Chapter 4
Something New
Gracie
Homecoming preparations last at least two weeks.
Trips to the mall. A longer drive to the outlet stores an hour away.
It’s sophomore year, and everything feels extra important because I’ve been nominated for homecoming queen.
I’m pretty sure I won’t win, but I still want to look good standing on that stage with the other nominees, smiling like I belong there.
My dress is turquoise. The kind of blue that reminds me of waves breaking on a beach that I’ve only ever seen in pictures.
I pick it out with my friends, all of us laughing, passing dresses back and forth over the tops of the fitting room doors.
“Here, Judy.”
“This’ll look better on you, Karen.”
When I slip this one on and look in the mirror, I know. The hem hits just right. The neckline dips enough, but not too much. It feels like me, only braver. Prettier. I don’t offer it to anyone else. I just step out, let everyone ooh and ahh, and take it straight to the register.
That night, I put on a fashion show for my mom and Suzy at Beck’s house. They hold my hair out of the way while they zip me in, then run around grabbing different shoes for me to try.
“What do you think about these silver ones?” I ask—
—and that’s when the front door opens.
Beck steps in, still wearing his uniform from the burger joint where he works weekends. When he gets his paycheck, he gives it to his mom to put away for college. We’ve started talking about that recently. About getting out of here. Going to a city.
Tonight, he stops like he’s run into something solid.
Like the world has shifted in front of him.
“Whoa, Gracie,” he breathes.
Not teasing. Not loud. Just…awed.
Something heavy settles over the room, over my chest, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
Time slows, stretches thin. I’m vaguely aware of our moms sitting on the couch. Of a dog barking down the street. But mostly I’m aware of him, one hand still on the doorknob, one foot suspended in the air, like there’s a spell he’ll break if he moves.
“Do you like it?” I swallow and do a small twirl, the skirt flaring softly around my legs.
I wait for his answer, my heart in my throat.
For the first time, I realize Beck isn’t just Beck.
He’s a boy.
And he’s looking at me like I’m something new.
Gracie
Present
Kirsten and I leave the booth with promises to come back later.
“Where should we start?” she asks, eyeing the room like a military strategist.
“Bar. For sure.” I grab her elbow so we don’t get separated by the jostling crowd.
The floor is tacky under our shoes, like every spilled drink from the last few hours has fused into one permanent layer.
Someone brushes past me, reeking of beer and peppermint gum, and the bass thumps hard enough to rattle my ribs.
My eyes snag on the dance floor without my permission.
Too many bodies. Too much movement. A flash of blonde hair that makes my stomach dip before I realize it’s not Trish.
I look away, annoyed at myself.
Outside the window, the sky has deepened into the dark blue of night.
Behind the bar, the bartenders move like they’re in a war zone, pouring, wiping, shouting orders, while plastic bead necklaces swing from wrists and beer sloshes over the rims of cups.
Somewhere behind us, a table erupts in a chant, and the whole pub answers like it’s one organism.
Kirsten tightens her grip on my arm. “Okay,” she says, smiling like she’s scared but also delighted. “If we survive this, we deserve medals.”
We don’t even make it to the bar before someone stops us.
“Hey,” the guy says, leaning in so he can shout in my ear, just enough to be heard over the music. He’s tall, dark hair, green button-down rolled at the sleeves. Clean. Cute. Safe-looking. “Sorry, are you waiting for someone, or can I steal you for a second?”
Waiting.
The word lands funny.
Kirsten’s eyebrows shoot up. She looks at me like this is Christmas.
I hesitate. Just a beat. The room tilts slightly, the beer finally catching up with me. I glance past him without meaning to, toward the crowd, toward the shifting mass of bodies, toward—
Nothing.
“A second seems reasonable,” I say, forcing my attention back where it belongs.
He grins, like that was the right answer. “I’m Matt.”
“Gracie,” I say. “This is Kirsten.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding to her before his attention drifts back to me. “St. Patrick’s Day rookie or seasoned professional?”
I laugh, a little slower than usual. “Professional. But we don’t usually start this early. We’ve been here a couple of hours already, which I’m realizing was either very brave or very stupid.”
“Little of both,” he says easily. “But you seem like you’re holding your own.”
Kirsten clears her throat loudly. “I’m going to…stand over there.” She points to a spot maybe three feet away. “For safety.”
“Very responsible,” Matt says solemnly.
I smile despite myself. Then my gaze flicks, quick and traitorous, back to the dance floor.
