“I fought bravely, and I lost,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender.
I brush confetti off her shoulder, pluck a few pieces from herhair, only for more to rain down from a ceiling chute, dousing us in color.
We wander through the scratch-and-sniff wall (sensory overload), then Madison drags me into a room with a giant ball pit that looks like someone on a sugar high designed it.
“Nope,” I say, backing away, drawing the line. “Do you know how many bodies have been in that thing?”
She lifts a brow, already toeing off her shoes. “You’re the one telling me to live it up.”
“I didn’t mean run off and contract hand, foot and mouth disease, though.”
Barefoot, she walks up to me and takes both of my hands. “Please.”
I turn to putty.
And just like that I’m tumbling in after her, embracing god only knows how many germs, surrounded by a sea of bright blue plastic balls and the scent of gummy bears.
It’s chaos. It’s ridiculous. And for the first time in a long time, I feel light as air.
This was supposed to be for her, but I think I’m gaining the most from it.
She swims over to me and makes a big show of getting yanked under into the plastic abyss by an imaginary monster. She’s shrieking and flailing, pretending to drown. People are staring. She doesn’t care—and neither do I.
Grinning, I rescue her, tugging her to the surface. She’s happy and out of breath as she loops her arms around my neck. Her eyes meet mine and her wild smile softens.
The current of attraction grips me—grips her too, I think—and even though I want to kiss her again more than anything, I remember my vow.
“They’re about to close. Should we race through the rest of this place?”
“Give me a head start,” she says, making her way out. “You have much longer legs.”
7:15 P.M.
Madison is wearing a veil and hopping from her left to her right foot over and over, hips jutting out with each sway as she belts “I Feel Like a Woman” into the microphone. The fruity pink drink in her other hand keeps sloshing over the rim, but she’s too absorbed in the song to notice.
The bride, who placed her veil on Madison’s head a few minutes ago, catcalls as the rest of the bachelorette party whoops and hollers. I’m not even sure how we ended up here, to be honest. We wandered around outside the Color Factory for a bit, googling what we should do next. A karaoke bar in SoHo popped up in the results—and it might as well have had Madison’s name in neon. We Ubered over only to find out it was by reservation only. All the rooms were booked up.
Madison went to the bathroom, came back with a bachelorette party and a bride whose dress she’d saved from a drink stain, andbam,we were invited to join their party. Now Madison is endearingly drunk and singing at the top of her lungs.
I’m sitting on the bench lining the plush wall, squinting now and then as the disco ball mirrors a flashing neon light into my eyes. But I don’t care. I’d stay here all night to watch Madison laugh and dance like that.
Suddenly, a female form cuts off my view of Madison. One bachelorette plops down right into my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. “Hi,” she says, so close to my face. “Want to makeout? My boyfriend said whatever happens tonight is fine with him as long as you’re gone by the morning.”
“Generous,” I respond, then look up and catch Madison’s eye. She’s still singing, but she’s gone down a sad octave and her words are two beats behind. Who knows, I might be imagining it, but even in my imagination I don’t like the sight of Madison hurt. So I stand slowly, giving the lady time to find her footing as she’s forced to stand too. “I’m going to have to pass. I think my friend needs me to jump in on this chorus.”
“Awww, that’s actually cute,” says the woman, who is now behind me.
I make my way to Madison, holding her gaze the entire time until I’m right in front of her. Unspoken words pass between us.I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else but you. Even if I can’t have you.
I lean down into the microphone and sing, “. . . I feel like a woman, oh, oh, oh.”
Madison cackles, the bachelorettes cheer, and together Madison and I finish the song plus an encore of “No Scrubs.”
10:55 P.M.
“Drink this,” I say, uncapping a bottle of water and pressing it to Madison’s mouth. “You’re dripping sweat.”
“Quit trying to hydrate me and dance,” she says, still vibrating with dance moves as she wipes the back of her mouth with her hand. Her arms are doing some sort of waves before she turns around and backs it up on me.
