“Oh, gotcha,” says his not-athletic-looking friend. “So the more dependable and amiable—”
“—the higher the likability quotient, yeah. I suspect you need at least an eighty percent to make partner.”
“That explains so much!”
Okay, I’m not jumping into that conversation. But I should jump intosomeone’s. Whose? And how? I twitch, anxious with the need to do something. I start arranging pillows on the couch, neatening them up before I remember I’m the guest and not the person throwing the party.
“Is this the wrong apartment?” I ask Jane once I find her. “You didn’t bring me to a meet-up for math majors, did you?”
“No, no.” She screws up her face. “Didn’t you see the nice wine? This party is classy.”
It may be classy, kind of, but also, it’s…
Well, I’m suresomeonehere will be more interested in friendship than in deconstructing it into a formula. Determined to try harder, I weave through my colleagues over to the wine-laden counter. A few people stand there, chatting. I wait for one to separate from the herd so I can pick them off like an injured wildebeest. To keep myself occupied, I down a glass of chardonnay. The next thing I know, I find myself rearranging the wine bottles by region and varietal, repurposing two emptied cheese boards to use as a stage. I find and refold some paper napkins. Having nailed a much classier, if slightly boho-chic aesthetic, I perch on the edge of the wet counter and wait to be complimented. It takes a while, so I pull out my phone and reread texts from Hanry. I scroll through them, all of them, until stopping at the last one Hanry ever sent, on the day of Sidney and Brett’s were-human wedding.
Let me know when you get home safe.
I didn’t answer.
But I should’ve! My fingertip hovers over the speech window. Should I text Hanry? If I did, what would I say? Obviously I could mention that I returned safely to New York. But now the floodgates open. What else could I say? How about:I miss your not-quite-bearded face?I think you’re fun?Work parties aren’t as great as everyone says?I know we decided to break up, but isn’t this like, a littletoobroken-up, actually?Sure, we’re worlds apart and it’s probably irreconcilable, but what if, I don’t know, what if maybe—
Before I can press send and deliver my stream-of-consciousness novel, someone bumps into my side. Their arm flails, and fizzy beer spills over my shoulder and down into my bra.
“Whoa, sorry!” laughs the nonathletic guy from before. “I didn’t see you!”
I pluck at my shirt. “I’m sticky!”
“Sorry!”
“Do you need a Tide Pen?” asks the guy’s companion. Both of them are equipped with central-casting face. I feel almost too bored to look between them.
“Tide Pens only help with stains,” I snap. “What I need is a hair dryer. Do you have one of those?”
“Uh, no,” says the guy with skinny, useless spaghetti arms. Both of them walk off. Fine. Good riddance. Why ask if you’re not going to be helpful? I pull an emergency Kleenex from my crossbody bag, grumbling.
“You need me to grab a towel from the bathroom or anything?” asks someone else with a drink. I take a better look at him: a brunette with a nice outfit. Not the kind to stand out in a crowd. His Afro temple fade is immaculate. In a way, it’s perfect.
“Hey,” I say. “No thanks.”
He replies with a chin nod. Which is subtle. This interaction is getting better every moment. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No,” I say, sipping from my stemless abomination of a cup. “I just started at EFG, in the tech audits group. We haven’t met.”
“That’s because I’ve been on-site at MicroOrange,” he says.
And then it strikes me. This is my enemy.
“Oh, cool. You must be Desmond,” I say.
The alleged Desmond gives me the briefest once-over.
“You don’t look like an auditor,” he says.
I jerk so hard, some of my white wine sloshes across my fingers.
“I don’t? How come?”
“I don’t know. A vibe, I guess.” Taking a calm sip, Desmond asksme what Netflix shows I’m watching. Yikes. Since the start of October, I’ve watched nothing but old romantic dramas set at least two hundred years ago. As for social media, I average easily three hundred wedding TikToks a day.
