“HE SO WANTS you,” Vicks says, grabbing on to my arm and leading me down the hall.
“He does not!”
“He does. He was watching you the whole trip.”
“He was not,” I say, laughing. I love the way she’s holding on to me. Like we’re friends.
We spot a girl in pigtails waiting outside a closed door, assume it’s the washroom, and join the line.
“You better go for him.”
“Vicks, we don’t know anything about him!”
She laughs. “We know he’s hot.”
“He could have a girlfriend.”
“He didn’t mention anybody.”
“So? Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“A guy with a girlfriend doesn’t invite three stylin’ girls to a party. Trust me. I’d kick Brady’s ass if he did that.”
“I guess,” I say, suddenly nervous.
“What’s your problem? You don’t like tall, dark, and handsome?”
“I don’t like…” I don’t like putting myself out there. I don’t like feeling exposed. After all, I told Alex how I felt about him—no, I showed Alex how I felt about him—and look what happened there. “I’ve had some boy issues.”
The bathroom door opens, a guy with a goatee comes out and the girl in front of us hurries in. Vicks takes a long swig of her beer, and I do the same. Gross.
I should have asked for a wine cooler.
“You should jump him. Drag him into one of the bedrooms and have your way with him.” Vicks whistles. “I would totally go for it if I were you.”
“Then you go for it.” I take a long disgusting sip.
“Hello? Brady?”
“Right,” I say, and remember how cute Brady was, how happy to see her he was, the few times I saw him at the Waffle House. For the first time I feel a question in my mind about Vicks. I mean, if we were on the way to visit my boyfriend, I wouldn’t want to stop at some house party with a bunch of people I don’t know. Not that I’m some expert on having boyfriends.
I hear a flush, and Pigtails comes out. I rush inside—I don’t think I can wait another second—but Vicks follows me.
“Oh, um…”
I’m freaked out, but in a way I’m oddly flattered. She likes me! She’s coming to the bathroom with me! We’re really friends! But can I actually pee in front of her?
Vicks doesn’t seem to notice my emotional ambivalence, and begins playing with her hair in the mirror. “Hurry, I really have to go.”
Okay, then. I put my beer on the floor, tug at my pants, and crouch over the toilet seat.
“Are you squatting?” she asks, eyeing me in the mirror.
“Kind of?”
“At someone’s house?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. I mean, at a public toilet definitely, but not at a house.”
“But it could be germy.”
I wipe, flush, and then quickly cover myself with my clothes. I wash my hands while it’s Vicks’s turn, and then dry them on my hair.
She washes her hands and pulls a lip gloss out of her purse. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.”
She laughs. “Too germy?”
“No, I’m just not into makeup,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“My sister’s the pretty one,” I say, the words falling from my lips faster than I want them to. “She doesn’t like when I get more attention than she does.” As I say it, I realize how sick it sounds.
Vicks’s eyes are the size of two steering wheels in the mirror. “That’s crazy. We’ll get Jesse to make you up; she’s like a makeup artiste. I barely know what I’m doing.”
Someone pounds on the door. “Hurry up in there!”
“Keep your pants on!” Vicks screams.
“Who are these people?” I ask, laughing. “Ready?”
“Wait, we need a toast.” She picks up her bottle, and I do the same. “To strangers in Fenholloway,” she says, and we clink.
It’s not clear to me if we’re drinking to Marco, to the other people in the house, or to us.
We slowly make our way back to the crowded kitchen. Jesse is going around picking up beer bottles and depositing them in the recycling bin, but Marco and the blond guy are gone.
As Jesse scowls and wipes up a spill, Vicks sneaks behind her back, opens the fridge, and takes out another beer. I stop myself from giggling and giving her away. Vicks winks and twists off the top. We creep back out without Jesse even noticing.
We spot Marco on the front lawn. There are drunk people all over, some laughing, some hollering, and one attempting to do a handstand.
But I don’t really notice them. All I see is Marco.
“Go talk to him,” Vicks urges.
“By myself?” I ask, panicked.
She pushes me toward the front door. “I’ll hang out for five minutes, and then I’m disappearing.”
“Hey,” he says, waving us over.
Vicks elbows me. “I’m off.”
What? “That wasn’t five minutes!”
She winks and backtracks into the house. I take a small sip of beer—gross—and walk over.
I ease myself onto the grass, so Marco and I are facing each other, sitting cross-legged and less than a foot apart.
“It’s so hot; I miss the snow,” I say, and kick myself inside. Why start with the weather—the most boring topic in the universe?
“Where’d you see snow?” he asks me.
“I’m from Montreal. It hits zero degrees, like, all the time. Zero Fahrenheit. It hurts to breathe when it’s that cold.”
He stretches his leg out in front of him. “I’ve never seen snow.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head.
“My brother, sister, and I used to build these insane snow forts in the backyard,” I tell him. “There’d be like five rooms with tunnels in between, and we’d haul our stuffed animals in there and bring hot chocolate in thermoses.”
His eyes light up. “Do you ski?”
“No.”
“I want to, if I ever get up North. I water-ski, though. You ever tried that?”
