Page 17

seventeen

I like the backseat.

It’s still a bit of a newer feeling to be part of a comfortable friendship where I don’t feel ignored or left out. It’s nice to just sit here and obsessively gnaw on my thumbnail while Em and Mads discuss which bar to go to between their two favorites.

“What do you think?” Mads glances at me in the rearview mirror, making eye contact for a split second before her gaze flicks back to the road.

“I think I’m just along for the ride, so I don’t have that much of a preference,” I admit. Though I’d still rather be at home with takeout and watching an all night marathon of Cheaters that always feels way more dramatic than it needs to be.

“Then she’s voting with me,” Em says sweetly, and flashes me a grin. She’s not always this assertive with her opinions—unless she has strong ones or ulterior motives—but I definitely don’t mind tonight. Em’s idea of a good time is a lot tamer than anything Mads will come up with. If I vote with her, we’ll end up at some low-key bar with a chill atmosphere versus something I’m not emotionally prepared for.

Like a fetish club, complete with dungeon monitors and kink demonstrations.

Not that I’d mind it that much, but it still isn’t something I’m in the mood for tonight when I’m still pretty committed to my internal pity party and sulk fest.

“Let’s go to Revival Room,” Em suggests after another minute or so of Mads’ surprisingly careful driving. I trust her more than myself, and more than Em, which is saying something since she’s normally so reckless.

But I suppose being in a nearly life-ending accident when you’re sixteen will do that to a person and make them a hell of a defensive driver for the rest of their life.

I blink once, then again, looking out the window as Em’s suggestion finally sinks in. “ Revival Room ?” I repeat. It’s definitely not what I expected from her. “Are you sure? Because I might retract my vote if that’s where you’re really suggesting.” I have no real issue with Revival Room.

It’s just…

“Nah, you already agreed to vote with her.” Mads chuckles and slides into the turn lane to get off on the next street. We’re close enough that she barely has to backtrack, and within minutes she pulls into the parking lot behind the stone and garden-themed building. Revival Room’s back patio, with its chairs and outside bar, is such a stark contrast to the inside, but I can still appreciate the pretty decor and even the fountain outside the gate.

Anticipation, along with something like excitement, comes to life in my stomach, surprising me. It’s not that I hate socializing, or the outside world. But I didn’t think I cared enough to be excited about this tonight.

“Revival Room it is,” I murmur to myself as I unbuckle my seatbelt. Following Em and Mads out of the car, I submit to Em doing a once over and tugging the pieces of my outfit back to where they should be before running her fingers through my hair.

Though I haven’t said it out loud, I’m pretty pleased with what Mads picked out for me. The night is mild enough that I’m not cold in my black band tee that’s twisted into a knot just below my chest, showing off inches of midriff before my high-waisted black denim shorts hug my hips. Black tights and boots, plus a chain with two hearts on the ends around my neck, complete the outfit.

It’s hard to stop myself from playing with the necklace like a slip collar, especially when it’s so easy to loop my finger in the heart and pull on it to tighten the chain firmly around my throat.

“You should wear heavier eye makeup like this more often,” Em tells me, surveying my face. With black eyeliner, mascara, and black shadow, I really represent one color tonight. Which I’m more than okay with, seeing as I will always live by the adage that you cannot have too much black.

I scoff though, and close the car door with my hip to walk with both of them toward the front of the bar. “That would require me leaving the house and subjecting myself to more social situations than I usually do,” I point out wryly, which makes Mads snort in agreement.

We quickly make it through the door, and not for the first time, I’m hit with the aggressive atmosphere change from the outside of Revival Room to the inside. Whereas the outside reminds me of a nice, drunken garden party with cute tables and some wrought iron accents, the inside is, for lack of a better word, bright.

Neon lights illuminate the room in sections. Blue for the entry, purple for the open area of the main space, and bright-ass pink over the bar. It shines through the crystal chandeliers hanging over the bar, giving them almost a stained-glass look, and a darker shade of pink glows from the underside of the glossy, black granite of the bar top.

It’s just as packed as I expected it to be, and I steel myself for the inevitable bumping into people and apologizing profusely, politely, and probably needlessly. From beside me, I can feel the anticipation of my friends. I know this is their thing, and they come here to unwind after work way more than I do.

Their excitement is a little infectious, I have to admit. Without protest, I let Mads drag me to the bar, where she orders us a round of shots that arrive almost instantly, to my surprise. But then again, Mads knows how to get our orders quickly at other bars. Maybe all bartenders recognize each other by some secret sign, I think to myself as she hands me my small shot glass and manage not to slosh liquor over my fingers.

“To you finding a guy to get you over the last one,” she toasts, a friendly, if suggestive, grin on her lips. “And getting you tipsy enough to forget about your shitty family.”

Grimacing, I quickly shoot my drink, the sharp burn of vodka sliding down my throat as I toss it back. “Thanks for reminding me.” I shudder, unable to help the reaction when it’s been a while since I’ve had straight liquor without something fruity to stop me from remembering exactly what’s in it. The next shot is easier, though, and I’m able to not give such a visible reaction when I down the liquid.

I don’t want to seem like a pansy, after all. Not in front of my friends.

