Page 45 of Friends to Lovers

chapter twenty-eight

“I have to hand it to her,” Stevie says, elbows on the table as we watch Sasha and Alex on the dance floor, the chandelier light above casting a glow on the sheer sleeves of her dress, the last chorus of the song wrapping up.

“This might be the only New Year’s Eve I’ve actually enjoyed.

” She draws her fingers through the rose gold confetti scattered over the white tablecloths.

Everything is sparkly, strands of tiny paper stars dripping down from the white- and champagne-colored balloons floating against the coffered ceiling. “She knows how to plan a wedding.”

“Maybe she can plan yours,” I say. “You are going to marry Leo, right?” She’s been on her phone again all night, was still on it last night when I woke up randomly to grab water.

She glowers at me, but before I can tease her more, there’s a hand on my shoulder, warm lips hovering close to my ear. “Will you dance with me?” Ren asks.

I look to where couples are rising from their tables as the first dance applause dies down, a Lord Huron song now coming through the speakers.

“Careful,” Stevie says wryly as I stand, my hand in Ren’s. “Everyone will think you’re dating.”

“Call Leo,” I say. “Sasha told you to invite him earlier.” As soon as Sasha heard Stevie was vaguely interested in anyone, even someone she’d met a mere forty-eight hours prior, she’d insisted he come to the wedding.

It was a testament to how happy Sasha was this weekend that she would complicate her meticulous plans, even in this minor way.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Stevie says, getting up and brushing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to the bar.”

On the dance floor, I settle my wrists over Ren’s shoulders, his hands falling lower on my waist than usual.

“Careful,” I say, glancing around.

He slides his hands half an inch up. “What if I don’t want to be careful, Joni,” he whispers, sending goose bumps along with it.

Our hips sway together, and I bite my lip as he again inches up.

“How about now?” he asks suggestively.

I slit my eyes at him, but can’t keep a straight face when his palms suddenly fly up to my shoulder blades, full middle-school dance height.

“Point made,” I say.

He lowers them to a respectable spot on my waist, leaves them there.

“So how do you propose we spend midnight?” I ask.

“Stairs, hallway, duck under a table,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of each. He smiles at my laugh. “Tell everyone we’re just so sad we don’t have anyone else to kiss that we decided to kiss each other as friends. Make it our origin story.”

“A man with a plan.”

“I just got you,” he says. “You think we’re going to miss our first New Year’s together because our families don’t know yet?”

His words expand in my chest.

Twenty minutes before midnight, I leave Ren with Thad and Gemi and run to the bathroom.

My cheeks are flushed, limbs loose. I feel it—a contentedness flooding through me that would have unnerved me before, some worry that being so happy meant it could be taken away.

But it’s a beautiful wedding, I’m surrounded by the people I love, and Ren and I are going to figure this out.

In the bathroom, a woman with bleached blond hair is sitting on the counter, scrubbing at one side of her mouth. “Fucking lip liner ,” she slurs as I wash my hands.

I offer her an apologetic look and head back in the direction of the stairs, fifteen minutes to go, dodging the line that’s grown longer at coat check, people preparing to walk out to the balcony or the sidewalk to watch the fireworks.

As I’m about to round the corner to the stairs, a familiar voice drifts toward me with the snippets of music floating out of the ballroom.

“We’re so proud of you,” Hannah is saying. I can just make out her left elbow, her back to me, but I can’t see who else she’s talking to. Something about her voice, the way it’s slightly hushed, stops me in my tracks. “You’ve worked so hard for this.”

“Sure.” This is Ren, his voice my favorite sound in the world, like the type of song he once described to me: one that’s made a home in you, but also feels new every time.

Greg chimes in. “So what exactly does an A&R manager do at a record label?” he asks.

My heart gives an overjoyed leap. Ren got the job. Ren got the job he’s wanted for so long, the one he almost gave up on.

I’m ready to round the corner, too excited to care that I’ve been eavesdropping, eager to celebrate, but I falter when I hear Hannah’s voice again.

“Have you told Amanda yet?” she asks. My palms go clammy.

