“Go to the party. I’ll close out here.”
“I’m not—”
“Either go to the party or stop looking at your phone like it holds the answers to the universe.”
He’s right. I’ve checked the time four times in the last minute.
“What if—”
“What if what? She’s not interested? She tells you to fuck off? You have an awkward conversation and then avoid each other in the hallway forever?” He shrugs. “Still better than sitting here wondering.”
I stand up before I can talk myself out of it.
“Holy shit,” Jake says, chuckling. “You’re actually going. I didn’t think that would work.”
I glare at him. “Maybe. I might just go home.”
“Sure.” He grins as I turn to leave. “Hey, Luke?”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “What?”
“Apologize first,” he tells me, raising the long-neck bottle in his hand with a smug wink. “I don’t know what happened, but I sure as shit know you.”
With a final ‘fuck you’ I leave before he can make any more observations, before the bartender can offer more unsolicited advice, and before I lose my nerve entirely.
The cold February air hits me as I step outside, and I can hear music coming from my building three blocks away.
The party is in full swing.
And I’m going.
I really am an idiot.
Be Mine
Molly
Therecroomistransformed into a Valentine’s wonderland. Red and pink streamers cascade from the ceiling, paper hearts cover every available surface, and the photo booth in the corner is getting constant use. A playlist of love songs fills the air—currentlyCan’t Help Falling in Loveis playing—and there’s enough chocolate and champagne to supply a small wedding.
It should be perfect.
And it is.
Except I keep glancing at the door.
“He’s not coming,” Sophie says quietly from beside me. She’s nursing a glass of pink lemonade—spiked, courtesy of Danny—and watching the party with the careful observation of someone who’d rather be reading a book.
I met Sophie my first week in the building three years ago. She’s in 403, works from home doing something with dataanalysis that I don’t fully understand, and rarely leaves her apartment except for essentials. But she’s sweet in a reserved, thoughtful way, and she’s become one of my closest friends in the building—even if our socializing usually consists of her letting me ramble while she listens.
“I know,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. It’s sweeter than I expected, and stronger. “I don’t, um, expect him to.”
Sophie gives me a sympathetic look, but she doesn’t call me out on it.
“He smiled at me this morning,” I add, like that explains everything and nothing at all.
“You mentioned that. Three times.” Her lips quirk up slightly. “In the last hour.”
He’s not coming, Molly, let it go.
