“Mm-hmm, sure.” Cleo raised a skeptical brow at me. “Nice. That’s all. Just nice.”
“I totally support you being hot for Hot Suit,” said Lola. “Then we can double-date.”
“Oh my god, will you stop? We’re not going on a double date, because I’m not dating him,” I insisted, taking a swig of water.
“But I bet you would, if he asked you out,” Cleo went on, giggling. “And you’d have a nice kiss at the end of the night.”
“Yeah, I wonder.” Lola tilted her head in thought. “Do you think he’s nice at the sex?”
“Ooooh yeah, Hot Suit would give it to you nicely, Fran,” Cleo said, and now I was laughing along with her and Lola. And even though the attention was still on me, it felt good for the conversation to be light and easy. I kept laughing, hoping that neither of them would detect the truth: that underneath it all, I was scared shitless about just about everything happening in my life.
Chapter Ten
Hayes
“Hayes!”
A few days later, Serena greeted me on the sidewalk outside a downtown bar that I’d never heard of until she texted me the name and address. She seemed to tower over me, even though I was taller than her by a few inches. Sure, she was in heels, but it was her electric confidence that seemed to rocket her to the sky. Oh, and the skintight jeans didn’t hurt either.
“Hey.” I leaned in for a hug and landed my lips on her cheek. “It’s nice to see you again.”
She laughed at this, even though I hadn’t intended it to be funny.
“It’s kind of a scene inside. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course,” I said, unsure of what a “scene” would entail. It was only a Wednesday night. “This is your sorority sister’s party?”
Serena nodded. She’d invited me last weekend during our run, and I’d expected a quiet gathering, a few friends.
“Hayley has the whole place rented out for her birthday,” she said, reaching for the door. “I’ve never seen anyone go this hard for their twenty-ninth birthday, but I’m into it.”
We walked up the steps and through the giant arched doorway, where overhead floated giant gold balloons that spelled out HAYLEY. Just inside the front door was a wall with Hayley’s name printed on it in pink and black, with brand logos all over it. People posed for photos in front of it, hugging and waving peace signs as a bored-looking bearded guy with a camera snapped away.
“Let’s go take a photo in front of the step-and-repeat!” She gestured toward the name wall.
Serena pulled me forward and waved the photographer over to us. She angled herself next to me, chin tilted to the right, hips jutting toward the camera, elbow crooked just so. I made the same face I always do. I had decided in middle school that smiling made me look ridiculous in photos, and so I avoided it at all costs the second a camera rolled around. After a few shots together, she slid away from me and twisted her body in the opposite direction. “Derek, I need one for Insta,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Arms in the sky, right leg kicked up behind her, she smiled widely and held herself there for what felt like a minute, a crane posed silently on the edge of water. It was the same pose she’d done last week in the park, her “SerenaStyle” formation. It was supposed to be this happy, joyful pose, but something about it was stiff and planned, the opposite of spontaneous. It made me think back to Franny and her Italian ice, and the way she hadn’t cared at all when it spilled on her.
After a round of flashes, Serena came to life again and approached the photographer.
“Can you text those to me?” she asked as I lingered awkwardly a few feet away in front of the photo wall, examining the brands that had sponsored this birthday party. A vodka company I recognized, a dating app. Some CBD brand specifically for women.
Photos acquired minutes later, Serena grabbed my arm again, leading me into the actual party. The music competed with conversations shouted over passed glasses of champagne. In the corner, a pair of tattooed women stitched people’s names onto hooded sweatshirts, the party favor of the evening. There seemed to be a cotton-candy machine somewhere, judging by the amount of people eating it, which was competing with hand-rolled sushi as the meal of the night.
The last birthday party I’d been to had been an intimate gathering on the patio of Eleanor’s favorite vegan restaurant in the West Village. This felt like a prom.
Yet Serena moved effortlessly through the room, introducing me to people, touching my arm constantly, including me in conversations, talking me up. I got the feeling she was showing me off. It was something that should have stroked my ego, made me feel good. But nothing revved inside me.