every corner. Posters of Cthulhu-inspired monsters. Framed photos of coffins. A pink-on-black menu printed above the bar. All themed drinks named after popular Goth or Goth-adjacent bands.
Even though it’s prime party hour (past it in Orange County, really), the place is quiet. Two singles chatting at the long bar against the wall. A couple in one of the booths on the left. Another, in matching black catsuits and dog collars, swaying to the EDM beat on the right.
I guess that’s the dance floor. It’s much smaller than the massive ballrooms where I learned to waltz and foxtrot, but I know how to work it all the same. Mom made sure we learned how to dance to anything, at any time, at any place.
She would have loved this bar. The loud music, the over-the-top lights, the energy. Even though it’s a slow night, the place buzzes with the mix of sadness and, well, horniness I associate with Goth kids.
“Is this my scene?” River laughs as he follows me inside. He’s distracted, momentarily at least.
“Is it not?” I only know the place by reputation, but it exceeds every expectation. It’s perfect for him.
“Shit.” His face fills with recognition as he looks at the bar. At the bartender, specifically.
A short woman in a tight black dress and thick makeup studies us intensely.
Do I look as out of place as I feel? My outfit screamsspoiled rich girl,notI love Robert Smith. And that’s fair because I don’t really like Robert Smith. I don’t hate The Cure—who could—but I don’t buy into the sentimentality, either.
Crying over pictures of someone?
Realizing you’re in love because it’s Friday—
What is that song even saying?
It’s probably about drugs. Most of the best “love songs” are. Mom taught me that. Along with her preference for seventies singer-songwriters over eighties soft boys.
“That’s my ex,” River says as he stares at the bartender.
“But this isn’t your scene?” I ask.
“Do me a favor?” He takes my hand and leads me toward the bar. “Don’t take the bait.”
