So, today, Ryan wants Hallie to prioritize bars and vault. He told me I could take the day off, but the prospect of a weekday stuck in the house with Mom and Dad was too dull to consider. Instead, I spend hours lolling about by the chalk bins between the bars, fluffing the dismount mats, sucking down water bottles while wielding a whistle and stopwatch through Hallie’s conditioning reps.
When Hallie heads home for dinner at six thirty, the sliver of night sky I can see through the gym windows is navy blue and studded with stars. New England winter nights are frigid, and this one is no exception. I’m gathering my stuff by the stereo—phone, socks, hoodie—when Ryan sidles up and leans nonchalantly against the plastic shelves.
“Are you going out tonight?” he asks.
I have no plans. Three days ago, as I slathered peanut butter on a banana and slid out the side door to the garage, Mom and Dad suggested that we all watch the ball drop on TV, like we used to. That’s how I spent almost every New Year’s Eve as a teenager, back when I lived at home and had no social life outside of the gym. My new life mirrors my old one all too well. If I were still living in LA, I might try to slither into a sequined minidress, pulled down tight around my thighs, and dance while clutching an overfilled champagne flute as the clock struck midnight. I can’t do that here. I have no clue if Boston even has clubs, and if it does, there’s no way I want to brave the line outside with bare legs on a winter night.
“Uhhh…” I try to stretch out the word in order to buy myself time to generate a response that saves me from looking like a loser with no friends, but nothing comes to mind. “Well… not really?”
I’m grateful that his expression doesn’t flicker with pity.
“My friend is having a party tonight,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, exhaling and feeling my cheeks flushing pink. “You don’t have to invite me out just because I have nothing better to do.”
“No, no, I’m saying…” He chuckles and looks down. “I’m saying you could come? If you want to.”
The way his voice lilts, I get the sense that he’s not just being nice. He sounds nervous, like he’s actually hoping I say yes. I’ve never seen a hint of vulnerability from him before, but I like it. Part of me wants to spit out a reassuring answer quickly so he doesn’t have to feel flustered; part of me marvels at seeing him like this.
“Or, you know, if you’d rather do something else, that’s cool, too,” he rushes to add.
It’s funny, I guess, the way we’ve spent hundreds of hours together at this point, and yet we’re still not quite comfortable around each other. Our lunch two weeks ago was a good step forward, but we have a ways to go.
“That sounds like fun,” I say, aiming to sound cool and confident, instead of overly eager. I’m not sure I land the right effect. “I could swing by.”
“Sweet,” he says, knocking the side of the stereo with his fist. “I’ll text you the details.”
A million questions start to unfurl on my tongue: What should I wear? Should I bring drinks? Who’s your friend? Where’s the party?… Is this a date? But by the time I work up the courage to spit out even the most basic ones, Ryan is already straightening up and heading across the gym.
“See you tonight!” he calls, stretching up to slap the top of the door frame as he disappears into the lobby.
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I turn to face the mirror that runs along one edge of the floor. I’m bare-faced, with a lifeless ponytail that probably should’ve been washed yesterday. Chalk dust and foam pit particles cling to my clothes. I have no idea what kind of party I’m in for, but I can guarantee that this look isn’t going to cut it. I head home, checking my phone at each red light, waiting for Ryan’s text.
* * *
There’s a message on my phone when I step out of the shower. I wipe the fog from my screen against the blue terry cloth of my towel and read Ryan’s text: a Somerville address I don’t recognize, 10 p.m., BYOB. Many of my former classmates moved to Somerville after college, especially the ones who stayed local for school. From what I know of it, it’s the kind of place with fixed-gear bikes and all-organic markets, not far from Harvard. It’s just bustling enough to feel hip—I think. I’ve never actually been.
I clutch the towel to my chest, shivering a little at the shock of cold air outside the shower, and head into my bedroom to find something to wear. My flimsy clubbing dresses are gone, but any of them probably would’ve looked desperate and out of place, anyway. Instead, I find a pair of pleather leggings and a silky black cami. I hesitate, wondering if my black knit sweater would be more appropriate. I rummage through a dresser drawer until I find it. The fabric feels comfortably thick under my fingers. Ryan is my coworker. But arms are just arms, aren’t they? And it’s New Year’s Eve. I push the sweater back into the drawer.
I blow-dry my hair, put on a tasteful layer of makeup, grab a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet downstairs—though I need to blow a coat of dust off of it first—to stash in my purse, and then… wait for time to pass. It’s barely after eight. There was a time in my life when going out before midnight seemed lame. Now, the prospect of even making it to midnight seems questionable. I pad into the kitchen to scrounge for leftovers.
“You’re going out?” Dad asks, looking up over his glasses. He’s eating a plate of pasta with one hand and reading a magazine in the other.
“Yeah, if that’s… okay?” I ask tentatively.
He tilts his head. “I guess I can see how sitting around with your parents tonight probably isn’t your idea of fun.”
“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, trying to force a laugh.
He shrugs. “Pasta’s in the fridge,” he says.
I make myself a plate and pop it into the microwave, trying to figure out what to say to him as the appliance hums in the background.
“Ryan invited me to his friend’s place in Somerville,” I explain. “I’ll take an Uber there.”
Dad reaches for his wallet and fishes out two twenties.
“No, Dad,” I say, laughing. “Uber doesn’t take cash. But I got it. I’m good. I’m making money now, you know.”
After Dad and I finish our pasta, we join Mom in the living room to watch TV. The crowd packed into Times Square looks miserable in tonight’s frigid, slushy weather. Their “2020” glasses are a jarring reminder that the Olympics are just months away. Between the countdown clock in the corner of the TV screen, ticking away the minutes to midnight, and the uncomfortable sensation of my pleather waistband digging into my stomach when I normally sit here in sweats, it’s impossible to forget that I have somewhere to go. I’m anxious to leave; I’m nervous about the prospect of heading into a party where I only know Ryan, and I’m curious to see how the night will unfold. The year ahead feels like a fresh start, and I want it to hurry up and arrive already.
Mom and Dad encourage me to leave at nine thirty, but I force myself to wait at least another twenty minutes before I dare call the Uber. I don’t want to show up embarrassingly early. When my driver arrives, he grumbles about traffic but plays a comforting mix of pop hits from the ’80s and ’90s as the car whisks me through the suburbs and into the city. If I were meeting Tyler at a party, I’d text him a heads-up: On my way. But I don’t know Ryan that well. My finger hovers over his name in my phone. I do my best to resist the urge.