Chapter Thirteen
Getting ready with Simran has always been one of my most beloved traditions.
From curling each other’s hair for middle school dances to our two-person pregames senior year, my favorite part of any night out is typically before we’ve left the house: makeup strewn about the bathroom counters, man-hating music queued on full blast, already giggling and tipsy from a single shot of bottom-shelf tequila.
Tonight might be an exception. The anticipation of seeing Steve has had Simran spiraling all day.
She barely said a word at dinner, anxiously tracking Steve’s location and refreshing for new texts.
His flight arrived in the afternoon, and his “gig” is in Seattle tonight.
My attendance has not been up for debate.
“Will you check the address and map the time?” Simran calls from the bathroom. She’s trying on outfit number four, a cerulean halter top with her favorite black skirt. “Just sent you the invite.”
I’ve been ready for ages, so I take a break from scrolling on Twitter to check Simran’s message. A neon flier flashes on my screen: Simon’s nasty nineteen with DJ STEVE—you’ll never wanna leave!
I can’t help but wince. “God,” I say. “That sounds like a threat.”
“Address, please, Rani!”
I do as I’m told, copying the address listed to Google Maps. I do some mental math. “We’ll be forty-five minutes late if we leave right now.”
Simran appears in the doorframe, smoothing down a crinkle in her skirt. “Amazing,” she says, expression visibly relaxing at the news. “Let’s take another thirty. Can you help me with my top?”
I rise from the vanity stool, and she turns her back to me, pulling her hair out of the way so I can access the halter straps. I make a small bow at the nape of her neck to let the loose ends dangle. Simran pouts at me in the mirror as I work.
“Is this the right outfit?” she asks.
“I love,” I say, meaning it. The neckline is scooped and flattering, and I’ve borrowed the skirt from Simran many times myself. “You look incredible.” When she looks like she doesn’t believe me, I add, exasperated, “Please tell me you’re not stressed over your appearance for a man with a buzz cut.”
Simran pulls a face. “For the record, I told him not to do that.”
“Add that to the list of ways he’s disappointed you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. I finish the knot, and Simran turns around so we’re facing. She plucks at a charm on her bracelet, nervous energy still radiating.
“I know I’m being annoying,” she starts, and I don’t dispute it. “But I want to feel my best tonight. It’s going to be really overwhelming to see him again.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “I know,” I say.
I have no real judgment for Sim; I likely would act just as high-strung at the prospect of seeing Kamran again.
“But you’re going to be totally okay. I’m going to be with you, and we’ll make it through, and we’ll leave the party without you getting back together with him. ”
She doesn’t meet my eyes for the last part. I glare until she relents. “Chill,” she says, putting her hands up. “I am not getting back with him,” she affirms. Under her breath, she adds, “At the party, anyways, he’s going to be working.”
I swallow a dig about Steve’s work, and Simran continues. “Can you be nice tonight?” she asks. “I know you have your reservations, which are all valid, but he’s very sensitive, and he’s super nervous about meeting you.” She pulls out her phone to show me a new text from Steve: does Rahni hate me.
My brows furrow. “He spelled my name wrong,” I say. “Why would an ‘h’ be there?”
“I think it was a typo,” Simran says.
It astonishes me to see my beautiful, clever best friend crash out over someone so obviously beneath her, but it’s not possible to logic Simran out of her feelings.
I decide to let the subject drop. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll play nice,” I say.
“Now can we turn the music back on?” She shut the speaker off during outfit deliberations, feeling overstimulated.
“Please,” Simran says. She sinks on the seat beside me, and I click play on my phone. “No Scrubs” by TLC begins on the overhead, and Simran shoots me a dark look at the selection. I pretend to miss it and reach across the vanity to grab the still-full bottle of tequila.
“Two before we leave, and a third for the road?” I suggest, pouring out a shot.
“Perfect,” she says.
We spend the remainder of our half hour recapping each other’s weeks, and Simran changes her outfit only twice more before it’s time to leave.
Steve’s gig is at an apartment rooftop downtown, not too far from Michael’s place. We pick up some hard seltzers on the way as a birthday gift for Simon, Steve’s childhood friend who Simran has never met, and the detour means we’re a full ninety minutes late to the function.
Music and party chatter reach us all the way down in the lobby. Steve’s set seems to be a mix of techno and Spotify’s Top 40 hits. Simran is surprisingly calm on the elevator ride up, but the nerves return at the door. She stalls before reaching for the handle.
