Page 43

“I had to do my face,” she continues, before I can say anything. “I had to look at Maya and do my face like”—she pulls a face that expresses “duh”—”that. While internally, my soul was scattered to the four winds.”

“Sydney—”

“I forgive you,” she says. “I forgive you because it is my birthday and I am generous and full of love and also alcohol. But Bea”—she squeezes my arm—”you should have told me. You know how much I love Atlas Falling!”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?” She pouts.

“Because I knew you’d lose your mind,” I say. “And I don’t know, to be honest.”

She pauses. “That is fair. That is, I admit, my baseline.” She straightens. “Okay. I am moving on, all is forgiven. I am moving on, and I am doing so on one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Invite him.”

“What—?” I splutter out.

“Bea, it is my birthday.”

“You said you were moving on!”

“I am moving on to this.” She gestures between us. “Invite him. Text him right now. Tell him there’s a party that’s super fun on Oak Street and he’s invited.”

“I mean, I could, but he won’t come.”

“Then there’s no harm in asking. Bea, it is my birthday.” She gives me puppy dog eyes.

“One thing,” she says again, quieter.

“Fine!”

I get my phone out.

I send it before I can think about it too much and put my phone face down on the counter.

“Done,” I say.

Sydney makes a sound that is mostly just vowels.

“I love you, Beatrix Walker.” She kisses me on the cheek, takes her cup and disappears back toward the living room, where someone has turned the music up, and two people I don’t know are attempting a slow dance to a pop song. I watch them a second longer than I mean to. I think they’re in love. It looks…nice.

I look at my phone.

No reply.

Good. Fine. I’ll go find Gianna, shake my booty with my friends, and have a good fucking night. Trying my hardest not to think about the small chance that Callum Fox might show up at any moment.

* * *

An hour passes.

The party is at the stage where it has stopped being a collection of people and become a single warm loud organism, and I have had two and a half cups of punch and eaten about half the snacks we put out and had three conversations I can actually remember, which is, by any metric, a successful party for me. I’m nearly ready to call it a night.

I’m in the kitchen getting a final cup of punch when a girl appears at my elbow.

“Is that Callum Fox!?”