Page 33 of Friends to Lovers

We both throw our shots back. Diet Bob Dylan launches into an enthusiastic cover of Hilary Duff’s “Why Not.” We listen for a second before Ren asks the all-important question, “Does this song mean anything to any of us?”

“It matters to Stevie, I guess.”

She ballerina leaps around the dance floor, Leo applauding her from the sidelines.

“This isn’t a slow song,” I point out, her moves not exactly matching the music.

“It’s not,” Ren confirms. He takes my plastic shot glass from me and stacks it in his, sets it on a table before he offers me his hand.

I take it, and he pulls me onto the dance floor toward them. I don’t know what comes next, but I let myself enjoy it, a snapshot memory I’ll hold on to forever.

* * *

After another hour at Clyde’s, we make it back to the rental house.

On one side of the living room, Leo starts up a rousing round of charades that Ren and I are not allowed to play because of our prior alleged but totally false cheating scandals, while Sasha curls up on the couch to spectate, eyes sleepy.

Stevie drags me into the kitchen, where she busies herself making what she’s calling a “blended Long Island daiquiri.” I force her to drink two glasses of water and eat a piece of toast as she chatters on.

“It’s going well, don’t you think it’s going well?” she says, all in one mad rush, as she dumps another shot glass of lemonade into the blender. She sniffs it, thinks for a minute, and then adds a glug of Midori Sour that I think she found in one of the rental’s cupboards.

“It’s going well,” I say. “Are you having fun?”

“I’m having fun ,” she says, before she pouts out her lower lip. “I’m sad, though.”

Worry courses through me, warning bells going off and lights flashing. Affectionate Stevie is one thing. Sad drunk Stevie cannot come out at her bachelorette party.

“Why are you sad?” I ask, wary that by merely asking the question I’ll inadvertently unlock the floodgates, but not quite sure how to proceed without having more information.

“I’m sad that the guy back at the bar didn’t know any One Direction!” She half shouts it.

“Was that the song you wanted to dedicate to all of us?”

“Yes,” she says, gripping my wrist with both her hands. “I wanted everyone to dance to the sounds of our youth.”

“Stevie, I hate to break it to you, but I think we were the only two who loved One Direction.”

“That’s not true. Sasha saw Harry Styles in Paris!”

“She did?” I ask, whipping my head to look toward the living room at the same time Stevie shouts, “Fire in the hole!” and turns on the blender without the lid on.

I make another, less offensive, drink for Stevie and turn on One Direction on the Bluetooth speaker. She calls for more games, and we all gather around the dining room table to play Trivial Pursuit, which is missing most of its cards.

By the time we’ve made our way through two albums and the game has disintegrated into reading questions out loud to the group, giving points to whoever can answer, Stevie is yawning.

“I need a nap,” she says.

“Let’s head to bed.” Leo’s hand plays at the top of her head.

“No, just a nap,” she protests, even as her eyelids are fluttering. “I’ll be ready to go after that.”

“Come on, babe,” Leo says, helping her up from her chair.

I head back into the kitchen to tidy things up. Through the small window into the living room, I watch Ren set up two air mattresses, the pump whirring, then make them neatly with the blankets we both brought and found here.

“I can do that,” Sasha says, wandering in behind me.

She leans in the doorway while I scrub some of Stevie’s blender mess off a cupboard.

Sasha has planned the whole wedding, organized this week down to the second, but no matter how good at it she is, it seems like tonight has finally worn her down.

“Maid of honor duty,” I say, turning back to her. “You should go to bed.”

She yawns. “I think we did a pretty good job today.”

“We did a great job today. Thank you, Sasha, seriously. I couldn’t have planned any of this by myself. The wedding is going to be incredible.”

“Oh, sure you could have,” she says, waving a hand before drawing me in to a quick hug. “You head to bed soon too, okay?”

“Oh, I’m just waiting for everyone to rally. We’re heading back to Clyde’s, right?”

She laughs as she leaves the kitchen. I wring the rag I’ve been using into the sink, looking up only when I hear the door to the back deck opening and see Ren slip outside alone.

I focus on the glasses that need to be loaded into the dishwasher, the rest of the kitchen cleanup. By the time I’m done, Sasha is in the bathroom, Thad sprawled across the couch, everyone else in their respective bedrooms.

I grab a sweatshirt from my bag, shrug it on over my dress, then slide the door to the deck open. Ren’s standing at the top of the stairs that lead down to the beach, and he looks back at me just as he puts his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

“I promised the parents I’d check in with them,” he says.

“They’re still awake?” I cross my arms against the slight chill of the night, watch the way the gentle breeze sifts through his hair.

“Seems like they had their own party back at the house. But they’re headed to bed now.

“Tired?” Ren asks after a moment of silence.

“No,” I say. “You?”

“No.” He tips his head in the direction of the beach. “Want to walk?”

I smile. “I’d love that.”

