She freezes when she sees me. Goes pale. Wide green eyes. Caught.
“Uh…” She clears her throat. Then I watch the switch flip. Chin lifts. Jaw sets. Armor on. “I was just telling the girls I’m on the hunt for a one-night stand tonight. Something casual. You know.”
“What about Brandon?” I ask, genuinely bewildered.
I push my glasses up my nose with one finger.
She scoots over to make room on the bench. I slide in, my hip brushing hers. She doesn’t pull away, which stings because it tells me she doesn’t feel it. That spark that radiates through me every time I touch her.
“Hey, Beck,” Kirsten says. I say hi back.
“Hi! I’m Trish. The new roommate,” chirps a pretty blonde two seats down. I lean over and give her hand a quick shake.
I recognize about half the people at the table. I exchange nods, quick hellos. Devon’s here too, that jerk from my sociology class.
As soon as I’m settled, I turn back to Gracie.
“I thought you were with that hockey player?” I ask. Then, quieter, meant only for her, “I thought he was talking rings. Moving to New York with you after graduation.”
Most people would miss it, the slight waver in her voice, the tiny quiver of her chin.
I don’t.
“He was,” she says. Her mouth twists like she’s tasting something bitter. “Until he wasn’t.” She swallows. “He dumped me. Last week. It was…messy.”
Probably ugly too. She doesn’t say, but it’s there.
Something hot and violent sparks in my chest. Brandon’s face flashes through my mind. How easily my fists could fix him.
“That sucks,” I say, because that’s what you say when you’re trying not to confess you’d happily ruin someone’s life for her.
She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. It really does.”
I’m thinking of it again. My fist. Brandon’s face. Blood on the floor.
But that’s a fantasy. Not really who I am. I’m not a fighter. At least not with my hands.
With words, yes.
With my mind, sure.
Those aren’t much help to Gracie right now.
Her shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for the lecture she’s sure is coming. For me to tell her she deserves better, or that Brandon’s an idiot, or that a one-night stand won’t fix anything.
I don’t.
I’ve learned the hard way that Gracie Smith doesn’t want to be fixed. She wants to be seen.
Across the table, someone shouts for another round. Glasses clink. The music surges. I stand so a couple farther down the bench can squeeze past.
“Dance floor’s calling,” they tell us.
Gracie smiles. The fake one. Too bright. “We’ll join later.”
I watch them weave toward the dance floor, which is already packed, couples pressed tight, groups of friends clustered in loose circles. They’re laughing. Drinking. Hands are thrown in the air and hips sway.
From here, it looks like everyone is having the night of their lives.
