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It's going to be a long night and an even longer ride home. I’m tempted to tell Nola to go on without me since this isn’t where she wants to be. She doesn’t need to stay here on my behalf or even my sisters'. There’s always the excuse of having to study, so I’m not sure why she doesn’t use it now.
My next beer comes, and I immediately order another. I sit back and watch everyone dance to a song I wrote and am singing on. I’m pretty damn proud of what Justine and I created.
“Are you planning to get drunk?”
I don’t bother to look at her. “Yep.”
“Lovely.”
Elle comes to the table, grabs my hand, and forces me to stand. “It’s your song, Quinny! Everyone loves it.”
I glance at Nola, and it’s like another kick in the gut when I see the realization all over her face. She was so engrossed in her phone she didn’t even realize her fiancé’s song was playing.
FIVE
Nola and I exist. It’s the best way to explain our living situation. She goes to school, and I go to band practice. When we’re home, we sit and watch TV and act like this is normal.
Well, not exactly normal.
Normal would be her sitting next to me, us cuddled under a blanket even when it’s a hundred degrees outside.
The new normal is me asking if she wants to watch something and her agreeing and sitting at the other end of the sofa, angled away from me so I can’t see her texting her “mom.”
She must think I’m a real idiot if she thinks I’m buying this mom crap. No one texts their mother as much as she does. I like to think I know everything about her—her body language and tells—and I know that whenever she’s texted or spoken to her mom previously, it has never included flirty giggles or smiles.
Nola used to show me the funny memes her mom would send her, but it’s been ages since she’s shown me anything.
It’s been ages . . . well, since everything. Most noticeably since the reception. That was our turning point. I know Elle is a handful; she always has been. But for Nola to act that way during her and Ben’s reception is inexcusable.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to keep my tone friendly. I look at her, sitting over there in the corner with her knees pulled up. Her hair is in a messy bun, her finger is in her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s biting her nail or doing that whole play-with-your-lower-lip thing Elle tells me to do while I’m on stage.
“Just reading,” she says without taking her eyes off her phone.
Okay, so she’s reading. At least she’s not texting. I suppose that’s a win for me right now.
“Do you want to go out tonight?” I ask. “Hit a club or two along the strip?” This isn’t my thing. In fact, unless I have a gig, I’d rather never go to Hollywood. Nothing good happens on that stretch of road, where the nightclubs are, but Nola likes it. She likes to go dancing, so I’m compromising with her.
“No thanks.”
“No? I just offered to take you to a club, and you don’t want to? Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. Why?” she asks as she looks up.
I give her my best dazzling smile—the one she has said makes her weak in the knees—but this time it doesn’t seem to faze her. Maybe I should just say fuck it and go myself. I’d hate every minute, but it would send a message.
“I don’t know. I just asked if you want to go out to one of those clubs you like, and said no.”
“It’s because I know you wouldn’t have a good time, and when you don’t have a good time, I don’t. Then the night seems like a hassle.”
Okay, she’s not wrong.
“Do you want to do something else?”
“Like what?”
Gah, I already suggested the club. Now I have to come up with something else. I sigh and run my hand over my hair. My mom made me cut it before the wedding, saying the shaggy,unkempt look isn’t really a thing anymore. It still takes me by surprise when I go to pull the wispy bits I usually have at the nape at my neck and find it’s been shaved instead.
“I don’t know. Do you want to go for a ride? We can cruise the coastline and stop at that clam shack you like so much.”