“I know,” I say, and let Andi guide me to the dance floor.
* * *
“Why are we here?”I ask, again.
“Because Connor’s cousin said there were fancy roses, and I want to see fancy roses,” Andi says. “Don’t you want to see fancy roses?”
“I don’t think we’re gonna see much of anything,” I say, but I’m going along with her, obviously. Of course. Always. It’s something like midnight and I’ve spent the day drinking and basking in reflected joy, and right now, like this, it’s easy to feel like I was made to go along with her.
If I was made for anything at all, it was this.
“Maybe they’re night-blooming roses,” Andi says. “Those exist, right?”
“What gives you the idea I know anything about roses?”
“You know about some plants!” Andi says, and she’s already laughing. “You know what trees are.”
“Yes. I know what trees are,” I deadpan.
“Don’t sass me while I’m taking you to see fancy roses.”
“You’re not gonna have any idea which roses are fancy and which aren’t,” I say, because it’s dark, the moon is just a sliver, the lights back at the inn not reaching this far. The sort of darkness that makes you feel nearly invisible, like you’re made of moonlight and gossamer.
“We just established that you also don’t know the fancy roses, so I can tell you whatever I want and you’ll have to believe me,” she says, and it’s nothing like the moonlight.
“I don’thaveto believe you.”
“Well, you should,” she says. “And—”
Andi pitches sideways and stumbles into me out of nowhere.
“Fuck. Ow,” she says, leaning into me and looking at the bottom of one foot.
“Didn’t you have shoes?” I ask. She did, I’m sure of it; they’re probably with my tie and jacket, wherever they are.
“Somewhere.”
“You came outside with no shoes?”
“It’s a civilized outside,” she says, brushing off the sole of her foot. “It’s all nice and stuff.”
“Then what did you just step on?”
“A rock or something, I think.”
I heave my biggest, most dramatic sigh.
“If I step on glass, I’ve got exactly the right person to take care of me,” she says, and she’s grinning about it for some reason.
“Please don’t step on glass.”
“It’s fine. I’ll just swoon into your arms,” she says, like this is a desired outcome or something.
“Since when do you swoon?”
“I could swoon at literally any moment.”
“Not really a swooner.”