Ren gets a flashlight and his own sweatshirt from inside, a gray one I used to steal when we were in college. There are worn spots at the cuffs where I would jab my thumbs against the inside, hook them there to pull the sleeves down over my hands.

The beam of Ren’s flashlight lights up a path along the beach in front of us, and we gravitate together and apart over the cool sand, arms brushing together and then away and then finding each other again.

“Can I tell you something awful?” I say as the lights of the house fade behind us. We’re one of the few homes still awake on this stretch of beach, the rest of them just shadowy shapes above us.

“I’d love to hear something awful,” he says, voice low even though it doesn’t need to be.

“I’m sure you did such an excellent job setting up those air mattresses,” I say, moderating my own volume to meet his. “But I would kill to sleep on the screen porch tonight.”

Ren’s shoulder jostles mine as he lets out a chuckle. “Can I tell you something awful?” He leans in so his lips are closer to my ear, his hand cupped around them. “Me too.”

“Stevie would be livid if we didn’t participate in the slumber party,” I say.

“Interesting slumber party,” Ren says. “Do most people go off to separate rooms and pass out because they danced too hard to Hilary Duff?”

“She’d just know if we left.”

“She would. I think we’ll do okay on the air mattresses.”

I kick at the sand as the light catches on the edge of a sand dollar. It’s only a half one. “We do have to be well rested for tomorrow,” I say. “Lots of setup to do.”

“I’ve heard hungover is the best way to get anything done.”

“Hey, not us.” I flip around and walk backward. I want to see his face. “We haven’t had anything since those pink shots. What do you think was in those?”

“We make something pretty similar at Sublimity,” Ren says, nose wrinkling. “I think I’m going to shield you from that one until there’s a little more space between us and them.”

“Get a lot of bachelorettes at Sublimity?” I’m still walking backward, and Ren’s eyes drop to my ankles, skim back up my legs.

“We do, shockingly.” He aims his flashlight between us, but I keep my eyes trained on his face. His brow is furrowed, one hand extended my direction, like he’s ready to catch me if I fall.

“Really?” I ask, something about the dark or the pink shots or the week in general making my tongue loose. “The indie music venue with the hot bartender is a real bachelorette destination?”

The heel of my sandal scoops up more sand than I expected. I hardly stumble, but Ren grabs me, tugging me to him with an arm around my waist.

“I’d feel a lot better if we could both face forward while we’re walking on the beach in the pitch dark, Joni,” he says into my shoulder. “This flashlight’s not that strong.”

“Okay, Webster, I’ll face forward. Just for you.” His arm slowly slides from my waist as I spin around, and we continue on in silence.

When we reach a salt-beaten log, we finally stop and sit in the sand, our backs against it.

“Look,” I say, pointing up at the sky above us. “The Summer Triangle.”

Ren follows my finger to the trio of stars. I’ve searched for them every summer since he first showed them to me. Living in New York these past years, where you can’t see the stars, it often felt like a reminder of what we’d lost, like Ren and I were no longer under the same sky.

“Joni,” Ren says.

I look over at him, watch the way his throat bobs, his face only inches from mine. “Last night—” he says, but I don’t want to talk, not about last night or this morning or what happened or anything that exists outside of right now.

I shake my head, and he quiets as I reach up to trace the curve of his jaw, down into the hollow beneath, unable to stop myself from touching him any longer. He closes his eyes for what might only be a second, but I feel it like time has stopped and handed me this precious moment.

I let my fingertips come to rest on his neck until he opens his eyes again.

“I missed you too,” I say, because I worry that we moved on too quickly earlier and it didn’t land, and I need it to have landed. “Of course I did.”

He takes my cheek in his palm, then leans forward and kisses my forehead, leaving his lips there for a minute before pulling back. He examines his hand, a confused smile flitting across his face, and looks up at me.

“What?” I ask, my heart picking up.

“I think I messed up your glitter, Joni,” he whispers.

I smile, and so does he.

Something silent passes between us then, are you sures and yes and it’s us and it’s this , and I know that I’m not making it up this time. When he finally kisses me, it’s steady, certain.

It’s supposed to be impossible, being with Ren like this.

We are just friends again, and I should be afraid of what this will do, should consider the fact that this is the time of night when bad decisions are made.

But none of that strikes me as very important when I twist my body toward his and his hand falls to my hip, hoisting me up and onto his lap.

I melt into him, my hand sliding up his chest, then pausing at all the important spots: over his heart, the pulse point in his neck, the back of his hair.

My knees rest on either side of him, and I press down slightly, eliciting a quiet groan from him that sends a line sinking through me, tying my center to his lips, his tongue, to the hands that skim the outsides of my thighs, the fingers just reaching under the hem of my dress.

Suddenly, he pulls away again.

“What?” I ask, frozen, worried that he’s changed his mind.

His grip tightens on my hips, keeping me in place. “I promise this isn’t what I meant by walk ,” he says.

I kiss him again, smile against his lips. “Well, for future reference, this might be the best walk I’ve ever been on.”