“No,” Ren says evenly. “Because Amanda and I aren’t together anymore, Mom.”

“But she was so nice,” she coos, the sound abrasive. “I know I’m a broken record, but she was just such a good fit for you, honey. And with this job offer…” She trails off.

For the first time, I worry how Hannah would feel about Ren and me as more than friends.

If I would be the partner she’d want for him, or if she wanted someone who didn’t need to be calmed, who was more self-assured.

But while I don’t know the specifics of their breakup, Ren did allude to Amanda not thinking his job was serious enough.

Someone who feels that way can’t be the right fit for him.

I’m about to leave them to the rest of their conversation, find another way back into the ballroom when she says, “So you’re really not going to take it?”

I freeze.

“There are record labels on the East Coast, Mom,” Ren says.

“I just don’t know why you’re suddenly running off,” Hannah says. “You finally get this job you’ve worked so hard for and now you’re, what? Deciding you don’t want it? Sweetie, this is your moment. You can’t be a bartender forever.”

“I’m not—” Ren starts, but I’ll never know what he was going to say.

“If you’re moving for Joni—” Hannah says, breaking off. “You can’t base your whole life around your best friend.”

I’ve heard enough. I spin away, hurry down the hall, and slam my way back into the bathroom.

The same woman from earlier is still in the midst of reapplying her lip liner.

It looks like she’s wiped it off and tried again several times.

She eyes me in the reflection, one razor-thin eyebrow raised. “You good?” she asks.

I’m wringing my hands and pacing, so clearly not good that her question prompts a small bark of laughter out of me. “Yep,” I say, before locking myself into a stall.

Ren. Ren is giving up his dream job. For me.

I think back to Sublimity the other night, when he said he wasn’t offered the position even after successfully scouting a band in Boston. I think about the strange expression that moved across his face.

I stand, clenching my fists at my sides, trying to breathe in a steady rhythm.

I can’t let him do this. This is his whole life, everything he’s worked for.

Earlier I was desperate to talk about the future, how things would work.

But now I’m only wondering if he would have even told me about the job or just given it up without mentioning it at all, just told me he needed a change of scenery and was ready to move to New York.

I think, for a minute, that maybe Hannah is right.

Ren deserves a relationship with someone in the same place, a house and weekends together and a future, instead of phone calls and cross-country flights and missed connections and time lost and no end in sight.

I hold one clammy palm to my equally clammy chest, where I can feel my pulse skipping erratically. The bathroom door swings open and closed, the sound of heels tapping against the tile. For some inexplicable reason, I hold my breath.

“Joni?” Stevie says.

I stiffen. It’s almost midnight by now, and Ren is probably searching for me, wondering what happened. People will be heading outside to watch fireworks, arms around each other, and I’m supposed to be there with him, in some place where we can keep this whole thing secret.

“I can see your feet,” Stevie says. “Why are you just standing in a stall?” She exchanges a low murmur with the woman at the sink before she raps on the door. “Joni, come out.”

I almost don’t open the door. Maybe I can sit in this stall forever. But when Stevie knocks again, I unlock it, let it swing pathetically open, because I know she won’t just give up and go away.

I don’t know exactly what my face looks like, but when Stevie sees it, her eyebrows slant with worry. “What is it?” she asks.

I just shake my head.

“Come here,” she says, leading me out of the stall and sitting me down on the couch across from the mirrors.

I no longer care that five feet away from us there’s a drunk woman applying lip liner like she’s a baboon and someone dropped the pencil into her enclosure.

“Tell me,” Stevie says, her knees angled toward mine, hand squeezing my limp one.

“I—” It’s all I can get out, blood rushing to my ears. “I can’t.”

“Are you sick?” she asks. “Did something happen?”

I let out a small burst of a laugh. Everything happened. I fell in love with my best friend and didn’t recognize it until our time was already running out. I wasn’t smart enough to stop it before everything imploded. “I can’t do this,” I say.

“Can’t do what?” Stevie asks gently. I look at her a moment, willing her to know, to read my mind. She leans back like she does, or at least suspects. We haven’t been that careful these past few days, after all. “Joni, no,” she says.