Page 102 of The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

I gulp my beer. Am I crazy, or is something very odd going on?

“I have to go to the bathroom.” I hop off my barstool and look at Lali. “Want to come?”

She hesitates, glances at Sebastian, and puts down her beer. “Sure.”

“Is it my imagination or is Sebastian acting weird?” I ask from the stall.

“I haven’t noticed anything.”

“Come on. He’s being really strange.” When I come out of the stall, Lali is standing by the sink, staring at herself in the discolored mirror as she fluffs her hair.

She won’t look at me. “Maybe it’s because he’s been away.”

“Do you think something happened? While he was on vacation? Maybe he met another girl.”

“Maybe.”

This is not the proper response. The correct answer is: no. No way. He’s crazy about you. Or something along those lines.

“So you guys went to The Emerald last night,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Did he mention anything about another girl?”

“No.” She fusses with a strand of hair on the back of her neck.

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know. We had a drink. He wanted to get out of the house. I did too. So—”

“Yeah.” I nod, desperate to know more. Which songs they listened to and what they drank and whether or not they danced. I want to probe her, get inside her brain and find out exactly what happened. But I can’t. I don’t want to hear something I know I can’t handle.

When we return, The Mouse is deep in conversation with Sebastian. “What are you guys talking about?” I ask.

“You,” Sebastian says, turning to me with uncharacteristic seriousness.

“What about me?” I laugh lightly.

“How hard it is for you,” he says.

Not this again. “It’s not that hard,” I say dismissively. I finish my beer and order another. Then I order a shot.

“Let’s all have shots,” Sebastian says.

The thought of alcohol lightens the mood. We lift our shot glasses and clink—to the new year, to the summer ahead, to our futures. Sebastian smokes a cigarette with his arm around my shoulder. The Mouse talks to Lali. I lean in to Sebastian, sharing his cigarette. “Is anything wrong?”

“What do you mean?” He takes a drag of his cigarette, turning his head away, a note of aggression in his tone.

“I don’t know. You’re acting sort of funny.”

“Really? I think you’re the one who’s acting weird.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stares at me wide-eyed.

I back down. “Maybe I am. All the stuff with Dorrit—”