"'Cause you are." She motions come on.
But I stay on my stool. "The other night, I asked him to tell me it wasn't the last time."
"And?"
"He said he couldn't." I draw circles on my glass. Orange juice isn't enough. I need to obliterate my thoughts. To chase away all this agony. Just for tonight. Just one time. Just a little—
"That's fucked up."
"I know."
"Was it good?"
"It was everything."
"Okay. That's enough moping. Get up. We're dancing."
"But I—"
"Too bad." She takes my hand, pulls me off my stool, pulls me into the throng.
This is a small club. It's dark. Dirty. Crowded.
An unfamiliar song fades into Like a Virgin.
Leighton laughs. "Who was yours?"
"College boyfriend."
"Good?"
"Give you one guess."
She laughs. "His first time too?"
"No. He thought he was incredibly skilled because he'd lost it in high school."
She spins on her toes. Laughs as she catches herself. "And he didn't know how to blow your mind?"
"Not quite." I catch the beat, but I can't find the joy of it. Or the thrill. This is a ridiculous, fun, over the top song. But it's falling flat. "What about you?"
"The coolest guy at my high school. He was a senior. I was a freshman. We were at a party. I thought the way he kissed me meant we were in love. Stop me if you've heard this one before."
"He sounds like an asshole."
"Yeah. But he was loaded." She laughs.
"That's something."
"It really is." She offers her hand.
I take it.
She helps me spin.
I throw my arms over my head. Finally, the music hits me. The tension in my shoulders melts bit by bit.
I let my eyelids flutter together.
I let my hips move of their own accord.
The song fades into Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.
I try to block out the lyrics. To forget the thrill of being with someone who sets you on fire.
Leighton must notice I'm slipping. She taps me. "You're gonna be a shrink, right?"
"A research psychologist, yeah. What about you?"
"Oh. I guess I don't know. I've thought about apprenticing."
"Why don't you?"
"I'm not sure I want to spend my life in a tattoo parlor."
"You don't love it?"
"I do, but…"
"It doesn't grab onto your heart and refuse to let go?"
"It might. I'm not sure. I asked Ryan to show me how to do some stuff, but then… it got weird."
"Weird how?"
"I was touching him. And he was so close. And, ugh, how obvious is it that I'm crazy about him?"
"Only a little."
"Does Walker know?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't say anything."
I motion my lips are sealed. "You think he sees you that way?"
"God no." Her movements slow. "Ryan has tunnel vision with his ex. And he… I'm not sure he even knows I'm a woman."
I'm not sure about that. But I'm not exactly in the mood to argue. "Is it that hopeless?"
"Yeah. It's awful. We're friends and I love being his friend, but it hurts being that close. It's agony."
I nod.
"You know how it goes. It hurts. But it would be worse if we weren't friends. Sometimes, I let myself believe it will happen. But it's been a year, and he's still miserable."
"That sucks. I'm sorry."
"Thanks. Didn't I say something about dancing instead of talking?"
"You did."
"Let's do that." She motions to two guys behind us. Raises a brow. Want to?
They're dressed in bright pink and bright orange t-shirts, both wearing electric blue pants and fire-engine red sneakers. They look like the type who want to share a girl.
Which could be fun, I guess.
If it was possible to want someone who isn't Walker.
It will be one day. Maybe. In theory.
Leighton takes my staring as a yes. Motions come here to the guys.
The one in the orange shirt nods to me. "I like your wrist warmers."
I'm in my best eighties Madonna getup—fishnet wrist warmers, heeled boots, a tight pink dress. It's not exactly 80s, but it's close. "Thanks."
"You want to dance?"
"Sure."
He slides his arms around my waist.
I let him lead. I let my eyelids fall together. I let my thoughts drift around the room. Then out of it. Then all the way over to the Westside, to Walker's apartment, and the way he looked at me like he wasn't sure if he loved me or hated me.
The song shifts to Take My Breath Away.
Eighties guy's hands slide over my hips. He pulls me closer. Like we're high schoolers at a dance.
I try to find the joy in it. He's a good dancer, this is an awesome song, a cute guy wants my body against his.
He's warm and tall and breathing.
A distraction.
Something that will erase Walker from my thoughts for a solid three minutes. Or maybe even ten. I shouldn't underestimate Eighties Guy.
I look up at him. He's plenty cute. And he's decked in that silly outfit. He must be game for anything.
But it wouldn't matter if he was Kit Harrington.
He's not Walker.
So he's not interesting.
I finish the song, excuse myself, dance in the corner by myself. Leighton is somewhere. I think that's her lilac hair. I think she's still with Eighties Guy's friend.
Hazel eyes catch mine. A broad guy looks me up and down. He offers his hand.
I nod. Find the beat of Sweet Dreams as his hands find my hips.
My eyelids flutter together.
I soak in the sad song. It's perfect. Miserable. Like everything in my head.
The guy—I don't know anything about him besides that he's not Walker—pulls me closer.
He leans in to whisper in my ear. "What's your name, baby?"
"It doesn't matter."
He laughs. Moves his hand to my lower back. Just over the top of my ass.
I close my eyes.
Move my hips in time with the music.
With his.
But he's too close.
His hands are too much. They're going too low.
Then they're not.
"What the fuck, bro?" Not-Walker scoffs. "I'm dancing here."
"You're done."
What?
I blink a few times.
That's… he's here.
God, he looks good. As miserable as I feel, but good. Same dark hair. Same dark eyes. Same strong shoulders.
He slides his arm around my waist.
I stare up at him. "What are you doing?"
"You want him touching you?"
No. But that isn't relevant. "I have a phone."
"I called three times."
That's possible. I can't exactly hear with eighties jams overpowering every thought in my head.
His fingers dig into my skin.
I struggle to inhale. "What is this?"