Still no Beck.
“So,” he says, glancing at my cheek. “I like your war paint.”
It takes me a second to realize he means the clover.
“Oh.” I resist the urge to touch it. “It was cuter earlier. Before…humidity.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Still looks pretty cute to me.”
He’s looking right at me when he says it. I wait for it.
The flicker.
The warmth.
Anything.
Nothing happens.
Which is irritating. And confusing. And maybe a little insulting.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Matt asks.
A drink sounds harmless. A drink is just a drink. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.
Right?
“Okay,” I say. “But I’m pacing myself. The alcohol’s definitely…alcoholing.”
“Smart,” he says. “I’m doing the opposite.”
I laugh, mostly because it feels like the right response.
He brings me a beer. We make small talk, nothing wrong, nothing memorable. Work. Weather. The chaos of the place.
I keep half an eye on the room anyway.
When I mention New York, how I got into Columbia for my master’s degree in biomedical engineering, his smile falters just a fraction.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s…impressive.”
“Thanks.”
A few beats later, he checks his phone.
“Hey,” he says easily, already stepping back. “Nice meeting you, Gracie. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”
“You too,” I say, genuinely relieved.
As he disappears into the crowd, my gaze immediately betrays me, sweeping the room again.
Kirsten reappears like she’s been waiting for the verdict. “So?”
I tip my head side to side. “Nice guy. Zero sparks.”
“Really?”
“Like trying to light a candle with a wet match,” I say.
She laughs. “Ouch.”
After that it all blurs. Faces I won’t remember. Conversations that never quite start.
My attention keeps snagging elsewhere.
On the dance floor. On whether Trish is still laughing that hard, but I can’t find her…or Beck. Did they leave together? No. I push that thought aside along with the queasy feeling it gives me. Beck’s never left without a good-bye.
An hour later, I meander over to Kirsten, who stands near the dart boards and pool tables. The man she was talking to turns and leaves just as I walk up.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “Didn’t mean to scare him away.”
“It’s okay,” she sighs. “I wasn’t a fan.”
I take a spot beside her, my back against the wall. The cool wood feels good against my spine. I fan my face with my palm, wondering how the temperature just keeps rising.
“How about you?” she asks. “How’d you do?”
I lift my shoulders and let them fall. “Not great,” I admit. “No one stood out.”
Kirsten looks at me, then at the room. “That’s weird.”
“Why?”
She gestures vaguely toward the bar, the crowd, the sheer number of options. “Because on paper, tonight should be your Super Bowl.”
I snort. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” she says. “You’re single. Cute. St. Patrick’s Day. You literally announced your intentions like a mission statement.”
“I know.” I pick at the edge of my cup. “I just…” I hesitate, then say quieter, “It felt forced. Like I was trying to convince myself.”
“Convince yourself of what?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“That I want something easy,” I say. “That I’m over everything.”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t answer right away. My gaze drifts again, unbidden, across the room. To the exact spot where I last saw Beck disappear with Trish.
“How about this,” Kirsten says, turning toward me and resting her head against the wall. “Tell me what you’re actually looking for in a man. Maybe then we can find you one.”
“A one-night-stand guy or a real guy?” I ask, buying time.
She tilts her head, studying me. There’s a hint of pity there, which I immediately resent. “Which do you want,” she asks, “really?”
I blow out a breath and let my head tip forward. “Okay, how bad are you going to tease me if I say I don’t want a one-night-stand guy?” I glance at her. “That I thought maybe I could be that girl, but turns out I’m…not?”
“Tease you?” She grins, pretending to consider it. “Oh, I don’t know. Endlessly.”
I groan. “Fantastic.”
“But,” she adds, sobering just a touch, “I’m not surprised.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve never been that person. The casual hook-up person.”
“I make bad decisions all the time,” I argue, then wonder why I’m defending my own mistakes.
“You make bad decisions sometimes,” she corrects. “But always with good intentions.”
“Like Brandon,” I say. “He was a bad decision.” I brace for the pain and am surprised when what I feel instead is relief. If who he was during that last fight was the real Brandon, then, yeah, I totally dodged a bullet.
“You can’t blame yourself for that one,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “He chased you hard. Pretended to be exactly what you wanted. Lured you in until it was too late. Even I was fooled at first.”
That helps. Kirsten has a terrifyingly accurate bullshit detector. If he didn’t set it off immediately, maybe I wasn’t as stupid as I’ve been telling myself.