I don’t realize I’ve walked away from Morgan until I’m standing in front of Amy. She’s closed the door behind her, but she’s still taking off her coat.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say, helping her pull her arm out of her coat sleeve.
“Long story,” she says, and I can’t tell from her tone whether she would prefer I ask her about it or just leave it alone.
“You, um…” I point at her. And she looks down at her dress, which I meant to tell her looks amazing on her, but what I say instead is: “You wore a dress.”
“Was I not supposed to dress up?” she asks, looking around. And then she looks at me. I’m wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old South Park shirt. “Let me guess, you are dressed up.”
“Funny,” I say. “Why don’t I go grab us some—”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Amy says, her fingers clasping my arm so tight I think she might bruise me. I’m not sure I’d complain if she did. “You are not allowed to leave me alone. I don’t know anyone here.”
“The whole staff is here. You know them.” I motion around at Marshal and at Morgan, who’s still standing in the living room, where I left her, watching us.
Amy bites her lip and looks around, and I’m afraid she’s already regretting being here. “I’m just not, you know…”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think I do know.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m really friends with anyone but you.”
Friends. It’s the first time either one of us has acknowledged it. We’re friends. “Why didn’t you bring a date?” I regret the words as soon as I say them. I know why she didn’t bring a date. Because she just broke up with her boyfriend and probably is still in love with him. My stomach turns.
She finally lets go of my arm, and I hate that I made her look sad. But one thing I’ve noticed about Amy: She’s good at hiding it. It only takes a second for her expression to change from tragic to devious. “Did you?” she asks, the corners of her mouth tilting up.
“No,” I say simply, and then Morgan sidles up to us.
“Hi, Amy,” she says, her eyes flitting between the two of us. She’s not quite as good at hiding things.
“Hey, Morgan,” Amy says. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” she all but shouts.
Morgan flinches. “Right. Happy Cupid Likes to Fuck Up Our Lives Day.”
Amy giggles nervously, and Morgan sort of looks at her like she’s not really sure what she’s made of.
“Did you know Morgan plays guitar, drums, and piano in her band?” I blurt, because I don’t like the way Morgan is looking at Amy. Or at me.
Beside me, Amy says, “That is so cool. I played piccolo in band when I was a freshman.”
Morgan looks mildly disgusted, but I smile down at Amy. “Piccolo?”
She grins up at me. “It’s a hard job, but somebody’s got to do it.” Her eyes meet something over my shoulder. “Hey, I should go say hi to Brooke. I’ll be back.” She pats me on the arm, and just like that, she’s gone.
I watch her wander into the kitchen to join Brooke, ignoring the commotion behind me as something begins in the living room. Morgan yanks on my shirtsleeve and says in my ear, “It’s Spin the Bottle, come on!” She drags me toward the circle forming on the carpet.
“Spin the Bottle?” I ask, incredulous. They’re kidding, right? “What is this, middle school?”
Lauren, arranging everyone on the carpet, looks at me. “I had just figured out I was a fucking lesbian in middle school, so I didn’t get to play any of these games. Sue me, okay?”
And even as Morgan tugs me to the ground beside her, my eyes search for Amy.
AMY
“AMY!” Brooke, elbow deep in a cookie tray of egg rolls, beams at me. “I thought you weren’t coming!” She shoves the pan into the oven, and my eyes are caught by something hanging on the wall behind her.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Brooke glances over her shoulder and then smiles. “It’s a Kiss Wall!”
I step around her and approach the large board on the wall. It’s bright pink and has little strips of paper all over it, multicolored and folded in various formations. “What’s a Kiss Wall?”
Brooke comes up beside me and taps a stack of paper strips on the counter. “It’s like a Wish Wall, but you write the name of a person you want to kiss instead.”
“What if there’s no one that you want to kiss?”
She glances sideways at me. “Are you saying there isn’t?”
Just then, there’s a cheer from the living room, and I look over just in time to see Morgan lean over and plant a kiss on Oliver. I wait, a heartbeat, two, but they don’t pull apart. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, opens her mouth over his, and the cheering gets louder.
I look away, back at the board, my palms starting to sweat. I reach forward and pick up a slip of paper that’s pastel green, but then I just hold it in my hand, trying to ignore what’s going on in the living room.
“Hey, Brooke?”
She’s already turned away from me to pour someone a drink. “Hmm?”
I’ve been debating whether or not to do this, and now that I’m standing here in Brooke’s kitchen, I know I want to do it, but I’m not so sure it’s the best time.
“So, I’m applying for this scholarship, and I sort of need a letter of recommendation from someone who’s not a teacher, and I was hoping that maybe you would write it. I know we’ve only worked together for a month and a half, but, I don’t know…”
Brooke still has a bottle of tequila in her hand, and I realize that she’s lining up shots along her counter. But she sets the bottle down and smiles at me. “Of course I will.” She reaches out and squeezes my elbow, and I feel a weird peace spread over me, a sense of belonging that flashes quickly. And then Brooke turns away from me, resuming her pouring.
I turn back to the board, tapping the tip of my pen against the counter. And then, without thinking about it, telling myself it’s just a board and means absolutely nothing, I write Jackson’s name on my slip of paper, fold it in half, and pin it to the board.
“You put something on the Kiss Wall?”
Oliver is standing beside me, and I feel a little uncomfortable with the fact that I didn’t hear him approach. He has a strange look on his face, his eyes glued to the slip of paper I just pinned to the wall.
“You have lip gloss on your mouth,” I say. I meant for my comment to be a joke, but when I say it, my voice is quiet, and for some reason I have to look away when he reaches up to wipe his mouth.
“What’s going on?” I ask Brooke, who puts a shot glass in my hand before tugging me over to the kitchen table. “What’s this?”
“We’re playing Drunk Truth, so you better buckle up,” she says. I glance over my shoulder in time to see Oliver pinning a folded slip of paper to the Kiss Wall. He wanders through the kitchen and pours himself a shot, throws it back, and then pours another.
“I don’t think that’s how you play the game,” I tell him when he’s joined us around the table.