Kirsten and I leave the booth with promises to come back later.
“Where should we start?” she asks, eyeing the room like a military strategist.
“Bar. For sure.” I grab her elbow so we don’t get separated by the jostling crowd. The floor is tacky under our shoes, like every spilled drink from the last few hours has fused into one permanent layer. Someone brushes past me, reeking of beer and peppermint gum, and the bass thumps hard enough to rattle my ribs.
My eyes snag on the dance floor without my permission.
Too many bodies. Too much movement. A flash of blonde hair that makes my stomach dip before I realize it’s not Trish.
I look away, annoyed at myself.
Outside the window, the sky has deepened into the dark blue of night. Behind the bar, the bartenders move like they’re in a war zone, pouring, wiping, shouting orders, while plastic bead necklaces swing from wrists and beer sloshes over the rims of cups. Somewhere behind us, a table erupts in a chant, and the whole pub answers like it’s one organism.
Kirsten tightens her grip on my arm. “Okay,” she says, smiling like she’s scared but also delighted. “If we survive this, we deserve medals.”
We don’t even make it to the bar before someone stops us.
“Hey,” the guy says, leaning in so he can shout in my ear, just enough to be heard over the music. He’s tall, dark hair, green button-down rolled at the sleeves. Clean. Cute. Safe-looking. “Sorry, are you waiting for someone, or can I steal you for a second?”
Waiting.
The word lands funny.
Kirsten’s eyebrows shoot up. She looks at me like this is Christmas.
I hesitate. Just a beat. The room tilts slightly, the beer finally catching up with me. I glance past him without meaning to, toward the crowd, toward the shifting mass of bodies, toward—
Nothing.
“A second seems reasonable,” I say, forcing my attention back where it belongs.
He grins, like that was the right answer. “I’m Matt.”
“Gracie,” I say. “This is Kirsten.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding to her before his attention drifts back to me. “St. Patrick’s Day rookie or seasoned professional?”
I laugh, a little slower than usual. “Professional. But we don’t usually start this early. We’ve been here a couple of hours already, which I’m realizing was either very brave or very stupid.”
“Little of both,” he says easily. “But you seem like you’re holding your own.”
Kirsten clears her throat loudly. “I’m going to…stand over there.” She points to a spot maybe three feet away. “For safety.”
“Very responsible,” Matt says solemnly.
I smile despite myself. Then my gaze flicks, quick and traitorous, back to the dance floor.
Still no Beck.
“So,” he says, glancing at my cheek. “I like your war paint.”
It takes me a second to realize he means the clover.
“Oh.” I resist the urge to touch it. “It was cuter earlier. Before…humidity.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Still looks pretty cute to me.”
He’s looking right at me when he says it. I wait for it.
