“Let’s get a drink,” he says, like he hasn’t heard me.
“Okay.”
He leads me over to the VIP section. Immediately, a waitress appears. “Can we get bottles of Moët and Ketel One?” Rainer asks.
I sit down on a love seat, and Rainer sits next to me. It reminds me of the way they had us during the London press junket—I half expect someone to hop underneath the rope and start interviewing us.
I pick at the hem of my dress. I feel uncomfortable being alone with him right now. Earlier, in front of everyone, we were fine. But now that we’re alone—sorta—I can feel the whole night swelling around us: Britney and Jordan and the Awards. The last few days of silence. Right now, I feel like a stranger in his world. Not his girlfriend.
“She’s pretty,” I say, watching Britney move.
“Are you jealous?”
I look at him. His eyes are blank, unreadable. I don’t know whether he’s challenging or consoling me.
“No,” I lie. It’s not just jealousy, but something else, too. I don’t trust her.
“Good.”
He turns just as the waitress flies in with our bottles. Crazy. He takes the vodka and pours himself a large glass with a splash of soda. Then he pops the champagne cork. “Here,” he says. He hands me a full glass, and I down it in three gulps.
“Easy,” he says.
I turn to him. “Why?”
He runs a hand over his chin. “Okay. You’re obviously pissed about something.” He seems tired, annoyed. I suddenly have the intense desire to not be anywhere near him.
“Look who’s talking.” I shake my head.
“Is that your way of asking if I’m angry that you sucked face with Jordan in front of the world?”
“Clearly, you are.”
“Why should I be?” He’s challenging me. “It was just a gimmick, right? An act?”
“Jesus, Rainer, yes. You acted fine about it before.”
Rainer takes another swig of his drink. “Sorry if, unlike you two, I’m not much into making a scene.”
I blink at him. I can feel the anger boiling inside me and I know if I stay, I’ll say something I regret. “Forget it,” I say. “Forget the whole thing.”
I pour myself another glass and then stand up. When he reaches for my arm, I shake him off. “Go talk to Britney,” I say. I know it’s stupid, and childish, but I feel stupid, and childish. I take off.
I spot Georgina at another banquet bench. She’s talking to two girls I don’t recognize, but she waves me over.
“Congrats,” she says. Wasn’t she just devastated over Blake? She doesn’t look it. “Did you win, like, every award tonight?”
I hold up my empty glass. “Could you?”
She looks me up and down, impressed. “Slide in.” She introduces me as she pours. “This is Christina Hayden and Tailor Coolridge.”
“Hi,” I say, taking back my glass.
I have no idea who they are, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to know what network they’re on or who their agent is or whether they’re getting the role of Juliet. Everyone is up for the goddamn role of Juliet. I just want to forget tonight: Rainer’s resistance and Britney’s judgmental smirk and most of all—Jordan’s lips.
“You look like you’re having a shit night,” Georgina says.
“Could be because I am,” I say, downing another glass.