Mads is quick to drag me out to the middle of the room, and I can’t help but cackle when both of my friends force me to dance with them. It’s nothing like the people around us. Especially the couples, but soon enough, I can’t help but admit I’m glad they brought me out here, instead of letting me stay at home. I’m happy I hadn’t barred my door and kept myself on the sofa with takeout and Cheaters .

It takes a few minutes for the warmth of the alcohol to kick in. And I don’t really notice until I’m giggling along with the two of them, unable to keep myself from laughing at every stupid little thing around me or in my head.

“I’m going to the bar!” I laugh finally, when I’m out of breath and I can feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead. But when they offer to come with me, I shake my head and gesture for them to stay. I’m not a baby. I can go to the bar by myself and get a drink or maybe just wither away on the spot.

Both seem to be pretty valid options.

Thankfully, just as I get there, a couple leaves, heading toward the door with the woman in the lead dragging the other woman along while both of them snicker and laugh, wrapped up in each other. It’s sweet.

It’s enviable, and I huff when I flop down on an empty bar stool, my feet barely skimming the floor under me.

“Can I just get a Sprite?” I ask, knowing that if I have much more alcohol, I’ll be just as sloppy as my friends predicted. I need to be the mostly sober one, because I’m sure I’ll be dragging them back to my house later and depositing them on my couch like sacks of potatoes.

The bartender isn’t quite as quick with me as he had been with Mads, but that’s pretty much expected. When he finally slides the Sprite my way across the bar, it happens just as a man sits down next to me, his cologne greeting me before he turns to smile sweetly at me.

He’s not Huxley.

That’s the first thought to cross my mind, but I push it away. I can’t do that if I’m going to forget he exists like I need to. I smile back, gazing at him, and taking in his kind blue eyes, slightly too large nose, and curly, dark blond hair. He’s cute. He really is.

He might even be my type if I let myself believe it.

“Please don’t think I’m a creep or a stalker,” he begins, his smile turning apologetic. “I’m not, I swear. I bumped into you over there with your friends and, uh, I’ve been hoping to get the chance to talk to you.”

“Should I apologize?” I ask. Settling my chin on my hand, I gaze up at him with my vision only slightly blurred at the edges from the liquor. “Since I know we were being a little crazy, and it was probably me that ran into you.”

God, I’m such a lightweight it’s unreal. But at least I know my own limits, I suppose, and I know not to push past it. I could get one more shot, or a mixed drink, if I’m really feeling frisky. If I have any more than that, someone will have to cart me up off the floor and out of here in a wheelbarrow.

“Never.” His smile widens, eyes bright with however much alcohol he’s had already. “I’m Eric.” The bartender brings him a beer that I work hard not to curl my nose up at. I’m not a beer drinker. Not one bit, and I hate the smell of it on a guy’s breath.

Not that I intend to be kissing him anytime soon.

At least, that’s what I think until I look up and meet Mads’ eyes across the room. She’s grinning, and shoots me a thumbs up along with a signal of approval from Em as they see me talking to Eric. Okay, fine, then I probably won’t be kissing him, unless this gets better in the next few minutes.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but that’s cheesy,” he adds, and my eyes flick back to his as I smile at his words.

“Not to mention, this is Sprite,” I admit with a shake of the glass in my hand. “And I’m Kaira. Just Kai, though.”

“Like Sprite and vodka, Kaira ?”

“No, like, just Sprite. We had a few shots when we got here, and I’m a lightweight.” I’m also a little more talkative when I’m tipsy, but I figure rambling about my lack of drinking skills isn’t that big of a deal.

“I think this is where I make small talk. I ask you how your night is going and then lead up to asking if you have a boyfriend or anything.” He’s getting a bit more confident with every word, but I can’t decide how I feel about it. Nothing in me is particularly drawn to him, but he’s not the worst guy I’ve ever talked to at a bar. “But, uh, could we skip that and get to where I tell you that you’re really pretty and I like your shirt?” He glances down and my gaze follows him to where the knotted material has ridden up to be just under my breasts instead of covering more of my stomach.

Suddenly, I feel a little self-conscious. “I, umm. Thanks.” Trying not to be obvious, I adjust my shirt so it’s back down some. I don’t know why I care. It’s not like he’s insulting me, but I also know he doesn’t actually like my shirt.

He just likes how little it covers.

Sure enough, there’s a touch of disappointment on his face when I do it, though he quickly replaces it with another too-bright smile. He’s not bad, I remind myself. He’s just the typical guy I should expect to find here.

And already, that’s a bit of a turnoff for me.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I ignore it. It would be rude, I figure, to look at a text while Eric is telling me all about the beer he’s drinking, even though I didn’t ask and I frankly could not care less about micro breweries or IPAs.

I’m really not a beer connoisseur.

When my phone vibrates again, however, I realize it might be Mads or Em needing something. Most likely they’re just checking in. Most likely, they don’t really want anything except to remark on Eric or to make sure I’m okay. But if I don’t answer, they might come over here themselves…which wouldn’t be all bad, now that I think about it.

But I find myself smiling apologetically, not that Eric stops his little TED Talk on hops, and I fish my phone out of my pocket to flip it over, pressing the side button to illuminate the screen.

It’s a text message all right, but it’s not from Mads or Em.

It’s from Huxley.

Fix your face, pretty girl. Or he’s going to realize you aren’t interested.