Chapter Nineteen
Noelle scrunches her nose. “A little to the left,” she says, and Michael adjusts the string accordingly.
“A little more,” Noelle adds, and Michael obeys once more.
Noelle stands back, musing, hands resting at her hips.
At last, she heaves a sigh, hands falling.
“You know what, I’m just not sure this is my vision. ”
Michael groans and releases the string. The disco ball pinata drops to the ground with a thud. “Could you clarify what, exactly, your vision is?”
The big night of Noelle and Zara’s housewarming has arrived, and the whole space is a frantic mess.
There’s still a couple hours to go, but we need all hands on deck given the current state of the apartment.
Streamers and table confetti are strewn about the rugs and couches, and the kitchen is littered with an eclectic selection of liquor, mixers, and half-made hors d’oeuvres.
One oddly placed beam of light casts red dots on the walls.
“I have been very clear,” Noelle says. “I want big and fun and bold.” She holds up a finger. “But still graceful.”
There’s a disbelieving beat. “In words that mean something, please. Are you sure you’re an English major?”
Noelle gives an outraged huff, but Zara interjects before she can retort, appearing in the doorframe with half her makeup done. “Obfuscation is, like, our entire degree. Can someone help me with my tie?”
I’m closest, so I hurry to her aid. She’s dressed in one of Avril Lavigne’s most iconic fits.
At the very least, Noelle finalized a broad dress code: 2000s pop culture moments, at-large.
For my part, I’m wearing the white baby tee Simran got me as a birthday gag gift a couple years back.
Across the chest, in homage to Paris Hilton, it says: STOP BEING POOR.
I’ve styled it with a flowy pink skirt to complete the look.
“This is perfect,” I tell Zara once I’ve finished knotting the tie. “You look incredible.”
She beams. “Right?” She’s only finished one eye, but the smoky black is working wonders.
“That’s it,” Noelle says, sinking down onto the couch with the air of an exhausted general. “I’m taking a break.”
“From bossing me around, you mean?” Michael says. “Promise?”
Her nostrils flare. “One more thing, Michael, and I swear you’ll be uninvited.”
“From my own apartment?”
Their snappy retorts continue, and Zara returns to complete her makeup. I busy myself in the kitchen, organizing the drinks and snacks into a more presentable arrangement.
I feel really excited for my first function with Michael, Zara, and Noelle.
It’s been so lovely to be so welcomed into their fold, such a departure from my freshman year experiences.
I’ve never been great at taking initiative, and the dance of making new friends in adulthood has not come naturally to me.
Michael’s inviting disposition and the easy comfort of the trio’s company have felt like such a gift.
My excitement can’t even be dulled by the prospect of running into Frank tonight.
It’s still been crickets from him, and while I’ve gotten over the initial sting, some trepidation at another run-in remains.
But I’m steeling myself, and I feel capable of acting as warm and unbothered as possible.
My nerves are nothing a few dirty Shirleys can’t solve.
Within fifteen minutes into kitchen setup, the space looks far more polished.
Zara comes out to help me assemble the charcuterie board when her makeup is all done.
We sneak bites of Brie and fig as we work.
I picked up ingredients from the farmer’s market earlier today, finally patronizing the cheese stall, and I’m sure guests will appreciate the offerings.
“Okay,” Noelle says as the clock nears nine, rising to her feet at last. “Let’s get the champagne tower set up.”
There’s a belated pause. “I didn’t think you were serious about that,” Michael says, voice weak and wary. But one withering look from Noelle has him up to clear some room on the breakfast island regardless.
“This won’t end well,” Zara murmurs, and I nod my concurrence. We keep our apprehensions to ourselves, continuing to turn salami into blooming roses in silence.
By midnight, the housewarming is in full swing.
Noelle went with the disco ball pinata after all, and it dangles low in the living area, a perfect centerpiece to the mostly mismatched decor selection—fitting for such a mismatched theme.
Guests are dressed as 2000s pop icons and more niche cultural references alike.
By the bar table, two Mileys (of different eras) chat with a girl in the infamous white-gold dress.
Michael’s throwback playlist blasts in the background, putting DJ Steve’s set to shame.
We’ve hit the right chord between a cozy kickback and a classic house party.
The apartment is full but not overstuffed; people are free to move about and mingle.