“We can leave whenever,” I say. “Never too soon.” I sound wistful more than encouraging, but Simran nods, steeling herself, and pushes forward.
The rooftop is packed with bodies; Simon’s invite must not have been an exaggeration.
On a different occasion, I imagine this is a lovely venue: a glittering view of the cityscape, string lights over the seating area, and a spacious hot tub off to the side.
Today, however, red Solo cups litter the Jacuzzi, the floor is sticky from a mystery substance, and aggressive games of beer pong and rage cage are ongoing by the railing.
I didn’t go out a ton my freshman year, and this setting is a case study why.
Unease rises in my stomach; our pregame no longer feels sufficient.
The DJ booth is center stage. I recognize Steve from his prolific Instagram presence, bobbing his head as he spins a Dua Lipa remix to the crowd’s cry of approval. Simran groans beside me.
“Ugh,” she says. “He looks so good.”
Steve is wearing a black mesh tank top and a plaid bandana over his bleach blond buzz cut. It strikes me with full force just how far gone Simran is.
“Go say hi,” I say. I tilt my head at the hard seltzers. “I’m gonna put these away and grab a drink.” When she hesitates, I insist, “Go. I’ll be fine. Text if you need anything.”
She squeezes my arm. “You’re the best,” she says, and then she’s off, slipping through the mass of dancers. I take a deep breath and make my way to the drinks table. I’m tipsy enough from our pregame to not feel the nighttime chill, but I need to be a lot more drunk to make it through tonight.
Dozens of partygoers are milling by the table, so I decide to slide the case underneath after I grab a raspberry hard seltzer for myself. But I must misjudge my surroundings, because I collide right into someone’s chest when I rise up, my newly opened can splashing all over a crisp white T-shirt.
I jump back, sparing myself from any damage. My eyes snap to the boy before me. He reacts on a delay, features slowly morphing from shock to displeasure.
“Shit,” he says, a grimace starting.
I clap my free hand to my mouth. “Oh,” I say, voice weak.
Pink liquid drips from his form. “Shit,” he says again, brushing at his clothes.
Thirty seconds here and already I’ve made a mortifying blunder. “I am so, so sorry,” I say, scanning for supplies and coming up empty. “Let me go find you a napkin.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says.
He tugs on his shirt to wring it out, a glimpse of brown skin exposed by the movement, and more liquid drips to the floor.
“Kind of impressive how you managed to be totally unscathed, though.” He gives an olive-branch smile to show he’s not upset, and I feel my insides untighten a bit.
“Unintentional,” I say. Finally I spot a roll of paper towels on a table nearby and hurry over to grab it.
“Here,” I say, handing him a wad. He’s squeezed a fair amount of seltzer out, and the artificial color is sure to stain, but this should help him dry up more.
“So sorry, again. Happy to Venmo for the shirt.”
He waves away the offer. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. Then, almost under his breath: “This would happen. Cherry on top.”
It’s a throwaway comment, but I feel a pang of sympathy. “Uh-oh,” I say. “Bad night? Like, even pre-spill?” He gives a rueful nod, and I try for a joke to lighten the mood. “DJ Steve isn’t doing it for you?”
He frowns. “Steve’s my best friend from childhood, actually.”
My mouth opens and closes. “Sorry,” I say. I’ve outdone myself in this interaction, ruining his outfit and insulting his friend in one go. “I didn’t mean—”
He laughs, dimples splitting his cheeks. “I’m kidding.” He pauses. “I mean, Steve is an old friend, but I’m not here to play defense for his set.” LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” queues up just as he speaks, proving the point. “How do you know Simon?” he asks.
“I don’t,” I say. “I know Simran.” I realize this may be an unhelpful clarification, so I add, “Um, Simran knows Steve, who I believe knows Simon?”
The boy’s eyes spark in understanding. “Ah,” he says. “So you’re the best friend.” The corner of his mouth curves up. “Steve is very scared of you.”
It’s impossible not to feel gratified by this. “Well, good,” I say. “My name’s Rani,” I add, when I realize I haven’t properly introduced myself.
“I’m Frank,” he says now. It’s an ill-fitting name for someone so conventionally attractive, and he owns up to the contradiction. “Short for Francisco, so Frank actually is my best option.”
“Like the city?”
“Like the city,” he confirms. “My parents met at the Golden Gate. They were very on-the-nose with it.”
“That’s sweet,” I say.
“Tacky,” he corrects. “Anyways, I grew up with Steve and Simon, but they’ve been bugging me all day, and I would kind of rather be anywhere else right now.”
