"You know what I mean." Her eyes meet mine. They bore into mine. Ask a million things I can't answer.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
No. This is going to kill me. But that's not what she means, so I nod yeah, and I lead her to the car.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oliver
Fuck. This is really going to kill me.
A fully stocked bar in the corner.
And Luna, next to me, hurt and gorgeous and completely irresistible.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Push out a heavy exhale.
This is a party. I've been to a million parties.
Yeah, this is the first time I'm attending sober. But my dad and Daisy and the state of California are wrong. I'm not an addict.
I like to drink, period, the end.
Not drinking—
Not a big deal.
I shrug my shoulders. Reach for Luna. Think better of it.
We've already suffered the world's most awkward drive.
Fifteen minutes of Lorde and Luna is still nursing a frown. I didn't know that was possible. Usually, she slips into a trance like bliss the second she hears her favorite performer.
She doesn't want me closer.
But where the fuck can I put my hands? Without a drink, they're empty and awkward.
I slide them into my pockets. Look for a better distraction.
The room is already full. Half a dozen people from the shop. A handful of Patrick's friends. Cute girls. Single ones and significant others.
Forest and his girlfriend Skye are sitting on the couch. She's in his lap in some sexy mesh and lace dress. It's as loud as her platform boots. And it shows off her massive tits.
She's some kind of influencer. Or maybe just a plus-size model. Her Instagram feed is nonstop pics of her in lingerie or swimwear. She says it has something to do with body positivity, but it's hard to see beyond her epic cleavage.
Sure, she models plus-size clothes, but she's not wearing a lot of them.
I try to hold on to that.
Stare at her lush legs, her dark hair, her huge tits.
Her hair is cut in a straight line at her shoulders. A cut Luna used to have. Now that her hair is short enough to bare her neck—
Fuck.
Patrick catches sight of us. Waves some kind of stay there and heads over.
"Should we have brought him something?" Luna asks.
Yeah. I usually bring a bottle to these things. But today I have nothing.
It's too obvious. Like I'm standing here naked, a blinking arrow pointing at my scars.
A bright light flashing Oliver Flynn, alcoholic fuckup.
Patrick arrives before I can reply. He greets me with a high five. Offers Luna a hug.
She takes it. Pulls him close.
Closer than she normally would.
Or maybe I can stand it less than I normally would. Now that I've kissed her. Now that it's impossible to deny how much I need her.
He's fucking touching her.
What the fuck is he doing touching her?
My chest eases as he releases her. Then I spot the bottle in his hand—Bud Light, of course—and it tenses again.
"Thanks for coming." His voice is happy drunk. He's already gone. This early.
It's obvious too. He's standing there, all smooth and confident, like he thinks he's smooth and sober.
Am I that obvious?
"You need anything." He points to the bar. "And you, Luna. You're Daisy's friend, right?"
"I'm Luna," she says. "No qualifier needed."
He chuckles. Leans a little closer. Into flirting distance. "Sean's ex?"
"What did I just say?" she teases.
His laugh is lighter this time. "Gorgeous goddess?"
"That one, I'll take." Her red lips curl into a smile. That same shade of deep, slightly pink red.
Fuck, I need to taste that lipstick.
"How about, Luna, mistress of the boom box?" he asks.
"Boom box?" Her brow knits in confusion.
He chuckles, again. "The music." He motions to the stereo setup in the back. "Boom box is something we used to say in the old days."
"How old are you turning?" She shoots him an I don't buy it expression. "You don't look forty."
"It's the plastic surgery. Does wonders," he says.
She laughs. "I can see that." She reaches out. Touches him. Her fingers on his jaw.
I have to press my palm into my thigh to keep from grabbing her.
"Well, give me his number," she says. "In case I need it."
"Oh no, I can't allow anyone to mar perfection." He smiles, pure charm.
She smiles back, endeared. Or pretending. Or trying to make me jealous.
Is she that petty?
Am I that desperate to believe I matter to her?
"I hope you like eighteen-year-olds singing about getting dumped," I say.
He nods. "My favorite genre." He presses his hands to his heart. "You know me. Love the pain."
I guess. He does have an ex he isn't over.
But the guy alternates between sunny and stormy like that. One day he's bouncing, flirting with every cute girl in sight. The next, he's hiding behind his hoodie and headphones, completely blocking out the world.
I always noticed, but I never through much of it. People are who they are.
They don't change.
Only I…
Fuck, I don't know.
"I better go with you." I reach for her reflexively. Try to stop myself. But I'm too slow, my hand skims her waist.
Her cheeks flame with anger.
I pull my hand to my side. "So you pick something good."
"No grunge, Ollie, we need to bring the mood up, not down." She blows Patrick a kiss. "Happy birthday."
"I hope that doesn't count as my birthday kiss," he says.
She smiles who do you take me for? Takes a half-step toward him. Places her hand on his chest. Rises to her tiptoes.
Kisses him.
His fucking cheek.
But still.
My fingers curl into fists. My heart thuds against my chest.
No fucking way.
Only there's every fucking way. I don't have a say. I've barely spoken to her. I don't have any right to tell her what to do.
She waves another goodbye to Patrick, turns, saunters to the stereo.
It's connected to his laptop. To some streaming service.
She bends over, places her palms on the table, focuses intently on her selection.
Fuck, she has a perfect ass. It's impossible to look away.
I try, but my eyes refuse. They stay on her as the music shifts—some popular singer who's on the radio twenty-four seven.
As she rises.
As she turns to me with a look of righteous indignation.
She is pissed. But that's not fair.
She's avoiding me too.
She had the chance to say I know we can't but I don't care.
And I—
Fuck, I'm the one who kissed her then stopped it. Of course, she's pissed.
I should let her go. Let her mingle. Stay the fuck away.
For a moment, I stay in place.
She holds my gaze, waiting for me to react, say something, somehow explain.
But I don't know what she wants me to explain. So I let her move forward. Let her brush past me on her way to the bar.