It’s clear Noelle is satisfied with the outcome.
Her face is flushed and beaming, and not just from alcohol, when she hands me my second champagne glass of the night.
“It’s perfect,” she says into my ear, an arm snaked around my waist. I laugh and take the glass from her. As precarious as it seemed at first, the champagne tower has shockingly remained stable so far. “Exactly what I wanted.”
“So this was the vision,” Michael muses beside us, and Noelle is too glad to do more than roll her eyes.
“And Alexa has been awkward and bumbling all night,” Noelle adds with a happy sigh. “It’s just perfect.”
I smile into my glass. Noelle pointed out her ex-girlfriend to me the second she entered the party. It was hard to miss her; she’s the only person in the room not dressed to the theme, sporting a bland jeans-and-tee combo instead.
“Plus you look perfect,” I say. After much deliberation, Noelle opted for a sparkly gold halter dress that feels very pop princess, though Noelle has yet to specify which one.
“I know,” she squeals. She gives me and Michael another squeeze, and then she’s off to roam the crowd once more. Michael tilts his head to the bar area, questioning, and I nod, following his lead. I could do with something stronger than champagne.
Two shots of Pink Whitney later, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy but still a little wired.
Frank hasn’t arrived yet, and while Noelle told me he never formally RSVP’d, my heart still hiccups every time the door opens.
In fact, I’m so busy scanning the space for Frank that I almost miss it: a familiar flash of brown skin amidst the throng.
I blink, and he vanishes. I shake my head, certain I’m seeing things. But then Zara gasps next to me.
“There’s no way,” she says. I follow her line of sight and feel a similar rush of shock. It is Kush, standing beside a boy I recognize as Aryan, filling up on glasses of jungle juice a mere ten feet away.
“I can’t believe he came,” Michael adds, awestruck.
My brows furrow, as I remember an earlier comment about Kush being practically exiled from the friend group following the breakup. “Was he invited?” I ask.
“I mean, technically,” Zara says. “But, like, an obligatory invite, sent in one of our larger group chats. Meera always insisted on remaining cordial, the angel. I never thought he’d actually show.” She tosses a furtive glance to Michael. “We can’t kick him out, can we?”
“Not without making a scene,” Michael says.
Zara groans. “I hate having to play generous hostess.”
“Aryan must have brought him,” Michael says. “And he’s obviously allowed a plus-one.” He tries to lighten the mood. “Just be glad it’s not Priya.” Zara smiles in spite of herself, and Michael goes on, testing the waters. “We should go say hi?”
But we don’t need to, because the boys approach us just moments later, weaving through the crowd and pulling to a stop before us.
The first thing I notice is Kush’s hair, no longer boyish and overgrown but neatly trimmed, his dark curls soft and tamed.
Pleasure sparks through me at the realization that he opted against the originally desired mullet.
The second thing I notice is his expression when our eyes meet, surprise and relief mingling. It dawns on me that, in this setting, I might for once be a safe-ground companion for Kush.
“Hey,” he says. By the way his eyes flit around, the greeting could be directed at all or none of us. It’s unnerving to see Kush out of his element; confident conversation is normally a strong suit. He tries for a charming quip. “Noelle must be ecstatic to have finally nabbed the apartment.”
Zara’s face remains stoic, but Michael accepts the olive branch. “Just for the summer!” he insists.
“Still,” Aryan says. He swirls his drink, and I spot an assortment of bejeweled silver rings on his fingers. They work well with the row of hoops along his left ear. “The feat alone warrants a party.”
“What have you been up to this summer?” Zara says to Kush. “I haven’t seen you at anything.”
There’s an emphasis on the last word, calling attention to the fact that Kush likely hasn’t been invited to very much. But if he catches the tone, he doesn’t show it.
“It’s been super busy,” he says, “between working at the hospital and exam prep.” He nods at me. “Plus teaching Rani how to drive.”
“I do need a lot of support,” I say. I’m hoping the mild self-deprecation will melt the ice, but it doesn’t produce the desired effect on Zara.
“Supportive and Kush?” she says. “Kind of an oxymoron, no?”
Kush goes silent, mouth in a line, and Aryan gives a dark look on behalf of his friend. “New leaf, Zara,” he says.