“Relatable,” I say. Michael invited me over to watch New Moon at his place tonight. Declining the invite for this was almost painful.
Frank leans forward as if to tell me a secret. “This is Simon’s third birthday party of the year,” he says in a hush.
My mouth drops. “What?”
Frank shrugs, helpless. “I know,” he says. “He turned nineteen in April. Already had parties at school and on spring break. The narcissist won’t stop celebrating.”
“Classic Aries behavior,” I say.
“And I made it to both of those,” he continues. “But he wouldn’t hear of me skipping tonight, acted like it was the biggest betrayal to even suggest it.” There’s a beat. “So I’m here, though I barely know anyone invited.”
“Sounds like you need a shot,” I say, surprising myself by my forwardness. I sip what’s left of my hard seltzer for something to do. It’s still bubbly and sweet on my tongue.
Frank clicks his tongue. “I’m sober tonight,” he says, a hint of regret in his voice.
“Ah,” I say, feeling an unexpected twinge of disappointment.
“I have a basketball game in the morning,” he explains. “My little sister’s,” he clarifies. “I’m their coach.”
So he’s an involved older sibling who also doesn’t want to be at this party. Pleasure sparks in my chest. I try not to show that I’m impressed. “What’s your record?” I ask.
“Zero and all,” he says. Before I can offer congratulations, he adds, “Zero wins, to be clear.” I laugh, and he takes it well. “We’re underdogs, but we’re getting better.”
I’m prevented from replying because Simran appears at my side, considerably more buzzed. She snakes an arm around my waist.
“Raniii,” she says into my ear. “There’s someone here to meet you!”
She steps aside, and it’s Steve, in the flesh. He’s skinnier in person, his tank top baggy on his frame. He extends a hand to shake mine, and I take it after a moment, nonplussed at the formality. His palm is damp to the touch.
“Great to meet you, Rani, I’ve heard so much about you.” His words blend together, anxious.
“Likewise,” I say, fighting the urge to laugh.
“He took a break from his set to come say hi,” Simran whispers in my ear, and it’s clear from her tone that she sees this as an enormous sacrifice.
“Wow,” I say.
“So how have you been liking the mixes?” Steve asks.
There’s no other way to respond to such a question but to lie. “They’re amazing,” I say. “Frank and I have been really enjoying ourselves,” I say. In my periphery, I see Frank smile.
Some of Steve’s nerves visibly dissipate. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he says. He nudges Frank. “Aren’t you glad you ended up coming?”
Frank’s eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says, and a funny, warm sensation rises in my chest. “I am.”
Steve and Simran mill around for a few more minutes, until it’s clear Steve is jonesing to get back to the DJ booth. He leaves me with an unfortunate promise to hang out before his trip is up, and then I’m alone with Frank again.
“Do you want to play pong?” he suggests, tilting his head at the table that just opened up.
My brows furrow. “Aren’t you sober?”
“Water works fine,” he says. “I play for the love of the game.”
“Sober and a basketball coach,” I say. “Unfair advantage.”
“So you think you’ll lose?” he says with a grin, and now my pride’s involved, so I have to play.
“Not at all,” I say. “Call me Caitlin Clark, that’s how good I am.”
Though of course I do lose, and very badly. Frank doubles over in laughter when he lets me have a second try at game point, then a third and a fourth, and I fail to make a single shot.
“Were you thinking of a different Caitlin Clark?” he says, still laughing, and I give him a look.
“We all have bad days, Francisco,” I say. He gasps at the full name usage as he moves around the table to join me at my side. “You should know, you haven’t won a game all season.”
“That changes tomorrow,” he says. He halts when we’re next to each other, not quite touching but almost. His shirt has dried over the last hour or so, the front is tinted a comical baby pink. I’m tipsy enough to maintain eye contact so close. “What do I get for winning tonight?”
It’s such a line, but I wanted him to say it, and it’s been building all night, so I can’t fault him. I keep my tone as neutral as possible. “You can get my number,” I suggest.
It’s the right response. He hands me his phone, gaze dark and pleased, and I type in my info. I’m a little jittery when I pass his phone back, but any tension is cut with a blaring announcement on the speaker: “SIMON SAYS … IT’S TIME FOR A BIRTHDAY TOAST!”
Cheers and wolf whistles rise from the crowd. Frank laughs. “You won’t want to miss this,” he says to me. “It gets worse with each party, but maybe third time’s the charm.”
“Doubtful,” I say, and we make our way to the center together.