The waitress is waiting for my order, but I guess I’m taking too long because one of my friends gets impatient and orders for me. It takes me a minute to realize that I’m staring across the room at Jon. He’s like one of those superconductor magnets and my eyes are made of malleable iron. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and his arms are covered in tats. Well, not entirely, not like a sleeve or anything, but he does have a few. I wonder if there’s a story behind any of them.
Marla turns to see who we’re talking about. “Jon? He and Sara have been all over each other. You should’ve seen them on the dance floor a few minutes ago. It was a Channing-slash-Jenna-slash-Step Up reunion. Seriously.”
Brina knocks her in the arm. “It was not.”
“She was totally grinding on him,” Marla counters. “Here. Check out my pics. I just posted them on Facebook.”
Brina looks shocked. “Already? Isn’t she going to be pissed?”
Marla rolls her eyes. “Whatevs. It’s not like I tagged her. Besides, she’s an exhibitionist and loves the attention.”
Cassidy grabs the phone. I don’t want to look, but I do. Jon and Sara are dancing, all right. He’s looking at the band and Sara has her impressive rack pressed to his chest.
This was supposed to be a fun birthday celebration—I’m twenty-one now. Woohoo. Cue the confetti, the unicorns, and the chocolate martinis. But the week has been a total downer.
First of all, Mom called back to tell me that, yes, Aaron Marquette is looking into going to school here to play ball. His dad thinks he’s going to play in the majors one day. Fuck me for choosing a school that made it to the College World Series last year.
A few other schools are courting him, too, so it isn’t a sure thing. Besides, PSU is a big school and it’s possible I might not ever see him, she said. But I know I’ll always be looking over my shoulder. I’ve already started googling other schools that have good graphic design programs.
“If he does decide to go there,” Mom said, “at least he’ll be there on his own. The pack mentality isn’t applicable when there’s only one.”
Easy for her to say.
I hate how she’s always trying to find a silver lining and downplaying any negative. Sometimes bad shit is bad shit. Sprinkling a little sugar on it does not make it edible.
And if that’s not terrible enough, I had car problems and spent all my extra money getting it fixed, so I had to tell Cassidy no on the Sasquatch tickets.
I grab my drink—a Buttery Nipple that the girls ordered me probably because of the name—and down it in one gulp. Yuck! I didn’t know it was butterscotch. Coughing, I grab someone’s water and try to wash away the taste. When that doesn’t work, I suck down Cassidy’s strawberry margarita.
“Hey,” she says. “That’s mine.”
“Ha ha. Too bad. It’s my birthday, bitch, and you know I don’t do butterscotch.”
“I didn’t know that’s what a Buttery Nipple was. I assumed it was figurative. Like Sex on the Beach.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s disgusting.” I spear a strawberry from the bottom of the glass and hold it out for Cassidy as a token offering for draining her drink. She does this porn star thing, licking it off the straw with her tongue, and slurps it down. “That’s sick,” I tell her.
“It’s supposed to be.”
“I’m going to the bathroom.” Without waiting to see if anyone wants to come with me, I set down the empty glass on the stand-up table and head for the neon male and female stick figures at the back of the bar.
On the way, I spy Jon talking to the band. I keep my head down, but can’t help noticing that he’s hugging an older woman who’s wearing a Hardware Store polo shirt.
I’m not really sure why it bothers me so much to see him with Sara. We hardly know each other. And when we met, the circumstances were pretty bizarre. Based on what he knows of me, he probably does think I’m the crazy girl (which, truthfully, I am) and Sara is the normal one. Or maybe he’s just into girls like her. A lot of guys are.
While I’m in the bathroom, I devise a few excuses to leave early. The one about having too much to drink because I’m not used to being able to do it legally is the most plausible.
I’m texting Cassidy as I exit the bathroom and end up stumbling straight into Jon’s arms. The same arms that were recently all over Sara. I’m not sure what it is about alcohol and misplaced jealousy, but there’s definitely a correlation. Even knowing that, though, I’m still kind of pissed.
“Hey, Ivy.”
“Hey yourself.” I don’t mean to sound so surly, it just comes out that way.
“I hear it’s your birthday.” He smiles. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” And because I can’t help it: “Did Sara tell you that while you were dancing?”
The optimist in me thinks he looks hurt. The pessimist in me knows better.
“Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”
Oh really? “So what do I think?” This should be interesting.
He smiles and there’s that one crooked tooth again. It reminds me of my recent revelation that I hate perfect things. In fact, even if you asked me tomorrow when I’m completely sober, I’d still tell you that perfect things make me want to scream.
“Are you…jealous or something?”
I shrug and try to look as if I don’t care. Which I don’t. But I kind of do. Which is stupid, I know. Even in my semi-wasted condition, I can tell you that. “Jealous? Hardly.”
Jon’s expression goes from joking to serious, reminding me of the way he looked when he helped me off the roof. His eyebrows pull together and his eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t blink. He just stares, his gaze moving over my entire face as if he’s committing it to memory.
My cheeks heat up. My scalp tingles.
I can’t tell if I just made him mad or if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling him the truth. He puts a hand on the wall next to my head and leans in close. My heartbeat is seriously pounding against my eardrums right now—so loud that I can hardly hear.
“I think you think there’s something going on between Sara and me, am I right?”
He smells minty, like he’s been chewing gum. And soapy, like he just washed his hands. It’s cool—really cool—that he doesn’t smell of strong aftershave or cologne.
I don’t answer.
“There’s not,” he says. “I was waiting for friends and she invited herself to my table. But if you don’t believe me, check out who she’s dancing with now.”
He moves just enough so that I can see Sara on the dance floor. And yeah. She’s Channing all over some dude’s Tatum.
“That’s my friend James,” he explains. “He’s hoping to get lucky tonight.”
It certainly looks like that’s where it’s headed.
Jon turns his attention back to me. “So, do I get to kiss the birthday girl?”
At the word kiss, my gaze drops to his mouth. Forget what I said about being able to hear my heart pounding against my eardrums. I’m pretty sure it stopped beating altogether just now. His bottom lip is fuller than his upper lip, and I wonder how it would feel moving against my own.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” God, that sounds lame. I blame the Buttery Nipple.
He flattens his other palm on the wall next to my head, caging me in without touching me. His elbows are slightly bent. If I wanted to, I could slide down a few inches, dip under his arm, and be free. I don’t want to, but it’s nice having that option.
His breath is warm on my cheek, making a few loose strands of my hair stick to the lip balm I just applied. He reaches up and, with a feather-light touch of his thumb, gently strokes them away. My lips part. I shiver. Even though we’re in the back of a crowded college dive bar, it feels as if it’s just the two of us.