Page 41 of This is a Kissing Book

“We’re not—” I begin.

“We are—” he says.

“Friends?” Iva repeats as if hopeful.

I tip my head back with lunatic laughter, matching the vibe of the party. “No, we hate each other.”

Linc gives me a lengthy side eye.

Iva and Aiken don’t seem to register my comment as he slings an arm around her waist. “We used to be ‘just friends’ too, didn’t we, babe?”

Linc looks at me for a long moment as if measuring something—the barometric pressure of our environment? How these fluctuations might affect weather patterns and predict an incoming storm? Did our conversation in the car make us pals?

He tenses as if he wants to end this conversation. “We should mingle, Jules.”

Aiken, the ring master monarch of this side show, interrupts, “Oh, don’t leave so soon! I was just about to show everyone my latest acquisition—a boring old painting I picked up at an estate sale. I’m featuring it in my next destruction video, and as a grand finale to our festivities tonight, I’m going to have everyone graffiti the wall it’s mounted on.”

Linc goes still. “What kind of painting?”

He leans in like he has a secret too juicy to keep private and says, “A Civil War battle scene. We’re going to blow it up with a cannon.” Aiken laughs again. “Who cares about fusty, dusty history when you can create new art by destroying the old?”

Linc flips the penny again, expression unreadable.

Iva’s eyes gleam. “We have connections, don’t we, Aike-y?”

“Sure do.”

“What kinds of—?” Linc starts to ask and then stops himself, likely because he doesn’t want to talk to them any longer than necessary.

As if she just entered meh-mode, Iva tugs on Aiken. “This is bore-ring. Let’s go. We have important guests to greet.”

They drift away, leaving us standing in the middle of the three-ring circus castle. I feel both relieved and deserted. Now what?

Linc surveys the room as if looking for something … or someone?

Likely not the person wearing a neon gorilla suit and tossing water balloons while on stilts who barges through us, breaking our linked hands.

Rude!

Now separated from Linc as partygoers fill in the space, I turn in a circle looking for the exit to this rooftop. I lament forgetting my parachute at home when a guy with a man-bun and paint-splattered jeans materializes next to me.

Leaning in close, he says. “You are magnetic. I could sense your depth from across the room.”

Man Bun smells faintly like Limburger. My gaze flits away, seeking Linc.

He goes on, “Most people are shallow, but you’re like a bird of paradise. A toucan, colorful and melodious. I want to see it. Hear it. Be part of it.”

A toucan? Not at all interested in his odd overture, I start, “I’m here with—” But I’m not sure what to call Linc after just telling Iva we hate each other.

The guy continues, “I’m a performance artist and I want you to be part of my next piece. It involves body paint.” He smolders.

The sea of Avant Garde fashion victims parts just long enough for me to catch sight of Linc, watching Man Bun and me while slowly clenching a fist before uncurling it finger by finger. I give a full, plot-twist stare. Did Linc just pull a Mr. Darcy or does he get carpal tunnel from typing and needs to stretch his hand?

What would it mean if he did the finger flex?

I rush over to him like a distressed damsel. Shouting above the music, I ask, “Okay, so why are we really here? Because my fragile nerves cannot handle much more of that.”

Glancing at Stinky Cheese Artist, the sucker has the nerve to smirk.