“Why, thank you. Thank you very much,” he drawls.
Somehow I knew he was going to say that.
Of course almost the first person I spot in there is Thomas, swaying under the disco ball, wearing a flowered satin button-down shirt that shows his spotty chest hair. He brightens when he sees me, waves me over. So I go.
“You changed your mind,” he says.
“Yep. So here I am,” I say. “Thanks for helping me out before.”
“You don’t look like you needed it,” he says, his eyes searching my face for the scratches and scrapes that were there last time he saw me, like two hours ago.
Whoops. I forgot about that.
“I told you it wasn’t bad,” I try to explain. “I have a few bumps and bruises on my legs is all, nothing serious. Nothing that a little makeup can’t hide.”
“You look great,” he says, his eyes now roaming down my body, stopping on my legs.
“Thanks,” I say, uncomfortable. It was hard to go full-blown seventies on such short notice, but fortunately Robin had a bright orange polyester halter dress as a backup to the blue zebra-print. It’s mildly itchy.
“Do you want to dance?” Thomas asks.
That’s when I discover that I don’t really know how to dance to disco. We get some laughs out of it, anyway, trying to do the John Travolta thing.
“So what’s your major?” he asks me, the college equivalent of “what’s your sign?”
“Biology,” I answer. I already know that his is physics.
“You want to be a biologist?”
“No,” I laugh. “I want to be a doctor.”
“Aha,” he says, like he’s figured out something important about me. “Did you know that over half of the incoming freshmen at this school consider themselves premed? But only like seven percent of them end up taking the MCAT.”
“I did not know that.” I must look tense, because Thomas laughs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to depress you,” he says. “Let me get you a drink.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not twenty-one, but of course he must know that. The only time I’ve ever had alcohol at a party was that summer with Tucker. Ava Peters’s house. He made me a rum and Coke.
“What’s your order?” Thomas asks me. “They have pretty much everything. I bet you’re a martini type of girl, am I right?”
“Uh, rum and Coke,” I say, because I know I was able to handle that okay that night without getting even a little tipsy. I want to be able to drive home.
“Rum and Coke it is,” he says, and away he goes to the kitchen.
I look around. Off in a back room I can hear people chanting somebody’s name. There’s another group around the dining room table, dipping stuff into fondue pots, and dancers going wild under the disco ball, people holding shouted conversations in corners, the occasional couple making out on the stairs and against the wall. I spot Amy on the couch in front of the TV, with a bunch of people playing some sort of drinking game that involves watching That Seventies Show. I wave, and she waves back enthusiastically.
Thomas returns with my drink.
“Cheers.” He knocks his plastic cup dully against mine. “To new adventures with new people.”
“To new adventures.” I take a big drink, which burns all the way down my throat and settles like a pool of lava in my stomach. I cough.
Thomas pats me on the back. “Uh-oh, are you a lightweight?”
“This is rum and Coke? Nothing else?” I ask.
“One part rum, two parts Coke,” he says. “I promise.”
It doesn’t taste anything like the drink I had at the party with Tucker. And now, almost two years later, I realize why. Tucker never put any rum in my rum and Coke.
That little stink.
That overly protective, impossible, infuriating, and utterly sweet little stink.
In that moment I miss him so much my stomach hurts. Or that could be the rum. There’s a loud cheer from the people in the back room.
“Christian! Christian! Christian!” they’re chanting.
I push forward through the crowd until I’m standing in the doorway of the back room, arriving in time to see Christian chug a large glass of dark brown liquid. They cheer again when he’s done, and he grins and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his white polyester suit.
The girl sitting next to him leans over to whisper something in his ear, and he laughs, nods at her.
My stomach clenches.
Christian looks up and sees me. He stands up.
“Hey, where are you going?” says the girl who’s sitting on the other side of him, pouting prettily. “Christian! Come back here! We still have to get through another round.”
“I’ve had enough,” he says, not quite slurring, but not sounding like himself, either.
I don’t have to touch his mind to know he’s drunk. But underneath the haze of alcohol I can feel that he’s upset about something. Something that’s happened since I saw him this afternoon.
Something he wants to forget.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes and crosses the room to me, walking in a mostly straight line. I back up to let him get through the door, but he puts his hand on my bare arm and pulls me into the corner. His eyes close momentarily as the current of energy passes through us; then he leans toward me until his nose is almost touching mine, his breath surprisingly sweet considering the nasty stuff I watched him drink. I want to be casual about this—it’s a party, after all, drinking happens, and yeah, there were girls in that room fawning all over him, but he’s fire hot, and he’s smart and funny and well-spoken. And he’s not my boyfriend, I remind myself. We’ve never actually been out on a date. We’re not together.
Still, his touch sends a flock of rabid butterflies careening around my stomach.
“I was just thinking about you,” he says, his voice rough, his pupils so big they make his eyes look black. “Dream girl.”
My face is getting hot, both from what he’s saying and what he’s feeling right now. He wants to kiss me. He wants to feel my lips again, so soft, so perfect to him—he wants to carry me out of this stupid noisy house to somewhere where he can kiss me.
Whoa. I can’t breathe properly. He leans in. “Christian, stop,” I whisper the moment before his mouth touches mine.
He pulls away, breathing heavily. I try to retreat a little, put some space between us, but I run into the wall. He takes a step forward, closing the distance, and I put my hand on the center of his chest to keep him back, for which I get another electric zap, like fireworks going off against a dark sky.
“Let’s go outside,” I suggest breathlessly.
“Lead the way,” he says, and walks behind me, his hand on the small of my back as I head toward the door, burning through the fabric of my dress. We’re about halfway there when we literally bump into Thomas, who I realize I simply walked away from with no explanation the minute I heard Christian’s name.
“I was looking for you,” Thomas says. He looks at Christian and, more importantly, at Christian’s hand, which has moved down to my hip. “Who is—”
“Hey, you’re Doubting Thomas!” Christian says, suddenly jovial.
Thomas looks over at me, startled. “Is that what you call me? Doubting Thomas?”
“It’s affectionate, really,” Christian says, and as Thomas looks, well, doubtful, and hurt, Christian claps him on the shoulder and moves us past him. “You have a nice night.”
Something tells me that Thomas isn’t going to ask me out again.
I’m relieved for the cool air that greets us when we make it outside. There’s a bench on the porch, and I steer Christian over to it. He sits, then abruptly puts his face in his hands. Groans.
“I’m drunk,” he says, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened to you?” I sit down next to him, reach to put my hand on his shoulder, but he sits up.
“Don’t touch me, okay? I don’t think I can handle it like this.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
He sighs, runs his palms over his hair. “You know how you said Angela could make herself have the vision by walking in that thing at the church? Well, I did it. I went there.”