“No.” I can’t believe all the stuff about him I didn’t notice in the car. The faint scissor-shaped scar on his square jaw line. The way he picks at his fingers when he talks, but keeps them still when he listens.
“It’s wild. You should try it.”
I’m about to say, Sure, I’m up for anything, but then I stop myself. Why lie? I’m never even going to see this guy again. “Um, that’s probably not going to happen. In fact…can I tell you a secret?”
“Shoot.”
I motion him toward me, and I feel a thrill at my own brazenness. He scoots over until his knee is touching mine. I lower my voice. “The only sport I ever do is Pilates.”
He whispers back. “What’s that?”
“It’s a bunch of stretchy exercises,” I murmur. “I’m the most unathletic person in the history of the world.”
He laughs. “Why are we whispering?”
“It’s classified information. All these people”—I gesture at the crowd on the lawn—“they look very sporty.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you a secret back.” He leans right in and I can feel his lips on my ear. “So am I.”
I reply in his ear, inhaling his peppermint smell. “So are you what?”
“Unathletic.” His breath on my neck sends a shiver down my back.
I bat him on the arm and speak aloud: “You just told me you water-ski.”
“Yeah,” he says, grinning, “but I didn’t say I was any good at it.” He picks up his beer and takes a swig. I’m sad the whispering game is over. “Hey, will you tell me something?” Marco asks.
“What?”
“Why are you the one in charge of paying for your posse’s hotel? Why aren’t they chipping in?”
My face gets hot. “Oh, it’s no big deal. They were short on cash so I offered to pay for hotels and gaz—”
He raises an eyebrow. “Gaz?”
“Yeah. You know. Fuel. Gaz.”
“Oh! Gas. I’ve never heard it pronounced like that.”
I look down at my nails. “Whoops. It’s a Montreal thing, I think. A French-English hybrid. I’ll have to remember to say gas now.”
“No, don’t,” he says, leaning back on his elbows in the grass. “It sounds exotic.”
“Gaz?”
“Yes,” says Marco. “It makes you sound like a French movie star.”
“Gaaaaaz.”
“Stop saying that or you’ll blow your cover.”
“Gaaaaaz.”
“The paparazzi will descend on us! We’ll be mobbed! Fans are going to swarm you!”
“Gaaaaaz!”
“Will you be quiet? You’re causing a serious security breach!” He leans over, laughing, and puts his hand over my mouth. I am giggling and trying to push him away. Okay, not really.
“Just talk to me like I’m an ordinary girl,” I tell him. “Don’t be intimidated.”
“It must be tough trying to find true friends when you’re so famous.”
“Oh, it is, it is. Ever since the James Bond movie last year, I can barely go out in public. I had to move to Florida just to get a break.” I toss back my hair.
“I knew the ordinary-girl thing was a ruse.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “You made up that stuff about the snow forts, too, didn’t you? Your hands are too soft. That’s what gave you away. That and the gaaaaaz.”
His hand feels cool from the beer and now my body is cold and hot and cold and hot and he’s holding my hand, he’s holding my hand, Marco is holding my hand.
“I soak them in buttermilk three times a week and sleep in gloves,” I say with a straight face. “That’s the secret.”
“You’re just full of secrets.” He touches the back of my flip-flop with the toe of his shoe. “What else should I know about you, Melanie?”
That I have a huge crush on you? “My last name is Fine.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not a last name. It’s an adjective.”
“Ha-ha. What’s yours?”
“Exceptional.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What’s wrong with Exceptional? I mean, I don’t like to brag, so I prefer just Marco, but my dad is Mr. Exceptional. My mother used to be Mrs. Exceptional but since they got divorced she went back to her maiden name, Ms. Prettygood.”
I laugh again. His hand isn’t cold anymore. It’s warm.
I love that he makes me laugh. I love that he thinks I’m exotic. I love that he listens to me. I love that he makes me want to talk. I love that he’s so hot. Sexy hot, not Florida-weather hot.
Maybe I should kiss Marco.
My lips burn. No, no, no. Can’t kiss Marco. Too scary. Too hot.
“Mr. Exceptional and Ms. Prettygood,” I say instead. “I’ll have to remember all that when I meet your parents.” It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize what I’ve just said. When I meet your parents! As if I’m meeting his parents!
Way to get ahead of myself there. I’ve known him for, like, three hours, I’m probably never going to talk to him again, yet I’m practically sending out the wedding invitations. I drop his hand, fall on my back, and groan. “I’d like to take back that last line, please.”
“What, now you don’t want to meet my family?” he asks, his voice teasing.
“No,” I squeak. I cover my face with my hands.
“Why not?” he says, grinning. “What do you have against my parents? They’re nice folks. They’re even Exceptional.”
He moves closer to me, next to me on the grass, still smiling. “So if you don’t want to meet my parents, what do you want?”
I want you to kiss me. I should just say it. Why not? I haven’t held anything else back. I want you to kiss me. I want you to kiss me!
I want to say it. I think he wants to kiss me too.
But what if he doesn’t?
“I want…a wine cooler” is what I finally say instead.
He nods. Pulls back. Pulls me to my feet. “Then let’s go find you one.”