I do as I’m told, copying the address listed to Google Maps. I do some mental math. “We’ll be forty-five minutes late if we leave right now.”
Simran appears in the doorframe, smoothing down a crinkle in her skirt. “Amazing,” she says, expression visibly relaxing at the news. “Let’s take another thirty. Can you help me with my top?”
I rise from the vanity stool, and she turns her back to me, pulling her hair out of the way so I can access the halter straps. I make a small bow at the nape of her neck to let the loose ends dangle. Simran pouts at me in the mirror as I work.
“Is this the right outfit?” she asks.
“I love,” I say, meaning it. The neckline is scooped and flattering, and I’ve borrowed the skirt from Simran many times myself. “You look incredible.” When she looks like she doesn’t believe me, I add, exasperated, “Please tell me you’re not stressed over your appearance for a man with abuzz cut.”
Simran pulls a face. “For the record, I told him not to do that.”
“Add that to the list of ways he’s disappointed you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. I finish the knot, and Simran turns around so we’re facing. She plucks at a charm on her bracelet, nervous energy still radiating.
“I know I’m being annoying,” she starts, and I don’t dispute it. “But I want to feel my best tonight. It’s going to be really overwhelming to see him again.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “I know,” I say. I have no real judgment for Sim; I likely would act just as high-strung at the prospect of seeing Kamran again. “But you’re going to be totally okay. I’m going to be with you, and we’ll make it through, and we’ll leave the party without you getting back together with him.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes for the last part. I glare until she relents. “Chill,” she says, putting her hands up. “I am not getting back with him,” she affirms. Under her breath, she adds, “At the party, anyways, he’s going to be working.”
I swallow a dig about Steve’s work, and Simran continues. “Can you be nice tonight?” she asks. “I know you have your reservations, which are all valid, but he’s very sensitive, and he’s super nervous about meeting you.” She pulls out her phone to show me a new text from Steve:does Rahni hate me.
My brows furrow. “He spelled my name wrong,” I say. “Why would an ‘h’ be there?”
“I think it was a typo,” Simran says.
It astonishes me to see my beautiful, clever best friend crash out over someone so obviously beneath her, but it’s not possible to logic Simran out of her feelings. I decide to let the subject drop. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll play nice,” I say. “Now can we turn the music back on?” She shut the speaker off during outfit deliberations, feeling overstimulated.
“Please,” Simran says. She sinks on the seat beside me, and I click play on my phone. “No Scrubs” by TLC begins on the overhead, and Simran shoots me a dark look at the selection. I pretend to miss it and reach across the vanity to grab the still-full bottle of tequila.
“Two before we leave, and a third for the road?” I suggest, pouring out a shot.
“Perfect,” she says.
We spend the remainder of our half hour recapping each other’s weeks, and Simran changes her outfit only twice more before it’s time to leave.
Steve’s gig is at an apartment rooftop downtown, not too far from Michael’s place. We pick up some hard seltzers on the way as a birthday gift for Simon, Steve’s childhood friend who Simran has never met, and the detour means we’re a full ninety minutes late to the function.
Music and party chatter reach us all the way down in the lobby. Steve’s set seems to be a mix of techno and Spotify’s Top 40 hits. Simran is surprisingly calm on the elevator ride up, but the nerves return at the door. She stalls before reaching for the handle.
“We can leave whenever,” I say. “Never too soon.” I sound wistful more than encouraging, but Simran nods, steeling herself, and pushes forward.
The rooftop is packed with bodies; Simon’s invite must not have been an exaggeration. On a different occasion, I imagine this is a lovely venue: a glittering view of the cityscape, string lights over the seating area, and a spacious hot tub off to the side. Today, however, red Solo cups litter the Jacuzzi, the floor is sticky from a mystery substance, and aggressive games of beer pong and rage cage are ongoing by the railing. I didn’t go out a ton my freshman year, and this setting is a case study why. Unease rises in my stomach; our pregame no longer feels sufficient.
The DJ booth is center stage. I recognize Steve from his prolificInstagram presence, bobbing his head as he spins a Dua Lipa remix to the crowd’s cry of approval. Simran groans beside me.
“Ugh,” she says. “He looks so good.”
Steve is wearing a black mesh tank top and a plaid bandana over his bleach blond buzz cut. It strikes me with full force just how far gone Simran is.
“Go say hi,” I say. I tilt my head at the hard seltzers. “I’m gonna put these away and grab a drink.” When she hesitates, I insist, “Go. I’ll be fine. Text if you need anything.”
She squeezes my arm. “You’re the best,” she says, and then she’s off, slipping through the mass of dancers. I take a deep breath and make my way to the drinks table. I’m tipsy enough from our pregame to not feel the nighttime chill, but I need to be a lot more drunk to make it through tonight.
Dozens of partygoers are milling by the table, so I decide to slide the case underneath after I grab a raspberry hard seltzer for myself. But I must misjudge my surroundings, because I collide right into someone’s chest when I rise up, my newly opened can splashing all over a crisp white T-shirt.
I jump back, sparing myself from any damage. My eyes snap to the boy before me. He reacts on a delay, features slowly morphing from shock to displeasure.
