I scramble to sit up.
"Ow. Ow. Ow," I murmur over and over, clutching my wrist to my chest, smiling and cringing at the same time, trying to play it cool. My entire body screams at me to stay still, but the embarrassment burning my chest is stronger, and it's all I can do not to run from the room. The crowd divides, letting me pass easily, and somewhere in the middle, I finally find familiar faces.
"Are you okay?" Bridget whispers, stepping next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist.
"Mentally? No… Physically? Yeah, still no." I sigh.
Patrick appears out of nowhere, putting a hand on my arm. "Skylar, are you hurt? That was, uh, quite the fall."
We finally make it to one of the smaller living areas on the yacht, a place that is gloriously empty. I collapse on the couch, still cradling my limp wrist. "My hand is on fire."
Patrick looks down, wincing. "Do you think you broke it? It's starting to swell."
"Oh, good god," I murmur, letting my head fall against the back of the seat. Only I could break my wrist during karaoke. Let me just repeat that for emphasis…karaoke! I mean, karaoke night is my grandmother's favorite event at her nursing home—she even ditches her wheelchair to perform and has a dance routine. I've seen it! But I can't get through one measly song. What is wrong with me?
A high-pitched snicker makes its way to my ear.
I drop my head to the side, meeting Bridget's eyes. Her mirthful eyes. Great. She's laughing at me. My best friend is laughing at my shame. Then again, if the roles were reversed, I'd probably already be rolling around the floor, so I can't really judge.
"I'm sorry, Skye," she says, and then stops because now that she opened her mouth, a stream of uncontrollable giggles has filtered through.
I glance at Patrick, and Bridge has set him off too.
And now they're both cracking.
I turn my gaze back up to the ceiling, rolling my eyes. "Really, guys? I'm in serious pain here."
Patrick stands, shaking his head and sighing. "I'll go find you some ice and see how far away from port we are."
As soon as he's gone, I turn back to Bridge. "How bad was it?"
She bites her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows.
Crap. That bad?
"I'm a hazard to myself," I murmur.
"No," she says and then drops her head on my shoulder. "You had some drinks, you're on a boat, and you slipped. Grace has never been one of your strong points."
"Gee, thanks," I say wryly.
Bridget just raises her eyebrows even higher.
"Okay, okay, you're right. How's that little thing called empathy working for you?" But I'm grinning too.
"Great," she chimes.
Patrick strolls back in bearing gifts—a bag of ice and some chocolates. Have I told you he's prince charming yet? I've mentioned it, right? Because I don't think he's ever looked so good, Halloween costume and all.
I greedily steal the candy, and then remember I only have the use of one hand. Bridge unwraps a piece of chocolate and hands it to me.
"See, empathy," she whispers.
I snatch the candy.
"Good news," Patrick says and gently lays the bag of ice over my wrist. For a moment, it stings, but then the freeze feels good, numbing some of the pain, cooling the fire beneath my skin. "Apparently, the party was about to end anyway. We're five minutes away from docking. So as soon as we get off, we can take you to the hospital to get your hand checked out."
"You don't need to do that," I say, turning to him. "Bridget can take me, I don't want to ruin your whole night."
But he doesn’t respond, he just leans forward and kisses me instead. I'll take that reply anytime! Suddenly, the pain doesn’t seem too bad anymore. His lips are the perfect distraction.
"I'm going to go find Ollie," Bridget murmurs, easing off the couch.
Normally, I'd feel bad forcing her from the room, but I'm too wrapped up as Patrick slips into her spot, hardly breaking the kiss as his arm lands across my shoulder, gently tugging me closer without jostling my wrist.
But then he pulls back, eyes focused on mine.
"So, you and that guy?"
"Huh?" I whisper, in a daze, completely confused by the shift. "What guy?" And then I remember the song, the duet, Ollie and I on stage but in a world all our own. I bite my lip, widening my eyes and trying to look shocked. "You mean Ollie?"
"Is something going on?" he asks with a hint of vulnerability in his tone, one I'm not at all used to from him.
I place my uninjured palm against his cheek, locking our gazes so he knows I'm telling the truth. "No. There's nothing going on. Ollie is practically my brother. I've known him for my entire life."
And I think for the first time, I actually really want to mean those words. They're not an afterthought or an excuse, they're more like a prayer, a hope that one day they'll honestly be true.
"Good." Patrick lifts one corner of his lips, cockiness back full force. But I prefer it that way—on him, it looks good. And then he kisses me again. But it ends far too soon when a cough in the corner of the room pulls both of our attentions away just a moment later.
And of course, it's Ollie.
How long has he been there?
"Hey, sis," he says.
Wonderful. I guess that answers my question.
"Bro!" Bridge slaps him on the arm as she walks past, pushing him out of the doorway, before taking a seat. "We're pulling in. Ready to make our grand exit?"
"I'm not so sure I'm ready for a grand anything," I mumble.
"I heard your stage exit was pretty grand," Ollie drawls, grinning. "I'm heartbroken I missed it."
"Where did you run off to so quickly?" I ask.
But before he can answer, the boat shudders, coming to a somewhat jerky stop. And a second later, partygoers stream in, searching for coats and purses, taking one last drink, and then trickling out, asking each other where to go next.
Anyone up for the emergency room?
No? No takers?
I ease off the couch, using Patrick's hand as an anchor as he helps pull me up.
"I have your purse," Bridge says, coming to my other side. Ollie and Aubrey follow silently behind. And then all five of us join the masses and walk slowly down the steps, across a ramp, and back onto solid ground.
Poof.
Just like that, the magic of the night is over.
"Shoes?" Patrick asks, looking at the footwear lined up along the edge of the dock. Most of it is picked over, and he finds his boat shoes easily. Bridget eases into her heels. Ollie finds his boots. Aubrey slips into a pair of sneakers. And me? I stare at the red pumps Bridget forced me to don for the evening, wondering if I can put enough hatred into one glance to set them on fire. Or maybe telekinesis. I would happily send them tumbling over the edge and into the river if I could.
Bridge follows my line of sight. "Oh…right."
"Yup." I sigh. Bring on the pain. But a moment later, I'm airborne. "Wha…?"
I look up into Patrick's smiling face, nice and cozy in his strong arms. Which really—the boy's got muscles. He doesn't look strained at all. Let me just say, John tried lifting me multiple times while we were dating and I'm lucky to still be alive. But Patrick…well, he can whisk me off my feet any time he wants.
"You already broke one wrist this evening, I think we should cut our losses," he says. I just shrug, happily kicking my bare feet, and wrap my one available arm around his neck. And though I feel Ollie's eyes boring a hole into my side, I don't give into temptation to turn around and look.
He has Aubrey.
I have Patrick.
Everything is exactly how it should be…until we hail a cab.