Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(51)

No one’s ever written a song about a girl who collects barf bags. And no one ever will.

I press my champagne glass to my cheek, willing the chill to ground me.

“I do,” I tell Dee. “We are…friends. I guess.”

“Ah…” Dee gives me a knowing look and smiles. “Understood.” She lifts both hands up, a sign of surrender. I smile back at her, feeling guilty about the string of violent urges I was having just a few seconds ago but grateful for her backing down nonetheless.

I should thank Aunt Carol for introducing me to Dee. It may not be the love connection that she intended, but now I know that even though the thought of explaining myself to Matthew makes me sick, the thought of losing him to someone else makes me sicker.

No more avoiding. No more lying.

“It was nice meeting you,” I tell Dee, downing the rest of my almost-full glass and beelining straight over to Matthew before I lose the courage, stopping only to grab another flute from a serving tray.

“Hi,” I say as I approach him in the back corner of the room, where he sits on the edge of the windowsill. I watch, mesmerized, as his thumbs mess around with the buttons on his camera. At the sound of my voice, he looks up.

“Hey.” The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. His eyes have softened since we last spoke. I position myself directly in front of him and lightly kick his foot with my own.

“I don’t know why I just did that,” I confess.

“You’re drunk,” he says with a chuckle.

“I’m slightly tipsy,” I correct him.

He reaches out and grabs my hips. “You’re swaying.”

My breath hitches in my throat at the feeling of his hands on me. “I’m not swaying. The room is moving.”

And then he smiles. A beaming, lopsided, perfect smile.

I sit down next to him and start to cry.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a slightly panicked edge to his voice. “What did I say?”

My knee bounces up and down nervously.

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” I tell him, and the words start spilling out. “You’re so great, Matthew, and I’m so sorry that I lied to you.”

My head swims as I try to recall the speech I rehearsed with Sandy on the phone earlier. It all comes out in a breathless jumble.

“I have this thing. This anxiety. I get nervous about dates. In a pukey sort of way that is not at all attractive.”

My leg stops shaking, and I realize it’s because Matthew’s hand is on my knee, steadying it. I will myself to keep going, despite this burning distraction.

“That’s why I lied to you. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to see you. It’s because I get too panicky. I understand if you want to stop talking to me. You deserve someone who will show up. Someone like Dee.”

I breathe, finally. Matthew stares at me inquisitively, brow furrowed, probably trying to figure out how it’s taken him so long to realize I am insane.

Casually, as if I haven’t just revealed myself to be a complete freak of nature, he reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, running a calloused thumb across Bev. My heart shoots to my throat, and I almost have trouble responding when he asks, “Who’s Dee?”

The room spins slightly as I survey it to find her.

“Over there.” I point to the petite blonde restocking her tray of drinks at the bar. “She told me she thought you were cute. You should be with someone like her.”

He cocks his head to the side, squinting at me. “But I don’t like Dee, Phoebe. I like you.”

Champagne bubbles float around my stomach.

I don’t like Dee, Phoebe. I like you.

“But did you hear what I said?” I ask. “About panicking? And the puking?”

“Yes.” He chuckles. “I heard you. I wish you had just told me that to begin with. We could have figured something out. And if you think about it, this isn’t much different than a date right now, is it? Just two people talking. And you’re completely fine.”

“That’s because I’m drunk,” I tell him. Which is true. I’d probably have run off by now if my body wasn’t primarily composed of alcohol. I should be taking advantage of this drunken burst of confidence. After all, I haven’t ruined this.

There’s still a chance.

“Come with me.” I stand, grabbing Matthew’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Where are we going?” he asks, looking at me apprehensively but still following my lead.

I guide him to the empty janitor’s closet, ushering him inside and closing the door quickly.

“Phoebe…” he starts, but before he can finish, I’m on my tippy-toes, my hands on either side of his face, pulling his lips to mine.

He pulls away before we make contact.

“Phoebe, no.” He takes my hands in his, lowering them back to my sides while shaking his head. “Not like this.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, gesturing to the shelf full of toilet paper and cleaning supplies adjacent to a broken urinal. “This is perfect. Plus, the characters in my books are always kissing in closets.”

“But you’re drunk.”

“Exactly! This could be our only chance.” A moment passes between us. I step away from him, my back now pressed against the urinal as the realization hits me. “You don’t want to kiss me?”