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I lean back against the railing, tilting my body and lifting one leg just to give him a glimpse of my hip and thigh through the sheer lace panel, and I smirk right into the camera, head tilted, lips parted—just like I’d look at him if he were here right now, ifhewas the one lounging in a VIP booth andIwas straddling his lap.

Elle snaps the picture, then hands me the phone.

Emboldened and elated, I type out a text, backspace, rewrite, backspace, rewrite, fingers and brain refusing to cooperate or at least coordinate. Elle’s chin is on my shoulder, her blonde hair half-obscuring me, laughing so hard she’s barely breathing as I mutter, “Why is texting so hard?”

“Because you’re drunk, baby.”

When I finally manage to type a message that’s totally free of mistakes, I turn the screen to Elle.

“Well? What do you think?”

She nods, delighted, and before I can stop her, she reaches over my shoulder and presses Send.

For a second, we both hold our breaths, waiting for the text to pop into a bubble that means it’s out there. The bubble pops, and I almost drop my phone. We both scream, half-shock, half-laughter, collapse against each other, and scramble back towards the club like we’ve committed a federal crime.

“You’re a fucking menace,” I squeal into Elle’s hair, gripping her arm as she drags me inside, cackling. “I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, please,” she replies. “I just did what you were too chicken-shit to do.”

I want to be mad. I really do.

But beneath the sheer shock and terror of what we’ve just done, there’s something else, an incandescent elation bubbling up in my chest, blowing my ribcage wide open with light and space and shining, goldenhope.

37

Wrong Number

Evan

I spend Valentine’s Daywith Matt.

This isn’t a development either of us saw coming. Earlier this week, a shipment of books that was supposed to be on its way to major university bookstores vanished from the distributor’s tracking system. This means me and Matt are spending our evening calling up warehouses and combing through shipping manifests.

Since we’re the only two people without Valentine’s Day plans, we were both pretty quickly volunteered up for overtime.

Neither of us kicked up a fuss, and I’m pretty sure that we both notice that about each other, and we must both come to the same conclusion about each other’s love lives because this is the first time Matt’s gone more than one hour without making a jab at me, my work or what I’m wearing.

We’re working in silence and picking at slices of pizza that have long gone cold when my phone buzzes. I pick it up, expecting something from a warehouse or distributor, and I freeze.

Matt looks up, frowning, and asks through a mouthful of pizza. “What’s that look for? Did your stocks crash or something?”

My phone drops from my frozen fingers, clatters to the table. Matt picks it up, eyes wide.

“Oh shit. What now?” He glares at me. “I can’t take more bad news, man. Not tonight.”

And then he looks at my phone.

For a second, we both just stare at my screen in stunned silence.

At the photo of Sophie, braced against curly iron railings, head tilted slightly back. She’s wearing the tiniest dress imaginable, the outline of her waist, hip and thigh visible beneath the sheer lace at the sides. Her hair is in a severe ponytail, and she’s wearing her thick-framed glasses, her black blazer, heels and lipstick the colour of crushed ripe cherries.

“What the fuck,” Matt whispers finally. “You’re really sitting here on Valentine’s Day whenthisis your girl?”

“She’s not my girl,” I say quietly, eyes still on the photo, on Sophie’s expression, commanding and a little wicked, the flush in her cheeks and the dull spark in her eyes that tells me she’s been drinking.

“Can’t you read?” He lifts the phone up to my face so I can look close, as if my eyes aren’t already glued to the screen. “She’s literally telling you to come get her.”

I shake my head slowly. “She’s just drunk.”