“It’s just the first round,” Red Clogs said. “We’ll get into the groove.”
“Maybe if Gabe actually started playing,” Adrienne said, tossing us a look that was both playful and threatening.
Gabe laughed. “I’m just teaching the newbie how to play,” he said.
“Sure,” Adrienne said, throwing her hair over her shoulder.
I stuck my tongue out at her and she laughed.
“Why is your tongue purple?” she asked.
“I told you,” I said. “Too many jelly beans.”
“Getting the hang of it?” Gabe asked.
He was standing very close to me. I felt the warmth of his whisky-laced breath against my temple.
“I think so.” My voice was husky.
“Good,” he said.
I wanted to lean back against him and it wasn’t until gravity began its downward pull that I realized I’d started to do just that. Of course, I hadn’t checked exactly how close he was, and for one horrible second, I was convinced I was about to fall on my ass.
Gabe, however, scooped me up under my armpits and hoisted me back to my feet before I could complete my London Bridge impression.
“All right here?” Adrienne asked.
“Just dandy,” I said, feeling embarrassed and surly.
“You gonna give it a try this round?” Gabe asked.
The challenge in his tone sparked my mostly dormant competitive nature.
“Yeah,” I said, lifting my chin.
“That’s my girl,” he said.
I blushed. Fiercely.
Even though I was certain Gabe had already seen it, I turned my face away, doing an over-the-top impression of someone who was watching the door.
Adrienne was stretching again. Her lunges were so deep that her knees touched the floor.
“You ready?” she asked me, V-ing her fingers and pointing to her eyes and then at me and back again.
“Oh yeah,” I said.
I wasn’t.
Team Two lost three more rounds.
“This is bullshit,” said Red Clogs, whose name, I had learned, was Natasha. “Who picked these teams?”
Everyone pointed at Gabe. He shrugged, and took another drink of whatever was in his red Solo cup. From the smell, it was a delicate mix of whisky and whisky.
“At least I’m trying,” he said.
Everyone looked at me.
“Jelly beans,” I said.
“Okay.” Gabe put his cup down and raised his arms over his head before bringing them down and extending his elbows out and away. His shirt had ridden up, exposing his flat, smooth stomach. I stared. I didn’t even pretend not to. He stretched more, taking up space.
“I’ll go next,” he said.
Before he left, though, he put his hands on my shoulders and his face real close to mine.
“You can do this,” he said.
I hated this party.
He jogged out of the room and I heard him give a whoop of glee. Then he was back in the doorway, one hand on the doorjamb, the other pointed at me.
“He’s a piece of shit,” he said.
“Woody Allen?”
“Yes!” he said.
I felt a rush of satisfaction. I’d gotten it right. Of course, I had completely forgotten what came next.
About five pairs of hands were on my back, shoving me forward, and I stumbled toward the door, barely managing to stay upright.
“Go! Go! Go!” my team was chanting.
Right. I had to run into the next room and get the next prompt.
As I passed Gabe, he gave me a friendly, sportsmanlike slap on the ass. I punched him in the arm.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Baby,” I said over my shoulder.
Somehow moving helped clear my head. I raced to Ollie, who was standing in the living room, a piece of paper in his hand. It seemed as if he was the referee. Or something. I still wasn’t completely sure how the game worked. He showed me the next prompt.
Cary Grant.
I ran back to the bedroom, and before I was even through the doorway, I was shouting: “C. K. Dexter Haaaaaven!”
“Cary Grant!” Gabe pushed past.
When he came back, his eyes were fixated on me.
“Charming, not sincere.”
“Into the Woods!”
The rest of the round went like that, rapid-fire exchanges between me and Gabe until I ran back to Ollie and he waved the paper at me.
“You won,” he said.
I whooped like I’d never whooped before. It was so loud that it startled the dog, who was sleeping in her dog bed near the TV.
“We won!” I told my team, who burst out in cheers as if we’d just won the Super Bowl or some other big, important sports thing.