SEVEN
Lauren
The last real party I attended was a rooftop in Milan for a mineral water brand. This is nothing like that.
Oh, sure, I've been to formal events at the best hotels in Europe, catered affairs where liquor companies sponsor the drinks and fashion houses host red carpets. I've been to private house soirees where social media influencers are thicker than the Mediterranean heat. And there are the clubs, with famous DJs and celebrities and the adaptogenic mocktails that are all the rage now.
Tonight there are about twenty of us left now that it's dark: Damien, his brothers, their friends, and Kate. Everyone's only goal is to laugh and flirt and have fun. Nobody's promoting anything.
There’s a speaker playing Noah Kahan, a bonfire in a fire pit, and someone with a bongo drum that makes my whole body thrum with happiness. Max slides on a shirt — sadly — and then a hoodie as the night grows cool. He and I chat about nothing, then drift apart, chat and then drift. I discover he's thirty-five and a real estate consultant in New York who handles sales of resort properties and hotels around the U.S.
He strikes me as a bit uptight, but in an endearing, earnest way. The kind of guy who pays bills a week in advance, remembers to call his mom on Sundays, and doesn't lose his belongings when he travels.
And he does travel often. That's a huge plus in my book.
He also has an appreciation for some of my favorite things: the Lufthansa first class lounge at the Frankfurt Airport, John Green novels, and brunch.
That he's secure enough in his masculinity to embrace enthusiasm for the latter two — all while looking at me like I'm the most interesting person at this party — is incredibly hot. The men I usually meet are often cynical and surrounded in an impenetrable layer of irony. Nothing is ever cool enough or interesting enough. Including me.
Not Max, though. He's telling me enthusiastically about the resort renovation, how the floor in each room was redone with a special Italian wood laminate and the doors are a unique light-gray hue.
“Like baby doves.”
I apologize for scraping my wheel-less suitcase on the baby dove-colored door.
“I forgive you.” He grins, showing straight, white teeth, then points at my cup. “You need something cold to drink?”
“That would be amazing. I’d love a water.”
He wanders off. Kate sidles up to me. “You are turning on the charm,” she murmurs.
“Heh,” I retort triumphantly. “Wait and see what I'm capable of.”
Kate dissolves into giggles. Back in our heyday — those first couple of years after graduating from the Art Institute in Chicago — our favorite pastime was flirting with guys. Not sleeping around. Flirting. Having fun, laughing, and comparing notes. Tonight feels like old times, and it's making me insanely happy.
Nothing's riding on tonight. No Instagram metrics, no Facebook algorithms. Fun for the sake of fun. Someone plays that catchy Juanes tune on a little speaker and a couple begins to salsa on the lawn. Max returns with the water. Everyone else is already dancing, and I jump up and grab his hand and pull him to the grass. We shimmy and bump hips.
After a few more dances, each sillier than the last, I'm fairly confident we're both sorting out if the other one is interested. Spoiler alert: we're both interested.
There's a tipsy singalong to a Bob Marley song, and Kate and I skip arm-in-arm along the path that winds through the resort grounds, laughing about old times as Damien and Max look on.
I shiver because there’s a slight crispness in the nighttime air, and Max ambles over to me, unzipping his blue hoodie.
“You look chilly. Don't want you getting sick before the big day. Put this on.”
There's his faint fragrance on the sweatshirt, like expensive old-school shaving cream with something warmer underneath — cedar, maybe, or the particular smell of someone who's been outdoors and is happy about it.
I want to bury my face in the soft cotton and am pondering whether I should tell him this when he presses his shoulder into mine.
“Is this your first time in Cypress Grove?”
“It is. I'd always meant to visit because Kate talked about this place so much.”
“Damien says you and Kate shared a place in Chicago. You still live there?”
“I don't live anywhere.”
He quirks an eyebrow, and I think about kissing his lips. They look soft.
