Within fifteen minutes into kitchen setup, the space looks far more polished. Zara comes out to help me assemble the charcuterie board when her makeup is all done. We sneak bites of Brie and fig as we work. I picked up ingredients from the farmer’s market earlier today, finally patronizing the cheese stall, and I’m sure guests will appreciate the offerings.
“Okay,” Noelle says as the clock nears nine, rising to her feet at last. “Let’s get the champagne tower set up.”
There’s a belated pause. “I didn’t think you were serious about that,” Michael says, voice weak and wary. But one withering look from Noelle has him up to clear some room on the breakfast island regardless.
“This won’t end well,” Zara murmurs, and I nod my concurrence. We keep our apprehensions to ourselves, continuing to turn salami into blooming roses in silence.
By midnight, the housewarming is in full swing.
Noelle went with the disco ball piñata after all, and it dangles low in the living area, a perfect centerpiece to the mostly mismatched decor selection—fitting for such a mismatched theme. Guests are dressed as 2000s pop icons and more niche cultural references alike. By the bar table, two Mileys (of different eras) chat with a girl in the infamous white-gold dress. Michael’s throwback playlist blasts in the background, putting DJ Steve’s set to shame.
We’ve hit the right chord between a cozy kickback and a classic house party. The apartment is full but not overstuffed; people are free to move about and mingle. It’s clear Noelle is satisfied with the outcome. Her face is flushed and beaming, and not just from alcohol, when she hands me my second champagne glass of the night.
“It’s perfect,” she says into my ear, an arm snaked around my waist. I laugh and take the glass from her. As precarious as it seemed at first, the champagne tower has shockingly remained stable so far. “Exactly what I wanted.”
“Sothiswas the vision,” Michael muses beside us, and Noelle is too glad to do more than roll her eyes.
“And Alexa has been awkward and bumbling all night,” Noelle adds with a happy sigh. “It’s just perfect.”
I smile into my glass. Noelle pointed out her ex-girlfriend to me the second she entered the party. It was hard to miss her; she’s the only person in the room not dressed to the theme, sporting a bland jeans-and-tee combo instead.
“Plus youlookperfect,” I say. After much deliberation, Noelle opted for a sparkly gold halter dress that feels very pop princess, though Noelle has yet to specify which one.
“I know,” she squeals. She gives me and Michael another squeeze, and then she’s off to roam the crowd once more. Michael tilts his head to the bar area, questioning, and I nod, following his lead. I could do with something stronger than champagne.
Two shots of Pink Whitney later, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy but still a little wired. Frank hasn’t arrived yet, and while Noelle told me he never formally RSVP’d, my heart still hiccups every time the door opens. In fact, I’m so busy scanning the space for Frank that I almost miss it: a familiar flash of brown skin amidst the throng.
I blink, and he vanishes. I shake my head, certain I’m seeing things. But then Zara gasps next to me.
“There’s no way,” she says. I follow her line of sight and feel a similar rush of shock. ItisKush, standing beside a boy I recognize as Aryan, filling up on glasses of jungle juice a mere ten feet away.
“I can’t believe he came,” Michael adds, awestruck.
My brows furrow, as I remember an earlier comment about Kush being practically exiled from the friend group following the breakup. “Was he invited?” I ask.
“I mean, technically,” Zara says. “But, like, an obligatory invite, sent in one of our larger group chats. Meera always insisted on remaining cordial, the angel. I never thought he’d actually show.” She tosses a furtive glance to Michael. “We can’t kick him out, can we?”
“Not without making a scene,” Michael says.
Zara groans. “I hate having to play generous hostess.”
“Aryan must have brought him,” Michael says. “And he’s obviously allowed a plus-one.” He tries to lighten the mood. “Justbe glad it’s not Priya.” Zara smiles in spite of herself, and Michael goes on, testing the waters. “We should go say hi?”
But we don’t need to, because the boys approach us just moments later, weaving through the crowd and pulling to a stop before us. The first thing I notice is Kush’s hair, no longer boyish and overgrown but neatly trimmed, his dark curls soft and tamed. Pleasure sparks through me at the realization that he opted against the originally desired mullet.
The second thing I notice is his expression when our eyes meet, surprise and relief mingling. It dawns on me that, in this setting, I might for once be a safe-ground companion for Kush.
“Hey,” he says. By the way his eyes flit around, the greeting could be directed at all or none of us. It’s unnerving to see Kush out of his element; confident conversation is normally a strong suit. He tries for a charming quip. “Noelle must be ecstatic to have finally nabbed the apartment.”
Zara’s face remains stoic, but Michael accepts the olive branch. “Just for the summer!” he insists.
“Still,” Aryan says. He swirls his drink, and I spot an assortment of bejeweled silver rings on his fingers. They work well with the row of hoops along his left ear. “The feat alone warrants a party.”
“What have you been up to this summer?” Zara says to Kush. “I haven’t seen you at anything.”
There’s an emphasis on the last word, calling attention to the fact that Kush likely hasn’t been invited to very much. But if he catches the tone, he doesn’t show it.
“It’s been super busy,” he says, “between working at the hospital and exam prep.” He nods at me. “Plus teaching Rani how to drive.”
