Happy Place(40)

As long as I’ve known him, Parth’s been morally opposed to chain restaurants. Probably because, like me, he grew up in the suburban Midwest and those were the only offerings at hand. Personally, I find chains comforting. You know exactly what to expect, no huge surprises. Chain restaurants are the Murder, She Wrote reruns of the food industry.

Wyn leans past me to plop his half-downed margarita onto the table. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he says, hoisting me out of his lap. “This is Harriet’s and my song.”

I’m sure I look baffled. Our friends certainly do.

He gives me no chance to argue, just grabs my hand and pulls me into the crowd, Sabrina’s voice trailing after us, “How the fuck is Vitamin C’s ‘Graduation’ their song?”





13





REAL LIFE

Tuesday


WE SETTLE ON the dance floor, in front of the stage. Stiffly, I ring my arms around his neck and let him draw me in close, partly because Cleo’s watching us and partly because at least this way, I don’t have to look at his face.

“You’re playing dirty,” I say.

“Me?” he replies. “You just gave me a lap dance.”

“I did not,” I say, “and I will never.”

“Doesn’t Wyn’s hair look sexy like this?” he parrots in a breathy voice.

“I didn’t say sexy. When did I say sexy?”

“You did the voice. I knew what you meant.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m playing my part.”

“What part is that? Marilyn Monroe singing ‘Happy birthday, Mr. President’?”

“The part where I’m supposed to be in love with you,” I say.

He stiffens slightly. “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t remember this all that well, but back when you were in love with me, you didn’t often straddle me in public.”

“Well, considering I haven’t straddled you tonight either,” I say, “one can only assume you’re employing reverse psychology right now. Sorry, Wyn. It’s not going to happen.”

He scoffs but has no comeback.

We angrily sway to the music for a few more seconds.

“We’re really not going to talk about what happened in the cellar?” he says.

“Nothing happened in the cellar,” I remind him.

“So you don’t have any thoughts about what almost happened.”

Something he said a long time ago pops into my mind. “Tumbleweeds,” I say. “Rolling through my brain.”

He shakes his head once, the side of his mouth brushing my temple.

“Graduation” has ended. Someone’s singing “Wicked Game” now, someone who can actually sing. Not as well as Chris Isaak, but well enough to make the song appropriately devastating and inappropriately sexy. It’s the kind of auditory hard-right turn common to karaoke nights but less than ideal for these specific circumstances.

Kimmy and Cleo have moved onto the dance floor, only a few feet away from us. Wyn takes the opportunity to twirl me; I take the opportunity to get a deep breath of air that smells a little less like his heady mix of pine and clove. Then he brings me back closer, stomach to stomach and chest to chest, so he can murmur in my ear: “So. The heels, the dress, the Etsy-spell face, the new appreciation for facial hair—any other big changes I should be aware of?”

My fingers catch the ends of his hair, and once again, goose bumps rise up along his top few vertebrae. I thrill at having the power to stir at least some reaction in him. He might’ve shaken me up in the cellar—and his life may be so much better without me in it—but that doesn’t mean he’s any more immune to this thing between us than I am.

“The coffee-table book,” I say evenly. “The beard, the hair, the constant texting. Anything else I should know?”

As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. I know how quickly he scrubbed me out of his life; I don’t want to know how fast he got the shrapnel out of his heart.

His gaze darkens, prying into mine, searching for the answer to some unspoken question. His grip on my waist loosens, his palms gliding down a few inches to settle on my hips. His lips press together. “I guess not,” he says.

When the song ends, we stay locked together for a few seconds, unspeaking, unmoving. Finally, we let go.



* * *



? ? ?

WHEN WE GET back to the table, Sabrina has claimed another chair. Before I can take it, Wyn sits and hauls me across his lap without hesitation.

The message is clear: if I keep upping the ante, he’ll keep matching the bet.

I’m in no mood to fold. I press myself against his chest and let my fingers find their way back into his silky hair.

He responds by sliding one hand up the outside of my thigh, the heat of his palm burning through the red chiffon. My pulse seems to drop straight down between my thighs. He nuzzles into the side of my neck, not quite kissing me but letting his lips drag over the sensitive skin on a slow inhale and exhale.

“Could I get a glass of white wine?” I yelp as our server appears with the six orders of fries Sabrina put in.

“Sure thing,” he says, mostly avoiding looking at my and Wyn’s ridiculous display before turning to scurry back toward the bar.